Gentrification Not Yet Complete

My neighbor that works at NetFlix now has two BMWs, the one-story cottage across the street reportedly sold for seven figures and the lines get longer each Sunday morning at the St. Francis Fountain -- all signs of the changes afoot in my part of San Francisco. Yet, my little corner of the Mission is not yet Noe Valley let alone Chestnut Street. (Like that will ever happen.) In case you need evidence, witness these two sights from this afternoon. The fellow a few inches away from my entry gate arrived around 5 p.m. (A cop came by and sent him on his way seconds after I snapped this shot.) Fifteen years ago this would have been heart-breaking and would have made my heart race. I can't say I've lost compassion for people in such a situation, but I didn't feel compelled to invite him in for a shower and a chance to sleep it off. If Joe Buck had walked by in looked down in dismay, would I be one more of the callous urban dwellers that walked by the scene as if it were no more routine than a discarded candy bar wrapper on the street? In my neighborhood discarded gin bottles are more common than Baby Ruth wrappers. I am sure there is a story behind this man. I'm sure it would probably make me cry were I to hear all of it.

The TV set which has been there since Wednesday has yet to disappear. If anyone who'd like it, I'll gladly deliver it to your door. I may deliver it to someone's door whether they want it or not.

Since the only apparel stores in the 'hood at the moment are $99 stores and women's vintage shops, I had to go up the hill to Noe Valley to grab a pair of new Rabat shoes and Hobo Por Tour bag, sort of in between a bike messenger bag and an outright purse. I promise to do my part for Pride Week by escaping the big parade hear and parading around with them while in Missouri next weekend.