These days I seldom hear the anguished cry of the old-time San Franciscans: "Where's Herb?" ... "What would Herb say? ... or "This would never happen if Herb were alive." More often I hear, amid this younger population, "Who's Herb Caen? when I happen to mention his name in mixed company. Then I explain, once again, that he was the daily columnist in The Chronicle who gave San Francisco its identity, its character, and had more influence than the mayor, the judges, the governor, and all of the California legislature combined.
Ten years after his death, Caen's name is dismissed by many with a glazed look or a shrug of the shoulders. The Chronicle didn’t even mention the occasion. Young people cannot imagine that one man who wrote for a newspaper could have such authority or such relevance. But he did.
To me, he was more than an icon. Herb Caen was my friend, a mentor who made me locally famous. For 17 years, I sent him jokes, and observations that he often printed -- and sometimes I even got credit. I was in a group of regular contributors during the later years that Herb called "Our Native Witz." They included Jerry Matters ... Matt Buka ... Edwin Heaven ... and, of course, the mysterious quipmeister, Strange de Jim
Herb's column ran for an unprecedented 59 years. There were a lot of native wits over the years. But Herb was the foundation, the ever-vigilant protector of the culture. He was Mister San Francisco, a fixed point in an ever-changing world. There's no one to take his place today, anymore than there will be another Irv Kupcinet in Chicago or a Jack Smith in Los Angeles. The daily newspaper is not the habit that it once was. Stu Smith recalls, "My father used to make us read Herb Caen at the breakfast table before we left for school. It was compulsory
It's a different world. What would we make of "Baghdad by the Bay" today, Herb's romantic term of endearment for The City? Herb himself was fond of noting that "War is the terrible geography lesson." He rolled with the changing times over the decades; he managed to remain relevant, though the three-dot column now seems a bit quaint. He loved puns, plays-on-words, and what he called "saloon humor." I first came to Herb's attention when I dropped him a note, indicating that "the great songwriters like Cole Porter, the Gershwins, Rodgers & Hart could never make it today because falling in love is more often described as exchanging bodily fluids. And 'fluids' is a tough rhyme
Herb liked my definition of a bad day: "When you come home from work, turn on the evening news, and see it being read by someone in an Army uniform
Years went by before Herb and I actually met, though I had made friends with his dedicated assistant, Carole Vernier. A few months before he died, he called me, and said, "Why don't you give me a walking tour of your Marina
"MY Marina?" I asked. "Since when did you deed it to me?"
I had a lot of fun introducing him to all the local merchants, and residents. Although he was already wracked with cancer, he maintained his relentless wit. I felt like George Fenneman trying to keep up with Groucho. Herb was eighty, desperately ill, but his energy did not wane, nor did his curiosity, nor his sense of mischief.
We dropped into Kimmel's stationery store on Chestnut Street. It hadn't changed much since the 1950s.
"Here, Herb," I said, "I'll buy you a roll of fax paper." He hadn't quite warmed up to e-mail.
"I don't use fax paper by the roll," said Herb. "Don Johnson gave me a fax machine that uses the flat kind."
(Always a namedropper. Herb once observed, "Gossip is the mother's milk of journalism.)
The proprietor of the shop was a demure woman who asked sweetly, "Oh, you need flat paper? Do you want a ream?"
"I don't know," Herb shot back, not missing a beat. "I hardly know you."
The lady looked a little confused but Herb and I were still laughing when we hit the sidewalk
Less than eight months later, I was at Herb Caen's memorial service at Grace Cathedral. A big bash followed at the Fairmont's Venetian Room, reopened for the occasion. Four kinds of vodka, Herb's "Vitamin V," was served in each corner of the room. Over at Moose's, Vernon Alley and his trio were playing their hearts out, a swinging version of The Days of Wine and Roses.
There was a candlelight march that evening, thousands carrying candles in Dixie Cups, sauntering silently down Herb Caen Way, formerly known as The Embarcadero. There were many young people in attendance. I saw one man drop out of the walk, sit on the curb, and weep.
"As a young boy, I learned from him how to conduct myself in places like the St. Francis, the Tonga Room, and the Mark," said John Harris, a native. "Herb Caen taught us to love our shining characters. He taught us that we, as San Franciscans, were a breed among ourselves."
That night, ten years ago, I had a sneaking suspicion that the days of wine and roses may have finally laughed and run away.
Ten years after his death, Caen's name is dismissed by many with a glazed look or a shrug of the shoulders. The Chronicle didn’t even mention the occasion. Young people cannot imagine that one man who wrote for a newspaper could have such authority or such relevance. But he did.
To me, he was more than an icon. Herb Caen was my friend, a mentor who made me locally famous. For 17 years, I sent him jokes, and observations that he often printed -- and sometimes I even got credit. I was in a group of regular contributors during the later years that Herb called "Our Native Witz." They included Jerry Matters ... Matt Buka ... Edwin Heaven ... and, of course, the mysterious quipmeister, Strange de Jim
Herb's column ran for an unprecedented 59 years. There were a lot of native wits over the years. But Herb was the foundation, the ever-vigilant protector of the culture. He was Mister San Francisco, a fixed point in an ever-changing world. There's no one to take his place today, anymore than there will be another Irv Kupcinet in Chicago or a Jack Smith in Los Angeles. The daily newspaper is not the habit that it once was. Stu Smith recalls, "My father used to make us read Herb Caen at the breakfast table before we left for school. It was compulsory
It's a different world. What would we make of "Baghdad by the Bay" today, Herb's romantic term of endearment for The City? Herb himself was fond of noting that "War is the terrible geography lesson." He rolled with the changing times over the decades; he managed to remain relevant, though the three-dot column now seems a bit quaint. He loved puns, plays-on-words, and what he called "saloon humor." I first came to Herb's attention when I dropped him a note, indicating that "the great songwriters like Cole Porter, the Gershwins, Rodgers & Hart could never make it today because falling in love is more often described as exchanging bodily fluids. And 'fluids' is a tough rhyme
Herb liked my definition of a bad day: "When you come home from work, turn on the evening news, and see it being read by someone in an Army uniform
Years went by before Herb and I actually met, though I had made friends with his dedicated assistant, Carole Vernier. A few months before he died, he called me, and said, "Why don't you give me a walking tour of your Marina
"MY Marina?" I asked. "Since when did you deed it to me?"
I had a lot of fun introducing him to all the local merchants, and residents. Although he was already wracked with cancer, he maintained his relentless wit. I felt like George Fenneman trying to keep up with Groucho. Herb was eighty, desperately ill, but his energy did not wane, nor did his curiosity, nor his sense of mischief.
We dropped into Kimmel's stationery store on Chestnut Street. It hadn't changed much since the 1950s.
"Here, Herb," I said, "I'll buy you a roll of fax paper." He hadn't quite warmed up to e-mail.
"I don't use fax paper by the roll," said Herb. "Don Johnson gave me a fax machine that uses the flat kind."
(Always a namedropper. Herb once observed, "Gossip is the mother's milk of journalism.)
The proprietor of the shop was a demure woman who asked sweetly, "Oh, you need flat paper? Do you want a ream?"
"I don't know," Herb shot back, not missing a beat. "I hardly know you."
The lady looked a little confused but Herb and I were still laughing when we hit the sidewalk
Less than eight months later, I was at Herb Caen's memorial service at Grace Cathedral. A big bash followed at the Fairmont's Venetian Room, reopened for the occasion. Four kinds of vodka, Herb's "Vitamin V," was served in each corner of the room. Over at Moose's, Vernon Alley and his trio were playing their hearts out, a swinging version of The Days of Wine and Roses.
There was a candlelight march that evening, thousands carrying candles in Dixie Cups, sauntering silently down Herb Caen Way, formerly known as The Embarcadero. There were many young people in attendance. I saw one man drop out of the walk, sit on the curb, and weep.
"As a young boy, I learned from him how to conduct myself in places like the St. Francis, the Tonga Room, and the Mark," said John Harris, a native. "Herb Caen taught us to love our shining characters. He taught us that we, as San Franciscans, were a breed among ourselves."
That night, ten years ago, I had a sneaking suspicion that the days of wine and roses may have finally laughed and run away.
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