Decade after decade, Herb Caen has been staying out all night, every night, hobnobbing with the newsmakers and name-droppers, inspiring delight and fury and always making sure Chronicle readers have a reason to flip open the morning paper. He admits to being star-struck at times; here are a few favorite shots from his early years.

The great French entertainer, Maurice Chevalier, has just arrived from Los Angeles on Southern Pacific's Lark and -- surprise! -- I am there to greet him. The year was 1946, and I was tipped off to his arrival by Louis Lurie, in whose Geary Theater -- or was it the Curran? -- Chevalier was about to make his first postwar appearance. As you can see, he was overjoyed to find me waiting for him. I was wondering if it was true that he had collaborated with the Nazis. We had a lousy evening.

It is 1946. World War II has ended and I won it, which is why I am interviewing the microphone. The pin in my lapel is the odd-looking eagle we grizzled veterans called "the ruptured duck," signifying an honorable discharge from the United States Army Air Force. The fellow at the right who looks like Frank Sinatra signing an autograph is Frank Sinatra signing an autograph and making rather a hard job of it. This was taken in the Mark Hopkins Hotel lobby around 1955, I would guess, when Frank and I were buddies. I am saying something hilarious, like ``Frank Sinatra? I thought you were Perry Como.'' The resigned-looking fellow at left is K. Hart Smith, who later resigned as manager of the hotel. There is no explaining this shot. It was taken in the summer of 1941 in Yosemite and is said to have hastened the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. I think I was trying to stand bowlegged in emulation of an old cowhand. At least, I hope that was what I was doing. I was reclassified 1-A shortly after this misbegotten photo was published. This historic photo, taken five years ago in the Fairmont's Venetian Room, shows (at left) Merv Griffin, a San Mateo boy who made good, tenderly massaging the shoulder of the ravishing Eva Gabor, while the equally gorgeous Ann Moller looks on. The squinty-eyed chap at the right is saying something witty, such as ``No, you can't have none of my martini -- go get your own.''