Name Calling

San Francisco is now officially a suburb of Silicon Valley.

I think the mild schadenfreude I feel is best personified by a young gentleman who rode his motorcycle down from The City to visit friends in LA. He kept his bright purple leather jacket on the whole evening and he didn’t say much. Something about how the party we were at reminded him of the Bay Area, except it was like that every night. And also that you should never ever call The City “Frisco.”

That’s San Jose-San Francisco-Oakland metropolitan area to you, son.

By contrast, I think this is one of the things I’ve come to most appreciate about Los Angeles — it’s almost impossible to meaningfully insult it. The whole place is shrouded in a smog of insults, a weird mixture of disgust, fear and envy. The root mythology is horror and deception — when the pueblo was founded, they were already calling it Los Diablos.

But this soft bigotry of lowered expectations makes every wonderful thing here feel like a discovered secret. Last week it was Little Joy, Paru’s, and the roof of the Figueroa.

I do {heart} the wee peninsula, especially as I sit in front of two fans, squinting out the window towards something beige, remembering a particularly delightful 65 degree summer… If only I could have left my overactive sweat glands in Frisco.