San Francisco’s fate may be sealed. Her lovely weather and views, her small size that can be fenced off by a great wall (or uniformly high property values) may finally allow the wealthiest to claim it in its entirety. The new owners will get rid of the trash, the homeless, the poor, and the unsightly. The workers will live in the suburbs, be forced to use cars, gas, and oil to enter Malibu North and serve. The city inhabitants living on trusts, investments, inheritances, and fiscal good luck will glide through the open, no-­traffic zones, from one fabulous wine tasting to another exquisite dinner, displaying their multi-­thousand-­dollar investments in tattoos-­as-­displays-­of-­disposable-­income, stopping en route, perhaps, for a bit of upscale shopping.

The dream of the sociopathic class that never shares will be fully realized. The corpse of the lovely girl dancing in the ’60s has metastasized into a frozen photo—stilling the heart and leaving only the sparkling body of the city as beautiful as ever. Her body is stressed trying to raise the cash for her cancer treatments. Beauty is a rare commodity. It sells designer clothes, expensive perfume, and extraordinary performance. It’s always for sale. And so, alas, is my beloved San Francisco.