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When I moved to Chicago, I got an apartment in Wicker Park. I picked Wicker Park because I wanted to live with the sort of people who prefer slam poetry to actual poetry, the sort of hipsters for whom vintage polyester is not so much a fashion choice as a lifestyle. But it turned out that Wicker Park already had a lot of rich people-and a Starbucks.

I arrived in Wicker Park during the golden age of its gentrification, back when trendy girls in Weezer t-shirts still bothered to lament the influx of ambience chasers.

Chicago's gentrification is a little like its weather: everyone complains about it, but no one ever shuts up and moves to Georgia, where it rarely snows and the housing is cheaper.

So what are we to do? I suppose Chicago could give developers incentives for building affordable housing, and I suppose that rich people could finally realize that God created suburbs just for them. But I've got a plan that doesn't require divine intervention: we trendy people need to take one for the team.

Trendy people are the Marines of gentrification: we breach the beachheads so that other people can stroll through and raise rents-and then we express shock and indignation over their arrival. They follow us because they remember being us, and still desperately want to be fashionable. As the arbiters of cool, we need to understand that our choice of neighborhoods will inevitably shape the way the urban gentry feel about them.

So about a year ago, I moved to Chicago's Gold Coast, where all the men wear Armani, all the women carry Prada, and all the children are miserable little brats. I was tired of them invading my neighborhood, and I realized it was high time for me to invade theirs. And I encourage my trendy brethren to follow my lead. If we move to high-end neighborhoods, maybe they will stop spreading out like the flesh-eating bacteria we rightly believe them to be.

Now, I know it won't be easy. Trendy jobs, like restaurant server, performance artist, or unpublished avant-garde novelist, don't pay very well. But when we try to save money by moving into cheap neighborhoods, we only displace working families and usher in the ambience chasers, who will raise rents until we move again, starting the cycle anew. Someone must save working-class neighborhoods, and the responsibility to do so falls squarely upon our slouched shoulders.

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I'm not saying that gambling is morally wrong. I once cheated on a girlfriend while under the influence of alcohol, which I had purchased with false identification because I desperately needed something to help me forget that earlier in the day I'd hit a dog with my car and left it on the side of the road to die alone--so far be it from me to sit around and talk about morality.

I am only saying that over time, gamblers always will lose money, which is why Mayor Daley and Governor Blagojevich love casinos so much. My opposition to casinos is not a matter of morality. It is a matter of math.

Despite my airtight anti-casino logic, many of my friends like gambling, and every few months, I am dragged to Hammond, where I throw away forty or fifty dollars in twenty minutes. On the drive home, I inevitably think, "Losing money sure is fun, but I wish I didn't have to drive all the way to Hammond to do it."

Now, I'm not saying that Mayor Daley is omniscient or anything. I'm just saying that he has clearly been reading my mind, because now he wants to build a casino right here in Chicago. And I do not doubt that he will do it. One morning, we will wake up and read in the paper that Mayor Daley turned green, developed superhuman strength, and single-handedly built a casino in the dead of night on the grave of Meigs Field.

Mayor Daley reminds me a little of God: His actions may seem random and even hurtful, but in the end, we must trust that He has a good and loving plan for each of us. So if Mayor Daley wants to build a casino, then I am sure we need one. But while I would never question the Mayor's infallibility, I think we might at least consider some other revenue streams.

First, if the economic situation in the city is really critical, maybe Chicago can avoid resorting to stealing money from desperate gamblers by auctioning off some of our assets. Like, for instance, we could sell Studs Terkel. I bet Los Angeles would pay a pretty penny for ol' Studs. Also, we could sell that Picasso statue. I know that a lot of Chicagoans would put up a fuss, ranting and raving about how the Picasso statue is beautiful and priceless and everything. It may or may not be beautiful, but I'll tell you one thing: it ain't priceless, and with EBay's help, I can prove it.

And then there are taxes. Whenever the Mayor starts whining about how Chicago doesn't have any money, I wonder why he doesn't raise my taxes. I know a lot of recent college graduates, and frankly, we need the city to take some of our money, because as it is, we spend it very poorly. After I got done paying for rent and nicorette and other essentials last year, I still had about $1,800 left. I probably should have paid off my credit card bills or given the money to the poor, but I spent most of it on DVDs. Now, obviously I needed the Criterion Edition of The Royal Tennenbaums more than some kid in Little Village needed textbooks. But did I really need Spy Kids 2?

I'm sure a casino in the city will make Chicago a more beautiful and desirable destination both for tourists and residents--just look what casinos did for Detroit! But at some point, we may need to politely ask our beloved Mayor to increase our taxes, because I, for one, am willing to pay more money to keeping sharing a city with Studs and Picasso.