Peter Plate is a local writer who does very good, dark novels.
Now and then he writes an essay for the Chron on San Francisco, filled with evocative prose.
Feverish Market Street is a dreamland that reflects the two faces of the city's soul. Like no other avenue, it defines the seesaw gambol of life in San Francisco. Natty businessmen venture here to make and lose fortunes inside modest skyscrapers. Junkies throng to its doorways to score heroin or find a place to sleep off the day.
Proceeding westward, you enter the real estate war zone between Fifth and Eighth streets. It is a territory that straddles the border between memory and amnesia. Derelict and forgotten office buildings gaze hungrily at pedestrians. The boarded-up St. Francis Theater is a lonesome sight. The fate of the St. Francis befell other repertory theaters on the street. The Strand became empty. The Electric became a porno venue. The Embassy is a magnificent hole in the ground.
Recommended… and you can find it here.