First of all, I am going to call it Frisco. Fuck Herb Caen. The vast-majority of non-Chinese, non-Latino "local" people who were born here and still live here a generation later are all cloistered in their $6 million houses in Seacliff or Pacific Heights or Russian Hill and I'm just a shitstain on the sidewalk to those people anyway. I have decided that I am going to start calling all great American cities by their silly nicknames. The Big Apple. The Windy City. Motown. Sin City. I am going to do it in casual conversation just to annoy people. It drives me crazy how all these Judds roll their eyes every time someone says the word "Frisco," as if rolling their eyes is going to change the fact that they themselves grew up in the suburbs of Cleveland or Kansas City and this rolling of the eyes somehow legitimizes them as locals. Shut the fuck up, Judd. Then there's that stupid laundromat in Hayes Valley named after Caen's book. Don't call it Frisco. Why not? Because some jerk in a mumu who owns a laundromat in gentrification central doesn't think I should? The longshoremen we displaced from the city called it Frisco, but just because in 1953 some martini-swilling hack told us not to, now generations of Judds eager to prove that they're exactly what they're not (i.e. locals) can insist on me not calling it Frisco. Bitch, I've lived here three years but I'm still a tourist. There's no way I am ever going to afford a house with a yard and when you have a five-month old daughter that means your days are numbered. And I'm sure as shit never going to move to Contra Costra or Marin. And guess what? EVERYONE ELSE IN THE COUNTRY CALLS IT FRISCO. In honor of my provincial heritage, so will I. Herb Caen grew up in Sacramento and didn't move to Frisco till he was twenty. Just another Judd insecure with his place in the world, I think. So call it what you want. Call it San Fran. If you're a trucker, call it the Gay Bay. You've earned that right, and I don't care.