San Francisco is a city in which we are besieged from both sides: the infinitesimal middle class here contends with rich creeps and poor creeps. For every meth-addicted jerk-victim spraying spittle and salacious slurs at commuting women, there is an ostentatious startup scion hijacking a social situation and crashing it into the ground with his self-aggrandizing prattle. While the schizophrenic is defecating on the children’s playground, the high-flying narcissist at the bar waylays five adults with an unsought lecture on the intricacies of his moral hobbies.
The middle class is divided at which is the bigger problem; at parties, we fight about which outrage demands action: the $17 tube of artisanal organic chapstick available at the VC-backed cosmetic shop (run, I hasted to add, by genuinely dedicated snobs who don’t feel phony!) or the indigent junkies whose petty crimes don’t seem petty to their victims, and whose lawlessness and verbal abusiveness aren’t funny, either. The latter need help, which they’ll neither get nor work towards or with; the former are just so trying to listen to, so exhausting in their hyped-up self-centeredness.