Throw your hands in the ay-urr if yous a true player, and other things of that nature, 'cause it's time to visit Wilt Chamberlain's big hetero den of '70s lovemaking in Bel Air! The LA Times decided to roll out its standard every-few-years feature on Wilt's manse, but I don't mind the repetition of this because it helps me satisfy my '70s NBA groupie pretend-life fantasy while remaining wonderfully disease- and pregnancy-free! 3 cheers for imagination. Also, Hi Mom, please be aware that any hypothetical naked times I would've participated in would only have been so that I could raid Wilt's record collection. Can you imagine the gems in there? You understand.
High on a big sexy hill, Wilt called the place Ursa Major because he was super classy and astrological, y'all. And once upon a time the place throbbed from unadulterated sexual energy. But because it was the '70s and because God is punishing me, I never had a chance to be Jumpoff Number 16,320 and then stagger my way through its halls trying to remember where I left my underpants. (Oh wait! Wilt did not allow such oppressive garments on his ladies and had us check 'em at the door. Doubtful I would be looking for underwear, then. Maybe car keys?)
Wilt's gone and the people who live there now clearly have no sense of joy or sexuality, as they have gotten rid of many of the home's "kinky details"- a mirrored ceiling in the master bedroom that retracted to reveal open sky, a sunken bathtub that sat at the foot of the bed, and a wall-to-wall water bed floor in the downstairs, uhmm, "playroom." Praise the lord that the moat swimming pool is still intact and accessible. Some things are classics, you see.
Additional details on the estate: 2 1/2 acres, 6 bedrooms, 5-foot-thick front door (?), 5-story living room, many leather-bound books, smells of rich mahogany. Meanwhile, Bill Walton is sweeping out the front of his teepee and waiting for Edie Brickell to come by for pita chips and tahini.
Chakachas “Jungle Fever”
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