|THE MAIN HALL|
Here's how this week's arts and culture piece begins:
The Adventurers’ Club of Los Angeles, established in 1921, is a private men’s club that occasionally opens its doors to ladies for an evening that includes dinner and a lecture. I attended on one such recent night and found myself thrust into a delightful warp of time and culture.
Located at the juncture of the 5 and the 110, the club is situated in a Lincoln Heights neighborhood of pool halls and nail salons. Skirting the prostitutes plying their wares on Broadway, you go up a set of stairs and find yourself plunged into a space with the decor and feel of the silent-movie era.
Edgar Rice Burroughs might have spoken here, or Roald Amundsen, polar explorer, who probably actually did speak here, given that he was a member (#188A).
A very nice man named Matthew, who at 32 is the second-youngest member of the club, gave me a tour. My head reeled: a stuffed polar bear shot by Steven L. Rose on March 13, 1965, in the Chukchi Sea; a zebra skin splayed across the dining room wall; laminated newspaper articles with headlines such as, “Nile Conqueror Recounts Thrills,” LA Times Sept. 13, 1951; “Peter DePaolo, Indy 500 Winner, Dead at 82,” LA Times, Nov. 27, 1980.
Names I was afraid to admit I’d never heard of were dropped in hushed and worshipping tones: Doolittle (Jimmy Doolittle, #800, General, USAF); MacCready (Paul MacCready, #959, designer of the first man-powered plane to cross the English Channel).
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|I ONCE DROVE TO THE CENTRAL COAST AND SAW A SEAL--SO THERE!|
THOUGH MOST OF MY ADVENTURES TAKE PLACE WITHIN THE WALLS
OF MY APARTMENT...