Ways in which my house resembles The Players Club:
• Shakespeare tiles (We both have them; the PC around a fireplace, mine -reproductions- in the guest bath.)
• Pictures of characters unknown to any but the initiates (Chez nous: school pictures of my children from kindergarten though middle school; at the PC: great 19th century and early 20th actors)
• Skulls. (Edwin Booth's had his Yorick; I have my camel, and yes I really truly found it in the Sahara, along with the rest of the camel's bones but I buckled to pressure and did not bring them all home. Naturally I regret the buckling.)
Ways in which my house does not resemble The Players Club
• Presence of a pool table. Enough said.
• Inscriptions above the mantels, such as this one in Edwin Booth's bedroom which, if I am not mistaken, extols the merits of smoking: "And when the smoke ascends on high, Her[e] thou beholdst the vanity of worldly stuff, gone with a puff: thus think and smoke tobacco."
• Lunch someone else provides, which I enjoyed immensely with my gracious host, Paco Underhill, Scientist of Shopping, Player and Buffalo-afficionado.