All Things Must Pass

For 16 years now this has been the view out my door.

This past Friday, a drilling crew came into the parking lot to drill for soil samples.  The first concrete evidence that our little compound of warehouses are being leveled in order to build million dollar condos for the technonistas.

We've all been waiting for it.  We've been holding warehouse water cooler conversations now for a couple years relaying the small amount of knowledge or the occasional rumor we've heard.

When I moved in, this was a little bit of the Wild West.  That street in the photo had nothing but beaters and dilapidated motor homes on it.  People lived in them, made fires at night in 55 gallon cans, argued with each other.  Dogs barked.  Occasional gunshots.  The Hells Angel's clubhouse is down the street.
It was just me and them and I liked it that way.

Even native San Franciscans would say "You live where?"

But the Dogpatch got discovered.  The New York Times wrote about us.  Said it was the forgotten district of SF where the artists and writers live. It's the sunniest area in San Francisco.  It's right by the bay with old buildings left over from when San Francisco was a working port.  Five minutes by bike to "civilization." Now the Dogpatch is the new boom town, within the boom town.

And with discovery comes bars with cocktails that cost $12, artisan ice cream, a french butcher, and of course restaurants, lots of people and more and more crime.

Gone are the homeless, the seclusion, the grit and grime.  No more dive bars where workers coming off shift from the dry docks can put back a couple before heading home.

And so us warehouse types will move on.  Probably mosey down the road aways to the next part of town that will be discovered by the masses when they've been told it's a cool area.

Do you hear that sound?
It's the sound of inevitability, Mr Anderson.