The once proud, shiny San Francisco of my youth has turned into a feces ridden hell hole thanks to unabated Leftist policies.
I grew up in San Francisco. Moreover, my time in San Francisco goes back long enough that I remember when it transitioned from a working- and middle-class City, with a slightly sophisticated 1960s edge (including ladies who lunches in hats and gloves); to a Hippie haven; to a self-realized, self-actualized, utterly self-involved therapeutic city; to a cutting edge gay freedom town; to an AIDS-wracked yuppieville . . . and then I left.
My overriding sense when I’m in San Francisco now is a sense of sadness and lost. The last time I spent an evening there, going to a little show near Union Square, my friend and I found ourselves walking down a street that was completely lined with homeless people These were not the homeless of the old, 1930s “Hoover-villes,” made up of primarily of people destroyed by America’s temporary economic collapse during the Great Depression. These were people openly shooting up and drinking down any intoxicants they could. Littered around their feet were broken bottles, needles, condoms, feces, and other detritus.
Some sat or lay there inert, some screamed at each other or at imaginary enemies, and some reeled around, lost in their own private world. My friend, one of the most decent people I know, made eye contact with each conscious person we passed, because she feels it’s cruel to deny someone’s humanity, no matter how destroyed their body, brain, and soul. When we reached the street’s end, though, she turned to me and said, “I’ve never been so frightened in my life.”
All trips to San Francisco lately have that feel: cars with smashed windows; piles of feces and needles; and scary homeless people who, in a more civilized society, wouldn’t be lying unconscious or raving on the sidewalk, with needles in their arms and open sores oozing all over their arms, legs, and faces.
Once upon a time, Herb Caen — Mr. San Francisco, the Sacramento boy who came to the City and made it his home — spoke for many San Franciscans when he called my hometown “the City that knows how.” On the one hand, it’s a meaningless phrase. On the other hand, to those of us who lived there, it meant a lot: we were small but cosmopolitan; a lovely blend of natural and man made beauty; hewing to a traditional Democrat Left (think JFK), but willing to let Republicans live in peace in our midst. [Read more…]