The Sunset

It's spooky to see a city grow so quickly and disintegrate at the same time.

The landscape is a sea of construction cranes above, permitting work crews to feverishly hammer up new high-rises one after another, and the homeless below, crawling on all fours.

In the better neighborhoods new money is piled on top of old money in intimate little contests between people who used to wear dresses and ties to work but now wear jeans with untucked shirts. The contest's to see how much more money one has than the other.

The times are so good in San Francisco no one seems to be thinking of the consequences, or so bad no one can be bothered to notice.

There's hope however, west of 19th and south of Golden Gate Park and plenty of free parking.

The Sunset the kind of place where John Prine--if you know who John Prine is and appreciate the attitude--would live if he lived in San Francisco.

I hereby proclaim The Sunset the last great neighborhood in San Francisco, an incorruptible place populated by people more or less comfortably maladjusted to their own lives who have little or nothing self-important to prove. It's where I'd live if I was really me.

Someday all newly-minted San Francisco arrogance will be flushed down Judah toward the Great Highway to drown, pockets turned inside out, money sinking to the bottom of the sea.