Game Hunter/Beverly Hills

The address of the neighboring house was 3598, as you could see from the numbers blazoned in neon letters atop of the... mailbox.

It was this kind of neighborhood, in which free reign and few gawking eyes invite the eccentric and rich to shape their belongings in all sorts of strange ways. These were middle class people one time, who made money quick, bought more fast cars than they could drove, and spent months at a time in Africa hunting big game. And they decorated their mailboxes, sometimes with beads and hemp, sometimes with purple neon.

And so we drove up the driveway to Chris' house, to partake in that red-blooded American pastime, the watching of the Superbowl. It's a steep driveway, probably to deter invaders. It's also long. We're almost ready to turn back, when we finally see the house. There's an alcove, and sitting in this alcove a sign that reads "drive slowly," along with three cars in tarps. The one in front has the low, hunched rear quarters of a Ferrari. The car to its left is very angular, and the third car behind both of these has the bulge of a supercharger protruding from its hood.

We decide not to park next to these beauties. Jack's BMW is nice, but not in the same league. We pull a little further up the hill, and finally, we see cars closer to our stature in life. Chris' 7 series, an old trailer RV, and a couple of old trucks. In a corner, as if to remind you whose property you're on, sits a shiny silver Rolls Royce.

Dear Lord. The inside of the house is something else. There are very few surfaces that are not emblazoned with some sort of patterned wallpaper, or, lacking that, the patterns of a zebra or leopard skin. In the living room above the TV a giant marlin hangs, along with several deer heads. A grand piano sits opposite this, and a giant zebra pelt is spread over the wall. There's a meat block taking center stage in the kitchen. The den is much the same way; the first thing you see when you walk in is a leopard skin on the wall. Walk a little closer, and you see an old picture of Mr. Shane kneeling over the dead cat it once kept warm. There's a pool table in the middle, full sized in all its glory. We find a Playboy Anniversary Edition hidden inside the front cover of a Life Magazine.

Smoking devices are everywhere. Ivory cigarette pieces. Pipes of all sizes. We probably could have found a knight's helmet filled to the brim with hash if we looked hard enough. Chris says that sometimes they get the dog high.

Our ideas about the place are finally solidified when Chris takes us outside to show us the cars. We start with the block: it's an old Cadillac. It's built like a tank. "Some movie star gave it to my dad," Chris says. The next is the one with a supercharger; turns out it's not a supercharger, just a giant hood scoop that feeds air through an enormous carburetor and into the crate engine of the 60's GTO. It's fiery orange, but the scoop is black. "Highway King" is printed on both sides of the scoop. You don't understand this car until you look inside and see the roll cage. Then you walk behind the car and see the thickest wheels you've seen in your life. "This car isn't legal on the road," Chris said. "My dad took it out, and when he floored it the tail just went back and forth."

The last car is the one we thought was Ferrari. As I took off the tarp, I had the feeling I was undressing a very beautiful woman. Oddly enough, when it came off the red paint was faded, and the car needed a wash. Then again, this car, positioned in front of the other two, was probably the one that got driven. And despite the dirt, it was still a Ferrari, made in a time when the Prancing Stallion was more about a rigid chassis and air-tight suspension than leather and driveability--when there was no such thing as a grand touring Ferrari. It was this time, one thought, where someone could still go to Africa and hunt leopards.