Fat, old and Irish with a face for radio

The San Francisco Chronicle, founded in 1865, has a long tradition of insightful columnists: Bret Harte, Jack London, Armistead Maupin, Jon Carroll, Art Hoppe. But the greatest of all was Herb Caen.

Trivia buffs: What was the original name of Herb Caen’s column? It’s News to Me.

Longtime readers remember that Caen did not have his picture at the top. He had his logo, which consisted of the city skyline with the Transamerica Pyramid bending to fit his name. Apparently, it sagged because he had made fun of it so much.

Nowhere in his category am I. The Sackamenna Kid was the first word in The Chronicle (briefly the Examiner), let alone journalism, and I am merely the Ozone Park Kid, proving that you can take the boy out of Queens, but you can’t take the Queen out of the boy. Herb Caen and I are alike, only in that we are both “dyed-in-the-fog” San Franciscans.

When neighbors ask about my column, I tell them to open the Wednesday paper, and flip to the back side. Unlike arguments with my husband, in the Wednesday Chronicle, I get the very last word.

But if the Voice of the West continued the tradition of logos, I would nix Salesforce Tower. Maybe the roof cow. Or better yet, Millennium Tower, as it is already leaning.

Alas, instead of a clever cartoon, I have a photo. Lacking the beauty of my usual page-mate, Leah Garchik, this presents a considerable burden.

My husband, Brian, picked out the purple shirt and scarlet tie for my byline, but really, it was Nurse Vivian who picked out the face, and she agrees with Pop when he said, “Kevin, you got a face for radio.” The only reason my sons are so handsome is that I did not rely on genetics.

Last year, I met a woman outside the Hall of Justice who insisted that I could not possibly be Kevin Fisher-Paulson because he was so tall. “After all,” she said, “he towers right over that column.” Maybe I need a disclaimer: “Objects may appear larger ...”

The lesbians down the block threw a party a few months ago, and a passerby grabbed my arm and said, “You really need to get that picture retaken. It makes you look like a fat old Irish bartender.”

Regular readers are already nodding: Fat. Check. Old. Check. Irish. Check. All true except, going back to my underemployed days, I did attend mixology school, but I was unable to pass the bar.

Last week, I wrote the column about Zane having the faintest whisper of hair on his upper lip.

Which brings me to David Cardenas, the self-proclaimed president of the Zane-andAidan Fan Club, Mill Valley Chapter. He wrote of the organization’s meeting, “Last night we were tossing back a bottle of unoaked Chardonnay when one of my twisted chums saw your column on the table, took a felt tip pen and sketched in a butch mustache on your photo. I’ve never heard so many ‘Oh, Babys!’ We took a vote and unanimously agree that you should grow a big bushy one.”

First of all, I’m switching to unoaked Chardonnay. Second of all, if you are gonna chair a Zane-and-Aidan Fan Club, it’s definitely better with a cocktail in your hand. Third of all, I’m definitely the kind of guy who gets hunkier the more you drink. But you better check the shelf life.

The mustache story: When I first joined the Department, I decided to grow a mustache sort of like Al Pacino in “Serpico.” Crazy Mike told me it was easy. All you had to do was stop shaving above your mouth.

It became my winter project. I started the day after swearing in (Oct. 3, 1994), and despite all my coaxing, the follicles refused to cooperate. By Christmas, the net result was that it looked like I drank too much chocolate milk. But I persevered. I bought wax and a little comb to make it happy.

We got to Valentine’s Day. Brian and I took Tim to see Kinsey Sicks at the New Conservatory (This was pre-children, so we had time for dragapella). As Tim opened his door, he looked at my upper lip and smirked, “Robin Williams. ‘The Birdcage.’ ”

I shaved the next morning. Some people are not meant to grow mustaches.

So doodle, if you will, on the top of this page. Draw me with a pot of gold, draw me with a Donald Trump comb-over, draw me with a pirate hat, but best of all draw me with my husband and two sons and rescue dogs in the bedlam bungalow in the outer, outer, outer, outer Excelsior. It’s where I look best.

“You really need to get that picture retaken. It makes you look like a fat old Irish bartender.”

Kevin Fisher-Paulson’s column appears Wednesdays in Datebook. Email: datebook@ sfchronicle.com