Not too long ago, I was out at a local watering hole when I spied an attractive, solo young vixen pumping quarters into the jukebox. Never one to squander an opportunity to speak to a comely lass--and wanting to do a bit of pumping of my own later in the evening--I sidled up next to her and launched into my usual spiel, which is a potent and irresistible cocktail of subtle come-ons, hyperbolic compliments, and bold-faced lies.

At length, we took a dark, quite table in the corner and began to speak more earnestly about matters of the utmost importance. As I ordered our drinks, she suddenly asked me where I lived.

I leaned over, gingerly pulled her chestnut hair from above her ear, and in my huskiest voice, whispered these three words: "Lower Pacific Heights."

Of course, I don't actually live in Lower Pacific Heights. I don't even live in San Francisco. I actually live in Berkeley, but I figured, hey, since 90 percent of the population claims to live in this mythical, care-free place called "Lower Pacific Heights" despite their actual location, then I had carte blanche to call Berkeley "Lower Pacific Heights" as well.

First of all, for the geographically uninitiated, San Francisco is a town of 49 square miles, surrounded on three sides by water. And for every square mile, there's at least 6 to 10 "neighborhoods." I find this utterly ludicrous. Why does Nob Hill, which comprises a total of about 10 blocks, need to be divided in to Upper Nob Hill and Lower Nob Hill? Just where does the TenderNob start and where does it end? And where the fuck is Polk Gulch anyway?

The sad fact is, there is no such place as "Lower Pacific Heights." This neighborhood has been dreamed up by San Francisco's eternally greedy landlords in an effort to dump off apartments that are located in less-desirable areas of town at exorbitant prices. The landlord realizes that when he advertises a studio unit at the corner of Geary and Polk and lists it as Downtown (no one ever lists anything as Tenderloin) that he will be able to fetch the paltry sum of only about $900 for it. However, take the exact same studio on the exact same corner, advertise it as Lower Pacific Heights, and voila--the price shoots up to $1,350.

Most people living in "Lower Pacific Heights" realize soon after moving in that they live in the Tenderloin, Hayes Valley, and--more to the point--nowhere close to Pacific Heights (which, as the name implies is on a hill). As the truth dawns on them that they're paying way too much for their charming little 80-square foot room with a microwave and shared bathroom, they fall all over themselves in an attempt to justify their foolhardy behavior. This is why every other tool you meets claims to live in Lower Pacific Heights. They're being taken for the ride of their life, and rather than admit this to themselves or the world at large, they choose cower behind an imaginary neighborhood like the shrinking, pitiful milquetoasts they are.

While some people are just plain deluded, I think that there's another, even more disturbing reason behind the propagation of the "Lower Pacific Heights" myth that explains San Francisco's multitude of fictional neighborhoods: good, old-fashioned snootiness. Neighborhoods such as the Tenderloin, Hayes Valley, and the Western Addition are still undergoing gentrification, and as such, aren't quite as nice, clean, quiet, peaceful--and most importantly, WHITE--as the places where your average "Lower Pacific Heights" residents fancies themselves worthy of. When such a person finds themselves witnessing a crack deal out of their "bay-view" window, they don't want to admit to their friends, coworkers, and even complete strangers that they live in a place where that kind of horrendous thing could happen. (After all, street-corner blow jobs are just so working class and new money.) And their nice, wealthy family back in Connecticut or Naragansett or wherever would have a conniption fit if they found out their beautiful little college-educated son or daughter were living around such rough trade and people of questionable ethnicity. Does "Lower Pacific Heights" sound like a place where people void their bowels on the street and chug Mad Dog at noon? Of course not. Those types of things only happen in "black" or "Latino" neighborhoods. Don't worry Grandma, Missy's safe and sound right here in Lower Pacific Heights.

With housing prices still out the roof in San Francisco and joblessness at a record high, no normal, well-adjusted individual should be ashamed to live in any part of this town. If you live in the Tenderloin, so what, make the best of it and thank the God that made you have two legs, two arms, and a place to lie your head. No one will judge you because of where you live (no one you want to know anyway). But start putting on your "Lower Pacific Heights" airs, and everyone will judge you to be a lying ninny out to impress the world. We all know damn well that Gough and Post ain't Pacific Heights, no matter how much you pray to at night to make it so. (To review, the term "Heights" implies a hill of some sort.) Climb down off your high horse there for a second and talk to the rest of us without your nose pointed upward toward heaven. I swear to you, we're not subhuman, even if we do live in Oakland, or the Haight, or the Sunset.

If you do live in Pacific Heights proper, congratulations. Pat yourself on the back--you're entitled to as much caviar, champagne, and Colombian cocaine as your precious little heart can stand. Look down on us. Deplore us. Call the cops when we walk through your neighborhood. We are not worthy of even your contempt. You've earned that right.

To everyone else: Bust out the kneepads, because we're in for a long, dark night of high rents, shifty landlords, and pretentious halfwits hell-bent on living the life of Riley in that enchanted land known as "Lower Pacific Heights."

If you take anything away from my humble missive, let it be the lesson of truthfulness. The next time someone asks you where you live, be honest. Tell them you live in the Western Addition, or Downtown, Hayward, or even Colma.

Or just dream up your own neighborhood up and say you live there. Why not? Everybody else is doing it.


B. Satter is an immigrant grocer in Berkeley, California.