San Francisco Favela

There's a shanty town across the street right now.



My Mom had bipolar disorder. There was a year when I didn’t see her. I couldn’t handle it. I let her drop out of my world, and into oblivion. She refused to take the medication she was required to take, and would, on occasion slip into, what I referred to as, ‘an episode’.

I got my Mom committed once. My Dad and I had to sign papers to get her taken in. There had been an altercation where she had brandished a knife at someone. It was enough to get her held for the weekend, but the man she had ‘attacked’ couldn’t come forward to testify, something to do with the fact that he wasn’t supposed to be in the state. It’s almost like me and the TL are a perfect fit. I grew up with this crazy shit. After the weekend was up, they had to release her. To be able to keep her, they had to prove that she was a danger to herself or others. I was pissed, because clearly, she was a danger to herself, and others. I wanted my Mom to be safe. I wanted others to be safe. But because of the laws in place, she had rights. She had rights about her medication and housing. Rights, that I believe, often prevent people from actually getting the help they need. She was often homeless. I would argue, that it is a danger to someone’s health to be in a constant state of homelessness… It’s a fucking problem.

And it’s a huge problem in the Tenderloin. These people do drugs, sleep on the sidewalks, in all kinds of weather, eat from trash cans, and often walk around the street with no shoes on. All the homeless people I’ve seen throughout the years, the ones I know I’ve seen before, they visibly deteriorate. Most of the people that ‘live’ on the streets here are fixtures in this community, and have been here longer than I have. They have their own community. They’ve created a counter culture for themselves; we don’t know them, but they know each other.

But, it’s the homeless women that pull at my heart strings the most. I wonder about their families, and if they have anyone, and if so, where are they. I wonder if they’ve eaten today. Most often they are panhandling, but I don’t give them money, there‘s just too many of them.

These people need a new place to rest their heads besides the sidewalk. It’s time the streets stop being their home. It’s time we stop letting them live on the streets. Not just because people want to charge more for rent here, not just because if we clean up our act, new businesses will open here. Not just for gentrification. But because, it’s the right thing to do.

Our Bums Could Beat Up Your Bums...

If they could only see straight.

I'm obsessed with a show called Portlandia, that Fred Armisen and Carrie Brownstein are involved in, about Portland, Oregon. They nailed it! It's great, you should check it out. I have a bunch of friends and family that live there, so when I visited a few weeks ago, I was excited.



One thing I noticed while I was there is how friendly people are. Walking into a store I would be greeted with smiles and a how are you. They talked to me about their products and would ask if I needed any help, but in an unobtrusive way. When I patron stores here, I’ve been followed around, as if I’m some kind of specimen being analyzed. Of course, they’re worried I may steal something, but I don’t like being glared at and followed. I tend not to spend my money in a place that is so unfriendly.

Being on vacation makes me realize I attract bums and crazies everywhere I go. Moth to the flame baby! Moth to the flame! Who is the moth, and who is the flame in this situation, is unknown to me at this point though. My working theory is that they can smell the other bums on me. My sister, and the friends I was visiting, took me to a Karaoke bar called, Chopsticks, one night. As soon as I sat down, the one and only crazy drunk guy in there (I'm gonna call him a bum, since if you're drunk AND crazy in the Tenderloin, you're probably a bum) made a beeline for me. He started asking what I was drinking. I reverted to my normal response, ignore, ignore, ignore, and hope he goes A-way. The next day, while on Hawthorne, I was asked if I wanted to hear a poem for twenty-five cents. The bums in Portland want to sing me a song or read me a poem for 25 cents, while the bums in San Francisco want to throw things at me and punch me in the face.

The day I was leaving for Portland, I had lunch at Pearl’s Deluxe Burgers. While enjoying my delicious burger, a man in green pants, a blue sweater, backpack and bicycle helmet came into the restaurant demanding to get a replacement order of “Fringes,” a combo of onion rings and fries, since, (as he explained to the manager) when he came in three days ago and got takeout, his order of frings were missing. To sum up the situation, the manager explained to the man that he should have a receipt to show that he did indeed place an order, and suggested he should have called the same day and they would have replaced his order that day, not three days later, with no receipt. The manager explained that since the restaurant is on the cusp of the Tenderloin, they have many people coming in to try and garner free food. The bicycle helmet man argued with the manager until he called him a dumb-ass, and was immediately escorted out of the restaurant by the manager, who was significantly larger than the other man.

Our bums may be more direct and meaner, but coming home is interesting, experiencing the familiar smells and sights...B.O. and pooh, the bums at the civic center BART station, singing, and “playing” the violin. Oh, how I miss thee. Coming home, I wonder why I would ever want to leave, everything I could ever want is here. And you never know when your next meal will come with a free show!

On a Sunny Day in January

I started calling him my bum. Instead of putting on the television I'd turn my back on it, and stare out my window.

I started calling him "my bum," like, 'what's my bum doing today?' He would read his book and sit in the sun on the sidewalk; he hung around for a few days...

Alcohol is an integral part of a bum's life. It serves to sedate them into unconsciousness, it's an all encompassing medication for pain, while also keeping them warm at night; because even though, we have fairly mild weather in San Francisco compared to the rest of the country, which contributes to the reason why we have such a large homeless population, it can get really cold during the nights.



But when 'my bum' was offered a swig from the bottle he refused and grabbed his backpack and took off for a bit. But he came back after a bit.

Side note: I wrote, bums, sunny day, alcohol, reading, for the tags of this post, and I thought, this might be something they'd write for a really f---ed up Sesame Street. This isn't Sesame Street baby, this is Larkin and Eddy!