Kudos to Paul Judge for, once again, resurrecting and resuscitating another skeleton from the collective closet of the WNP-BB, whose zip code was changed to ‘86’ after a brief wake down the road at Malloy’s when too much bandwidth allowed our once-thriving Cyberhood to be circumvented like a ghost town, moving from El Camino Real to Alemeda de los Pulgas. And yes, I’ll wait while you brush up on your sophomore Spanish, translating the literal meanings of these two major arteries.
“What is an SF Native” befuddles me since everyone here started out from somewhere else; like lemmings, although the water being too cold as to jump right in, fostered an extended waiting room that keeps being expanded and redefined by a novel sensibility and conceit which manages to change with each passing decade.
From Gold rush to Head rush, The City has weathered more than fog and global warming to be where she stands today and if life were fair, the Statue of Liberty would be sitting atop Alcatraz Island,warmly welcoming anyone with the grit or good fortune to wind up on her banks.
So to me, “Natives” are merely that wild pack of mutts who washed up just before the last wave broke.