Requiem for a Time, and a Place

Atlanta, GA

July 21, 2022

Before it’s leaders made it an uninhabitable sh*thole, San Francisco was one of the greatest cities in the world.

I loved the City, absorbed its history, and couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. I considered it my “adopted home town”.

It was beautiful. And it still is. From afar. Like a washed-up model at the end of a Bourbon Street bar.

But till it sobers up, takes a shower, and gets some help, it’s best to keep our distance. Yet I’m glad I knew it when I did.

Like any normal person, I abhorred its politics. But at that time, its politics didn’t seem to mind me. I was an outlier, but not a villain.

Besides, as a southern Catholic, I knew what I was getting into when I chose to live in “Baghdad-by-the-Bay”. I moved there of my own accord, willing to endure some unsavory side dishes to enjoy the succulent entrée. Sometimes I felt like I was the main course.

But even to the paragons of “diversity” who demand uniformity, I was thought of more as an odd curiosity than a lethal threat. I was welcomed into political forums and onto local radio programs, as a strange token of weird ideas. But there were no hard feelings.

I made great friends. Many of them disagreed with me, which was fine. And fun. Unlike the tense, angry disputes today, those debates were invigorating, and enjoyable. Occasionally, minds were changed and lessons were learned.

We’d argue politely, if earnestly…which was still the custom just thirty years ago. We might meet each other’s opinions with bemused laughs, furrowed brows, and rolled eyes. But then we’d pour another drink, grab some dinner, and wonder or worry about things that really mattered.

Every Sunday for several years, a like-minded friend and I would host such symposia over grilled steak, red wine, and dry martinis. Those days are gone, and I miss them, as I do the people who were there.

Not because my youth is gone; but because civility is. Amicable disagreement seems virtually impossible, or vanishingly rare. Even among family, political discussion is actively discouraged. When I was growing up, such debate was the whole point! No more.

These days, unless you express the approved opinions, those you hold are usually best kept hidden. Not only to preserve relationships, but to protect your career. And it’s not merely that the rancor is inordinately severe. It’s often over things that are monumentally stupid.

Idiotic conflicts over which no one was dumb enough to argue even during the atavistic era of the Obama administration now cause such consternation that jobs are lost, families are separated, and friendships are severed for the mortal sin of making statements that are undeniably true.

To take one egregious example, the obvious assertion that men can’t get pregnant…the denial of which would’ve made someone certifiably insane ten minutes ago…is enough to cast the “bigoted” dissident from “respectable” society.

Soon, even suggesting that a couple dudes should have the decency to at least get “married” before one them knocks up the other will seem a quaint echo of a benighted age.

This is but a single sample of the incessant imbecility we’re commanded to accept. More serious ones (from which the more publicized absurdities are intended to distract us) include the dangerous delusions that counterfeit currency creates prosperity, that political pseudoscience can squash a virus, or that government arrogance can control the weather.

To paraphrase St. Paul, funny money is the root of all evil. Without it, the madness being foisted on us would be impossible. At the very least, it’d be unsustainable…and it probably is. As Herbert Stein said, if something can’t go on forever, it will stop. The question is “when?”

Just because something is inevitable, doesn’t mean it’s imminent. But perhaps this jalopy is nearing the cliff. While prices for what people own are falling, the cost of what they need increases. Shelves empty, lines lengthen, the walls close in, and the mob rises up. Or…before the disappointing complacency during Covid…so you’d think.

In many places, like the wonderful City where we used to live, acquiescent residents rallied ’round the regime that covered their face and confined them to quarters. Now, they are paying the price…whether they admit it or not.

When we lived in San Francisco, the streets were bustling. They were “eclectic”, and alive. Even in the Tenderloin, they were generally safe. Now, they’re filled with bums, needles, tents, and excrement.

Broken windows adorn many parked cars. Boards cover high-end shops, elegant establishments, and street-side cafes. That such a great City could be brought so low is an indicting embarrassment and an abominable disgrace.

The worst disaster to befall San Francisco was the Great Quake of 1906. But that was the fruit of an inherited disease. Born on a fault, San Francisco is susceptible to the shakes. That comes with the territory. Literally.

What it suffers now is a slow suicide, and it’s picking up speed. I once worked at the Golden Gate Bridge, but I never thought its own City would act so anxious to jump off.

The last time I was in the City I loved, I officiated a wedding. I don’t know when I’ll next return.

But I’m afraid it may be to attend its wake. Unless I already missed the funeral.

JD