Harvard Market, a grocery store in Stadium Village, has been knocked down to rubble. Reports say it will be replaced by "luxury student housing." Those are words I expect to see together like "voluptuous frog accordions" or "delicious wallet melodies" or "lower tuition costs." I know some students need Wi-Fi-savvy washing machines that tweet you when the load stops spinning, but there's something to be said for living six-to-a-floor in a Dinkytown hovel.

You've seen them: Old houses that once housed a family in bourgeoise comfort, gutted and subdivided 60 years later by an amateur who managed to put the toilet in the living room and the stove out on the porch.

Student housing today: The room has a gas fireplace with a remote, but replacement batteries aren't included in utilities? Fail.

Then: Inept electrical wiring meant you couldn't run toaster and TV at the same time, or flames shot out of the bathroom light fixture, which was also in the shower.

Today: Smart-grid power distribution systems that keep electrical spikes from frying the Xbox motherboard.

Then: One outlet per floor, with 38 extension cords, which made the outlet smoke, but that wasn't a problem because the smoke detectors were usually broken.

Today: Carpet!

Then: Rugs over holes in the floor, nailed down.

If you live in a lousy college apartment, everything else will be a step up. If you take out substantial loans to live in a luxury apartment, you will end up in the lousy apartment, because you have to pay off your loans. You'll spend some time there eventually. Choose wisely.

There's another issue here: The long, inevitable demise of the small, neighborhood grocery store. Those grungy little places with buzzing fluorescent lights and sticky floors. Shelves full of dust-covered cans. A counter well-worn by decades of goods and money shoved back and forth across its surface. I worked at one back in the '80s: Ralph and Jerry's, north of Dinkytown. We were full service -- the store stocked meat, produce, milk, and other perishables, which gave the back room a ripe perfume that would make a buzzard sit down and wait for the world to stop spinning. We had everything. Soda, beer, milk, bread, and cigarettes probably accounted for 98 percent of sales, but if someone came in at 11:56 p.m. and asked if we had canned chili, you could say "Beans or no beans?" Because we had both. And if he said "no beans" you could say "Turkey or meat?" And if he said "Turkey," you could ask if he wanted the low-sodium variety. And if he said that would be great, you'd say "sorry, we don't have any chili," because you were a smart aleck, and that was the reputation Ralph and Jerry's had.

The matches had a black strip printed on the front, so the regulars could watch newbies try to strike a match on the ink. The abrasive's on the other side, you'd point out. Our way of saying welcome to the neighborhood.

There was another grocery a few blocks away, but it was rather seedy and had a different clientele. You know, the raincoat crowd. They'd walk in all embarrassed and self-conscious, and say "uh, a copy of Playboy, and a box of condoms, and, oh, while I'm here, toss in an apple." It belonged to other people. Ralph and Jerry's was yours, and it made your 10-block corner of the world different from that other 10-block corner. It's gone like most of its kin; drive around town, you'll see their tombs. Two-story brick buildings at streetcar stops. They had two aisles, maybe four. How the owners must have fretted when those six-aisle Red Owl and National stores started moving in.

Getting your milk at a gas station is convenient, but who lingers to chat? There's someone behind you, itchy for scratch-off cards, or anxious to pay and go. All the small groceries have the same appeal -- you get to know the people behind the counter, they get to know you. Hey there, it's Mr. Milk and Marlboros. Nice to see you, Miss Yogurt and Cat Food. Say there, you're new here! What do you need? Chili? Beans or no beans? We don't have any.

Yes, an old, cheap apartment close to a neighborhood grocery, the mainstays of ordinary urban life.

Quick! Let's tear 'em all down.

jlileks@startribune.com • 612-673-7858 More daily at www.startribune.com/popcrush.