San Francisco, City of Saints of Misers?

Having lived in the Bay Area for over forty years, half of that time in San Francisco, I was particularly moved by the News Hour's segment featuring poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti, who IMHO represents the true benevolent spirit of the city's namesake, Saint Francis.

When I first came to California in 1974, the love movement waned as gay rights waxed. Both were principled. Visionary ideals admired by humane people all over the world. The city is now in the throws of another gold rush epidemic, where sifting pan has been replaced by left brained gray matter; the accumulation of capital the penultimate goal.

A Silicone Valley banker once posed the riddle, "What is the Golden Rule," Quite satisfied with myself for remembering something from Bible class, I unhesitatingly replied, "Love thy neighbor as thyself." He snorted, "Wrong. Those with the gold make the rules!" I still cannot help but to sigh deeply when reminding myself of what his blasphemous pronouncement portended.

Having been one displaced by the nerd infestation, I cannot help but speak out against this hostile takeover of hallowed ground by those who should be smart and respectful enough to demand an even more enlightened, advanced culture than those it replaced. San Francisco, once the beacon of a futuristic, open-minded society is in danger of becoming the one-percent-er capitol of the world.

Not surprisingly, city government is in large part to blame for the moral deterioration of this great city. Unless you live in an apartment built before 1979, there is no meaningful rent control. Only a handful of mega-landlords control of the bulk of the city's rentals, who have written the rules they bought from the greedy, power hungry politicians now in control of this once beloved city. Although afforded the "right" to raise rents based on market forces, that doesn't make it right.

My rent increased by nearly $1,000 a month in less than two years, even though I occupied the same dwelling for two decades. I spoke with a fellow who complained his rent increased $2,000 in a single month. Perhaps I should feel lucky.

Just before my departure, I was reunited with an old friend, whose decision to move from Vienna, Austria for a consulting opportunity in Redwood Shores, was ultimately determined by the rhythm and blues, and ambiance he experienced at the Saloon in North Beach, purportedly the oldest bar in the city. 

I cannot resist recounting the folklore revealing the reason for the Saloon's longevity. As the story goes, when the 1906 earthquake struck, fire began to consume the popular watering hole and "house of the rising sun." A bucket line was instantly formed from tavern to bay, some four blocks away. Miraculously it quelled the flames - of the-the fire that is. 

The Saloon retained the mysterious bohemian atmosphere from the old days. One time, when physical need outweighed the fear of venturing into the dimly lit dungeon designated as the men's room, I was amused by graffiti that read "this place is from the Stories of the Highway Patrol." The Saloon was a spot where enigmatic, long bearded figures abounded. And those were just the women.

Sadly, the last night my friend and I met at the Saloon, the music was ear shattering. He sagaciously exclaimed. "Good musicians can't afford to live in this city anymore." 

Before leaving San Francisco, en route to supportive relatives in Florida carrying only the useful possessions I could cram into my 1992 Ford Mustang, I tried to organize a ballot measure that would institute a "Fair Housing Act."  Although my proposition was met with a groundswell of local support, the shadow of bankruptcy hastened my departure, disrupting any hopes of realizing this much needed reform.

For the sanctity of this majestic city, it is my most fervent hope someone will take over where I left off and succeed in convincing the material inclined that an ounce of fairness, morality and compassion is worth tons more than admiring the number of commas shown on their paperless bank statements.