pac man

by jackie sun

Hating living in the Haight.

Jenny's neighbors. Neighborly attitudes in San Francisco.

Jenny and her roommate have a house guest from Texas.

Last year an intense desire for living in Pacific Heights (to be clear, I include Presidio Heights) announced itself with a great force and has yet to relinquish control of my very soul and being. I burn to assume membership in this WASPy and extremely affluent, cream-of-the-crop social strata. It won’t happen now and it won’t happen for a very, very long time, but baby, it’s gonna happen sometime in my life.

Yeah, yeah, I used to not care about designer clothes and luxury cars, as long as I would be able to dig up enough clams for a comfortable life. Here’s my definition of comfortable: basic nutrition 3x a day, my own decent apartment in safe neighborhood, enough mad money for weekend playtime, and enough to feed my nonstop CD addiction (for which I must seek therapy!). Comfortable would make me happy. Originally, my SF fantasies centered on calling Cole Valley, the Castro/Eureka Valley, or Noe Valley my home. I’m such a Valley Girl! I wanted a general normality, spiced just a bit by diversity (yep, diversity, thy name is Snoe Valley), hipness, and some bohemian rhapsody. On the average, people definitely do exude more oomph in Lower Haight, Hayes Valley, the Mission, and Western Addition, but do I want to worry about my car parked on the street, or about magnifying my single-alone- and-young-girl status to the nth degree at night? That’s too bohemian.

Now, I’ve seen the light (cue the lift of choral voices). Distinguished turn-of-the-century architecture? Hands down, Pac Heights wins. Sheer mansion size? No contest. Antique furniture stores? Score. Antique shoppers? All right! Noe Valley has the corner on the happening garage sales, but Pac Heights has got that 1889 Scottish pine armoire vibe going – I bet at least fifty percent of the Jackson Square antique store clientele hails from Pac Heights. You can even glimpse the evidence through the windows of Pac homes, especially, if you climb up the ivy.

Mark my words, these are uber-uber-rich people of classic style and good taste. Occasionally, well ok, frequently, the young Marina-style (I hesitate to use the word "style" here) sorority/fraternity alumni stray up here, but per square Pac foot, the denizens of these high-society hills exude a far more intriguing old-money vibe – they represent our Upper East Side. These aristocrats dine casually at Garibaldi (ohh, the wine list), enjoy cocktails at Cypress Club, and what else, cruise for antiques. I vote these residents most likely to maintain wine cellars that are organized by the Dewey decimal system. Nicholas Cage and Patricia Arquette own a Gothic-looking Tudor here, Francis Ford Coppola used to call it home (now Jessica McClintock lives in his space, so I hear), and ex-mayor Frank Jordan still does. I bet that Sharon and Phil probably play here too. Pac Heights gives better parking than Telegraph Hill and Russian Hill, it is closer to civilization than the Richmond Seacliff mansions, and it gets clearer, bluer skies than Twin Peaks. Big selling point? The bridge-and-tunnel folks, tourists and SUV-driving yups stick to Chestnut Street and Union Street at nighttime. Bigger selling point? This hood is least likely to be found in socks, and Birkenstocks, and most likely to be found in the latest Robert Clergerie soles.

I have broadly outlined two plans of action. Starting with the most realistic one, I do my best to climb the Silicon Valley ladder, just high enough so that by my blood, sweat, and tears, I can call a studio right around the corner from Jackson Fillmore my very own. That’s the grim, minimum-ten-year long haul. Here’s the fantasy, the master plan. Make crucial connections with people in the Everest-altitude tax income bracket. The precise details of this campaign have not been finely tuned yet, but I am open to any useful suggestions or recommendations (see my email address below). Basically, the art patronage system of earlier times badly needs a resurrection. There must be a potential art patron out there, sympathetic, artistically sensitive, and willing to give room (I’m receptive to board, too) to a "struggling" writer.

If a possible benefactor is out there listening (perhaps, sipping wine at a swanky museum fundraiser or planning the details of an upcoming weekend in Aspen), let me throw in a few salient facts. I am a young, presentable single woman -- think Doug Coupland ambitions for the coming first decade. I am currently working on my first novel, which is among other things, a glowing love letter to San Francisco. No temperamental artist am I, nor do I harbor any troubling anti-social or Communist tendencies. Long live free enterprise! Hooray for the Rockefellers and Guggenheims! Here stands your well-adjusted and functioning creative genius. However, if you want a little drama, I can supply that too, as long as you provide the fully stocked liquor cabinet. All I require is a furnished room to sleep and work in, my own private bathroom and a kitchen (even a kitchenette will suffice). A view would make a wonderful bonus, but to a lonesome writer sunlight is a necessity. You can house me anywhere in your mansion, on the bottom floor, up in the attic, or in that cozy garden cottage. I will be as quiet as a church mouse – the hum of my computer will not even reach your ears. However, feel free to take me along to the gallery openings and Charlotte Swig dinner parties. Just be confident that I will happily dedicate my novel, subsequent screen adaptations, and my firstborn to you. I just want to be one of you, even if only barely.

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