I have to say that apart from Bird and Beckett Books, which felt like a very tiny oasis in the midst of a vast desert (like The_Lost_Patrol), San Francisco was just awful. I am sure that for survivors, like Patrick Dunagan, a few genuine spots continue to provide solace and respite, & Golden Gate Park was as splendid as ever, but almost everywhere we went I felt we were in the midst of an all-out class war, & losing big time. Every door was manned by guardians who were on the alert and poised to prevent unauthorized entrance by the poor. When my son tried to join us for lunch dressed in jeans and t-shirt, he was told to go elsewhere. As he & I walked down the streets, people dressed in suits jabbering on cell phones glared at me like I was a class traitor.

North Beach, which I last visited in 1966, has become institutionalized and commercialized, a sort of Beat World amusement park, including City Lights which sits in the middle of it all like some stuffed, dead mother hen, surrounded by memorial plaques and street signs with petrified names like Kerouac and Ginsberg. It reminded me of Universal Studios Harry Potter World. Yes, I went to Harry Potter World with my daughter who rereads every one of the books each summer—that’s how much I love her. See the photo below & instead of Hogwarts, imagine City Lights.

I have to admit it occurred to me that those photos of a 100 year old Ferlinghetti are fake — that he actually died years ago & was stuffed (like Trigger, Buttermilk, and Bullet) & is kept down in the basement & brought out every once in a while for the tourists & young writers to see. 

Meanwhile, the SF aristo-poets tend to their careers & go along to get along.

Jack Spicer would liquify in horror.