Remembering Herb Caen

“Sacramenna Kid,” Herb Caen (April 3, 1916 – February 1, 1997), San Francisco’s epic satire columnist had a lifelong love affair with The City. He immortalized San Francisco with nearly 60 years’ worth of pithy columns chock full of local happenings, insider gossip, and puns. He was credited with coining the phrase, “Baghdad by the Bay,” and bestowed the term, “Beatnik” upon poet Bob Kaufman.

Caen introduced and popularized the term “hippie” (never hippy—unless you were a hippo), Summer of Love and Frisbeetarianism, and Berserkeley. But San Francisco, his real mistress, was always The City. Caen’s daily columns were paeans, "A continuous love letter to San Francisco" and a special Pulitzer Prize called him the "voice and conscience" of San Francisco.

Herb Caen loved what he dubbed "Namephreaks"‍—‌people whose names (aptronyms) were appropriate or inappropriate to their vocations including substitute teacher Mr. Fillin, piano teacher Patience Scales, orthopedic specialist Dr. Kneebone, and the Vatican's spokesman on the evils of rock 'n roll, Cardinal Rapsong.

I had a seriously uptight ramrod of a science teacher in seventh grade called Mr. Sliney. And the other science teacher who replaced him (after he broke a ruler over a student’s hands) was called Mr. Plant.

The quasily-fictional character, “Strange de Jim” was Caen’s chief informer, alter ego, and purveyor of naughty puns. Caen called him "gu-ru di tutti guruskies.” (Strange showed up to Caen’s memorial to deliver a eulogy while wearing two Sesame Street pillowcases over his head.) But soon everyone got into the informer act—he had an “army of reliable tipsters.”

If you made it into one of Herb columns either as an informer, or by (un)honorable mention, you had either arrived, or you had to live down the tale. It was an honor to be lampooned in Herb’s column. Even my father who lost his wallet to a combative squirrel in a park never quite lived down, or up to his new moniker, “Squirrely Hurley.”

*. *. *

Many of Herb Caen’s stellar columns were published in collection of essays, “Baghdad-by-the-Bay,” in 1949, and in “Don't Call It Frisco‍”—‌after a judge's rebuke to an out-of-town petitioner ("No one refers to San Francisco by that title except people from Los Angeles")‍ in 1953. In total he wrote 11 books, including children’s stories.

One reader remembered: When Herb Caen left Hearst’s San Francisco Examiner to join the San Francisco Chronicle, he took 10k subscribers with him. Our man about town was so popular he was nominated for president at the 1984 San Francisco Democratic Convention. Word has it some of those buttons are still floating around in bottomless martini glasses.

Caen received a special Pulitzer Prize (which he called his Pullet Surprise) in 1996 for "extraordinary and continuing contribution as a voice and conscience of his city."Caen was an astute collector of The City’s urban folklore.

After writing upwards of 16,000 columns, at a thousand words a day on his loyal Royal, he thought it was a joke. "Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist," he wrote. "Well, it does have a certain ring to it. And it will definitely add a touch of class to the obituary.” Then he shut his door and wrote his column.

June 14, 1996, was officially celebrated in San Francisco as Herb Caen Day replete with a parade to the Ferry Building. TV news legend Walter Cronkite even showed up and the Damnbarcadero was rechristened "Herb Caen Way…

Caen, the king of what he dubbed "three-dot journalism" was famous for his signature three-dot ellipses separating his short news snippets. And the characteristic three asterisks designating a sea change, separating the acts from the grind.

“In 1993, he told an interviewer that he declined to retire because "my name wouldn't be in the paper and I wouldn't know if I was dead or alive," adding that his obituary would be his last column: "It will trail off at the end, where I fall face down on the old Royal with my nose on the 'I' key.” —Wiki

*. *. *

In his eulogy, Robin Williams said, “A very special Herb communion will consist of dry martinis and sourdough bread. And if you don't see God then, you never will.” And “I think that I know that you wouldn't mind me making jokes up here today because that's part of what you did. You made it kind of possible for us all to gather here and appreciate this very bizarre place.” Williams owed his early career success to Caen’s promotions.

My college schoolmate Robin said, I'd like you to turn to your hymnals. This is (Caen's book) "Baghdad by the Bay." and he read from it: 

"The crowded garages and the empty old buildings above them, the half-filled nightclubs and the overfilled apartment houses, the saloons and the skies and the families huddled in the basements, the Third Street panhandlers begging for handouts in front of pawn shops filled with treasured trinkets, the great bridges and the rattle-trap street cars, the traffic that keeps moving although it has no place to go, thousands of newcomers glorying in the sights and sounds of a city they suddenly decided to love instead of leave." —Herb Caen, Baghdad by the Bay

“I'm sorry you had to leave, man, but you're still here. See ya.”

*. *. *

“If I do go to heaven, I'm going to do what every San Franciscan does who goes to heaven. He looks around and says, "It ain't bad, but it ain't San Francisco." —Herb Caen

*. *. *

The day Herb Caen died, it was standing room only at Grace Cathedral, and at all his local watering holes, people stood a dozen deep, the Stoli and gin ran like water and the bartenders ran out of martini glasses, so they improvised with wine and water glasses. All for six-bits as Herb would say. A few parched souls opted for this infamous Vitamin V shot - Stoli over ice in a wineglass with a twist.

People noshed on his favorite meal, meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Next day, the entire city awoke with a massive, pulsating hangover. Pass the aspirin and Alka-seltzer.

Yesterday I had meatloaf and mashed potatoes in honor of Herb Caen, but I passed on the six-bit martinis. I had adult gu…I mean wine, instead. Here’s to you, Herb, wherever you are.

That City by the bay: by any other name

During a TGIF moment, a woman named Erika posted a whimsical iPhone photo of the Transamerica Building, replete with sunspot bubbles, on Facebook, and called it Frisco. People lost their shit. It was a landslide against. But old monikers die hard. 

One reader said, "frisco, the word that sounds like a brand of lard, sucks. everyone is entitled their opinion. You can be an outlier, but just know that people will make fun of you for it. Sorry not sorry," 

 I get weird connotations too: Frisco/Crisco, Friskies with Crisco.

Another reader tried to establish a quasi terminus post quem by stating that Frisco, Texas was...

So named because part of the Frisco rail line, originally incorporated in 1876, ran nearby. Care to guess which city's name is in the full name of the line? Frisco is in Texas only because it was here first. You do realize that the place in Texas was so named because part of the St. Louis-San Francisco Railway a.k.a. the Frisco line ran through the area."

True, Frisco, Texas was named after a railway line, but wasn't named after the city of San Francisco. Frisco, Texas was called Frisco City. And the train system never left the Midwest. Not only that, it was named after another San Francisco landmark, a name of a mountain range that predates the founding of San Francisco. 

That same someone who headed up an unsuccessful campaign to rename the Bay Bridge after Emperor Norton, then tried to call in the race card, saying it was a class system. He said only the cocktail set call it by its full name, while the African Americans in the Divisadero, and the Latinos in the Mission call it Frisco. 

Well, I beg to differ. Nothing is ever as simple as it seems. Besides, the Mission was Irish, it was not always Latino. That came much later. It is not a class thing, it’s more about old San Francisco vs the influx of outsiders that began arriving during the 1970s.

He said

A 175-plus-year stream of San Franciscans have addressed their city with this term of endearment. What also is true, though, is that the longshoremen of the 1860s and the African-American residents of the Fillmore district, a century later, never were going to have the approval of the cocktail-party set. Antipathy to "Frisco" often has been an index of class snobbery."

Well, speaking of presentism, lifting a theme from today's social milieu and blanketing the past with it—about all we agreed upon that people from outside SF called it Frisco—primarily sailors who didn't live here. A frisco was the place where you got your boat repaired, it was not so much about the city's name. Frisco stems from an old Icelandic term for safe harbor. And equally for 175 years, people have been objecting to outsiders calling it Frisco. Nothing to do with demographics, or cocktail party sets, as he put it. Not class snobbery either. But if it fits his agenda....

He said:

"There are number of theories about the origins of "Frisco." Peter Tamony's little article, "Sailors Called It 'Frisco,'" in the July 1967 number of the journal Western Folklore, is worth checking out. No agenda here. It's fine that many have been schooled to have a distaste for "Frisco." But, they should be honest enough to admit that it is, in fact, an issue of taste. When they step into language policing, to say that it is objectively wrong to say "Frisco," they are out of their depth."

So you know I looked it up, only to find, he lifted it out of context from an article. Tamnony was merely strengthening the sailor reference. How folklore works, is what's passed down. More people grew up with the full name vs. using the moniker Frisco. It had nothing to do with working class vs the hobnob set. It's not a matter of taste, status, or even language policing, it's a subcultural trait. And it's not cut and dry either.

JL said:

To the contrary, Mo, it is precisely BECAUSE preferences about the name of the City are "passed down generationally" that these preferences become, and are, a matter of taste, status and language policing. I don't challenge the point that "more people grew up with the full name vs. the moniker Frisco." I simply am saying that THAT FACT, such as it may be, does not give those who weren't trained to tolerate "Frisco" the right to badger those who do use "Frisco" into some kind of submission, as though the "Frisco" crowd is "doing it wrong."

So, according to JL, those who say Frisco are allowed free reign, and a pat on the back because they feel justified in calling it Frisco, but those of us who learned it as San Francisco must stay mum because he says so? De gustibus non est disputandem; call it what you will, but expect a reaction.

I pointed out that there are 14 place names called Frisco, or Frisco Station, or Friscoville, none of them were originally called San Francisco, then shortened to Frisco, and they're named after a St. Louis, Missouri train route that didn't even go to San Francisco. Ever. "Despite its name, it never came close to San Francisco." It never even left the Midwest.

For the record, there's a town called Frisco, aka Fresco, in Alabama, Frisco, Arkansas (no train), Frisco is a Colorado mining town, as was Frisco, Idaho (no train), Illinois, Friscoville, Louisiana, Missouri (trains), Frisco, North Carolina on Hattaras Island (too watery for trains), Oklahoma, Pennsylvania (no train), Texas (train), Tennessee, Utah, a  mining town named after Frisco Peak in the San Francisco Mountains, named BEFORE San Francisco was founded, I might add; and Frisco, Virginia.

Yes, dahling, calling San Francisco Frisco is a bit problematic. It could refer to some place completely different. If you want to live in Frisco, consider moving to one of those states. Then it won't be an issue.

JL went on to say:

"The narrative that San Francisco natives and residents never have, or don't, call their city Frisco is both tired and false. The term has a long, storied history here dating back before 1850."

I repeated: The only problem with your train story, is that it never came to SF. And not once did I say that San Francisco natives and residents never have called their city Frisco. I said, it wasn't a class issue, that was too cut and dry, because many working class people, my own family included, never called it Frisco.

Many of those Frisco place names were derived from other places: In 1629, Spanish friars founded a mission at Oraibi, a Hopi village, in honor of St. Francis, 65 miles from the San Francisco Peaks. The Franciscans gave the name San Francisco to the peaks to honor St. Francis of Assisi, the founder of their order.

The San Francisco Peaks, and the San Francisco Mountains both lent their names to several hamlets. Frisco Mountain, Washington, got its name from a mining camp, as did Frisco, CO, UT, etc. Frisco Coloradans are quick to defend their town's name, saying it's NOT named after San Francisco, CA, but that it's an acronym.

"Frisco, CO, wasn’t named after San Francisco. The name Frisco is desired from the letters associated with the St Louis- San Francisco Railway company. You have the FR from Francisco, IS from St Louis and CO from Company!" Frisco Colorado History Facts

So, the point is that the moniker, Frisco, did not originate in San Francisco. It's an exogamic term. Accretion. Like those barnacles on the ships.

The name of our city, San Francisco (est. 1769), was derived from the Latin, San Franciscus—full name: Mission San Francisco de Asis (1774), which was later dubbed, Mission Dolores. And it brought much sorrow for the Ohlone and Coast Miwok tribes.

Saint Francis of Assisi was a Frenchman. Frank, France, or Francis means a "free man." Oui! San Francisco's first European name was Yerba Buena. Good herbs. The island we now call Yerba Buena was called Goat Island. What, goats?San Francisco was also called The Golden City, after John C. Frémont dubbed it Chrysopylae in 1846, before the Gold Rush. It was also called The Golden City, or The City, probably because nobody could pronounce Chrysopylae. The Yelamu Ohlone names are lost. One candidate is Ahwaste, "place at the bay."

San Francisco was also called the Barbary Coast, and coined Bagdhad-by-the-Bay by Herb Caen. Though we refer to SF as a she, and Francisco may be a masculine name, in the City, gender is fluid. 

Herb Caen, the Pulitzer Prize–winning San Francisco Chronicle columnist, was adamant that no one call his "fair city by such a sliced-up moniker." Herb Caen, "the voice of San Francisco," wrote a a sequel to his 1949 loveletter to his multicultural adopted city, Baghdad-by-the-Bay, entitled Don't Call it Frisco in 1953, "named after a local judge's 1918 rebuke to an out-of-town petitioner ("No one refers to San Francisco by that title except people from Los Angeles")‍." He said “the F word” as “a salty nickname, redolent of the days when we had a bustling waterfront.”

Caen's column appeared in the SF Chronicle for nearly sixty years (with a brief defection to The San Francisco Examiner). Everyone turned to his page first, then, read the news. "Herb Caen" (archive) was the longest-running newspaper column in the country, until Caen's death in 1998.

Caen also coined, or popularized the terms Beatnik, hippie, and Beserkeley. A thousand words a day with Caen's trademark ellipses "three-dot journalism banged out on his "Loyal Royal", defined our city. June 14, 1996, was designated Herb Caen Day. He had that much influence. He didn't call it Frisco.

Herb Caen articulated it best.

You don't call New York, York do you? Nor do you say Kong. Or Angeles. Or Diego. Maybe Moscow should just be 'Cow. And while we're at it, let's cheapen St. Louis to just Louis. Why should San Francisco be shortened?

For the most part, only people from out of state, the recently arrived, or the tragically hip call it 'Frisco. There are exceptions. But it still draws ire. And it's also an old saw. There's even a sitcom called Don't Call it Frisco.

You also need that apostrophe BTW, as 'Frisco is a contraction. Otherwise it could refer to those 14 other cities legally called Frisco.

I found this 2006 story by Sean C., a frequent contributor to Trip Advisor:

"The city is named for Saint Francis, one of the most loved Catholic saints. Apparently, that word was shortened to "frisco" and was used by sailors to refer to a place where a sailing ship could be scraped, repaired, and refitted. The Court of Historical Review convened to decide if such a nickname was acceptable. The court ruled that the name of the city was San Francisco and that no nickname should be tolerated."

LOL it's the law!

Pancho (or Paco, Chico, Cisco,) is a diminutive Spanish baby name for Francisco. But Ess Eff is not a baby. Then, by way of parallel structure, in English, we oughta be calling The City St. Frankie, San Pancho, but not 'Frisco.  Just don't call it San Poncho, or San Pacho! SF may be free and easy, but nothing is ever truly free. One way or another, there's always a price to be paid, la mordida. Absurdum infinitem.

Can you imagine Tony Bennett singing, "I left my heart in Frisco"?

Me neither.

Letters to Wm Poole

(somewhere on The San Andreas Fault)  May 1989

Dear Wm Poole:

How appropriate yr letter arrives the day I take 30 screaming 5th graders to Bear Valley, backpacking trip, Wildcat Beach. Group slower than slugs in molasses (or beer). When they lay down in middle of road screaming, “I can’t go on” after first 1/10 mile, imagine how long it took to go 6.5 miles. Got chance to study lots of roadside geology. My kingdom for a cattleprod!

Very good: (#4) yr bullshit line, I mean. Yr letter made my day. However, many have graduated to decimal system: #6 follows #5, not another #5 (unless you’re William Carlos Williams, “I saw the number five in gold...” (hint) use both hands to count.

Speaking of WCW, the good doctor & poet who penned, “it is difficult getting the news from poetry/ but men die every day/ for lack of what is found there,” yr letter is hereby nominated for WCW 13 Ways of Looking at Cow(bull)shit Award. (You have 7 more to go—(hint: use toes too). 

Here’s a joke from a student: 

Visitor: Nice bunch of cows. 

Farmer: herd. 

Visitor: Heard what? 

Farmer: Herd of Cows. 

Visitor: Of course, I’ve heard of cows! 

Mother cows aside, that one mooooves me.

Speaking of slugs, glad you liked slug pix.

Tell you what, will do even better than remind you of next year’s event. Nominated you ill-ustrious judge-elect to screeming panel---always on lookout for fresh blood (meat). Am sure George Snyder more than delighted to hand over the position to like-minded colleague. (He was very squeamish). Think of it: ringside seat, a chance to make Omni and David Letterman Show (if you’re a slug, that is).

For this revolting occasion, think green (as in St. Paddy’s Day—you’ll do better to arrive in appropriate condition (your choice). Korbel champagne in mid-day sun simply murderous on hangovers). Some years, it’s scheduled before Mar 17. Others, after. Shit happens. 

DJ Reg Lester won’t forget when Banana Slug cream pie started crawling off plate and crowd howled “Eat it! Eat it! Eat it!” People will do ANYTHING to make the 6 O’clock News. Was brushing his teeth for weeks trying to dislodge slime from throat. Hey, we’ve lost some good judges—Hauser & Keene, gagging gourmands. Don’t worry about yer vernacularisms, malapropisms but do bring pepto-abysmal. Maybe we should nominate William Safire as well???

Am in the countdown process of putting together yet another kidbook of poetry and computer’s crashing right and left (Cold War? I’m blaming sunspots). My Apple IIc Plus has worms (moles??). Due date May 23. Feels like I’m making a rocket with paperclips and the clock’s ticking. So, I’m procrastinating.

Since you’re a man of the road, I am including a couple of poems. “Keeping the Dead...” inspired by the Pink Section & This World. I read the Punch & the Funnies too, whether I need the news or not.

Careful there, yr last epistol looking suspiciously like a poem & you know what happens when you make mole hills out of mountains—eat a lotta dirt to get to the heart of things. Missiles aside. Funny you should mention missiles. They’ve been coming up a lot in my poems. Enough of this missive. Happy Trails to you, or should I say, das Vdanya? Nos zdrovia is much more interesting. Water of Life, and all that. Don’t you think? (Last statement, a colloqualism, not intended personally).

P.S. My granny (who kept uisge in the shoe pouches of her closet) was forever pointing out cork oaks to me. Guess she liked the idea, living through Prohibition, and all that. Quercus. Corks ‘n Cows? Sounds pretty green to me. Was a bar/hardware store on Guerneville road called Bottles ‘n Bolts--popular with the weekend handyman set. Went belly up. End of an era. Now a gucchi-wucchi chocolate shop. Dipped strawberries anyone?

P.P.S. To see how I spent my summer vacation, get a copy of latest American Poetry Review (brown issue)....(hint) what do tear gas, Lima, coca leaves, laundered money & Ollie North have in common? Or how to take pix during a civil war? Shoot from the hip.

Dear Wm Poole: Febish @ 9 1990

How do you pronounce Wm? Sounds like a bullfrog filling in for the Fat Lady or practicing for spring training. 

I sure HOPE I don’t have nits—even if the family I was staying with in the USSR had to wash their daughter’s hair in benzine—Quell, etc. not readily available in the USSR. 

My friend’s father invented Quell and countless friends have profusely thanked the man... He also invented Sensodyne toothpaste. Not as much in demand as the former—especially during the 60’s and 70’s. Maybe now. I got a personally autographed case of the latter product from aforementioned man. What friends are good for... Wait till they discover in the year 2000 he invented denture cream!

Of COURSE you’re singled out for such split attention. I got a new copy editor who can quote from Strink & What. So I’m getting a crash course in the true joys of nitpicking. You’re not the only one who received fan mail. Blame it on the Moonies or something. 

I must’ve gone crazy on a comma binge on poems already typeset, much to an editor’s chagrin. A hysterical call from New York only netted my answering machine. The seven page letter he wrote included such gems, “While I’m not unaware of the joys of punctuation...” Something about commas sprinkled like spermatazoa across the page...

Between the two of you, my mail was a veritable Abbot & Costello “Who’s on first..” Never mind that one. Just let it slide. It’s too loaded.

OGODNO! Don’t give up being a journalist! Who else would I nail at every faulty mission from Dog (Dyslexic parsons arguing about theology). 

Then there’s the fun(d)raising dyslexic’s wife who, seeing his placard and tin cup, “Please help dailysex” who said “Let me help you spell that, dear!” 

And whose fault is that? Data. Data? We former art students called it Dada. You know, irons with nails coming out of them? A tire’s recurring nightmare: Somewhere on the road, NAILS!

It’s almost my favorite column...even if you have trouble with geography and can’t seem to get your copy in on time. Every other week isn’t too bad, considering your inability to read maps. As to other ficticious and literary pursuits, who am I to say no? Please note enclosed poetic license. 

Have also enclosed a Jo Bob Briggs interview for you. NOTE the Slugfest reference. Surely you’re braver that Jo Bob? Time’s a waistin (middleage spread on toast points). Well? Do you have the guts? Your editor is absolutely right. It IS a great idea. ("Editor" is the long word for God). Hey, you might make Omni magazine. Or are you a sudden vegetarian? (OYESSS!!! I HAVE THE CALLING) 

Um, yep, I too have left poor suckers wandering around lost in the woods. How’d you guess? As a kid I also introduced visitors to the first-time joys of poision oak and stinging nettles. We called ‘em city slickers, not journalists though. The last time I trusted a man with the topo map was April Fool’s Day, 1982. Needless to say, the date says all. Cold out there w/o a blanket! Took some innovation on both our parts to stay warm.

Back two weeks. Am still trying to recover from the USSR. Have reservations to kiss K Mart, etc. Went wild in the grocery store. $100 worth of snacks? I won’t tell you what happened in Macy’s, other than I am the proud new owner of a down quilt and two more pairs of boots. And am seriously eyeing a sheepskin coat & more longjohns. Spring Sale starts MONDAY!

I never knew I was a secret capitalist consumer at heart until I tried to buy boots in the USSR. I had to resort to the black market. The flimsy little California numbers I wore left me uneasy every time I stamped my foot. I was afraid of finding small toes rolling around on their own inside my boot. The thinsulite coat was exactly that, thin.

I now understand why women wear fur coats. It’s f’ing cold over there. I know your greography is a bit hazy—Leningrad is on level with Anchorage. Cherkassy (near Kiev) on level with Paris. There the similarity ends. Moscow wasn’t any warmer.

Alternative warmth factor: Try pop-starting a Jigouli (Soviet-issue Fiat by any other name) in reverse on an icy road at 6 am and your plane leaves at 8 for the thrill of a lifetime. We flagged down some poor drunken sot & hijacked his car. After waiting in line for two hours, Pan Am tried to bump us, erroneously saying, “no reservation, go to the end of the line & pay a late penalty please.”

Understand, after a month of cabbage (kilbasa shortage) I was a rather feisty contender for that plane seat. The joys of public tantrums. Pan Am was late. It took 36 hours to get to SFO. So we couldn’t get the Airporter home to Santa Rosa at 1 am. Joys of more public tantrums. 40 hours w/o sleep (or a bath) does not improve my normally sunny condition. 

Pan Am begrudgingly put us up for the night (what was left of it). My gray cells are rumored to be hovering somewhere mid-Atlantic. I only saw the sun once while in the USSR, and it was partially cloudy. I freaked when I saw all the blue sky. Hurt my eyes. Have enclosed a write-up on my project. Pass it along. Am looking for $, etc.

Re: C/O the Chron. No address on your last missive. If anyone at the Chronic “L” reads your mail, you’ll know when the jokes resurface in Siberia. Reminds me, speaking of newspaper magnets (of the refrigerator variety), on the way home from a CPITS mtg in Cambria, my ride dragged me thru Hearst’s “castle.” O my, something to look forward to. Joys of retirement from journalism.

Note bene: these old letters were locked away in obsolete file formats for over 20 years. I attempted a new approach to opening them—so this is the first time I've literally seen them since 1990. I'm publishing much of this material thematically since I can't create a blog that goes back to 1989—so Feb 2007, it is (though today's date is really 6/20/2011...shhh!) Sometimes it takes a while. At any rate, this makes me want to dig into the archives and find some of those old letters—Wm Poole's, of course (checkout his old photos at Legible Light—amazing)