POLK STREET, SAN FRANCISCO

Years ago it was the second gayest district of San Francisco, today it is better known for blatant rutting, by twenty-somethings of either sex. The demographics have changed; like many neighborhoods, the charm it once had has been replaced by pretentiousness, over-priced food, and vulgar displays of hormonalism. Largely this is due to the triumph of the repulsive cell-phone generation; they must be doing something right, there are so many of them.

Cell-phones: the indispensable tool for randy male vulgarians texting seduction to highly uncomplex white chicks with big tits.
Good luck boys, don't forget to tip.

Back in the day you couldn't find flavoured vodka in the drinking holes of Polk Street if your life depended on it. The bars catering to queers served a man's drink. Whiskey poured with a stiff hand, or cocktails that could boost a rocket. Now, alas, the chances of finding a salty caramel framboise martini are better than finding Jesus.

Civilized adult beverages have no more than three ingredients.
Not a single one of which is sweet.


I haven't eaten on Polk in years. Not since the last honest Indian place closed down. Oh yes, there are still eateries with Desi khanna on Polk Street; unclean dhabbas staffed by dishonest Delhiwallas and Lahoris. Their offerings are perfect for intoxicated young adults who will eat any swill to fill a hole, then go home with a blonde to sleep-barf.

Well, there IS the Swan Oyster Depot. But it is only open during the day. And the people waiting in line outside would never think of visiting the street at night. It's a different scene, and a better crowd.


There used to be very good pizza and cheap Greek food on Polk Street, French food, fish restaurants, Mexican, and at least three Chinese bakeries. Good honest coffee, too.


Of course, the down side was the huge swarm of teenage boy toys prostituting themselves for drug-money. But once they had scored, they would go to a coffee shop to boast about their conquest, and tell tall tales of pudgy middle-aged business men who paid for the most amazing services.
I rather suspect that they're all Republicans now, and have two dogs and a house on Twin Peaks.

The Noble Frankfurter once served excellent sausage; now there's a bar catering to horny sportsfiends.
The oldest Thai restaurant on the stretch became a yoga parlour with sweaty pudgepots.
Dingo Wong no longer cooks-up stir-frys for late-night drag-queens.
He's retired to Modesto with ulcers and seven grandkids.
Heck, there even used to be bookstores on Polk.
Many such! Both good AND dirty.
Just two remain.


[There are now also TWO churches on Polk Street. One of them was where they sold good cheap wine and bottles of single malt for nearly half of normal retail, the other served the best damned Palestinian shwarma, mezze, and Turkish coffee you could find. Like any half-assed Jewishly-inclined person, given a choice between Christian preaching and Arab food, I would vastly prefer the food. No one needs a priest in a singles mecca.]


This blogger misses the self-confident, gallant, and joyously depraved aspect of San Francisco, before the place turned so suburban and mediocre.


Cell-phone users. Blyat.



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