The Caveman Diaries

By: Tyler Smith

“[There is]…a small New York subculture whose members seek good health through a selective return to the habits of their Paleolithic ancestors.”
— NY Times

Aooooooogggghhhaaa! That’s my primal scream, yo. It’s New Year’s Day today and last night, after hunting wild game near by the New School, I partied my supraorbital torus off at a sweet club over in the meatpacking district. The bouncer gave me attitude for smelling like rotten hamburgers and being prehistoric and nude, but he saw me for the tribal leader I am, and he knew not to step to me. I make it a point to put out an uber-masculine Cro-Magnon vibe, and anyone can see that I could outrun a mastodon if I could find one, so ditching this bouncer would have been a cinch, and he knew it. Ran into a few problems finding a woman, though. I take my obligation to keep the species afloat seriously, but how am I supposed to tell who’s ovulating and who’s just hopelessly irascible? Ended the night alone, regarding the wonder of fire in a dumpster off of Bleecker. Tomorrow I hunt and/or gather.

I’m exhausted. Up all night watching Jersey Shore on DVR (Cro-Magnon man must have splurged occasionally). Is it wrong to feel attracted to “The Situation?” In Paleolithic times there was probably more dude on dude anyway, because where the hell is everybody, right?

Could a date go any worse? I do realize it’s important to be considerate of other people’s diets, even though I, personally, am a ferocious caveman. Sally from 9B came up for dinner and a movie. Sally looked bored until I brought out the first course — four pints of blood. She went completely berserk. In an effort to make amends, I grabbed her ponytail and ushered her into the living room and onto a love seat fashioned out of a hollow log. With a nice bowl of twigs and berries to munch on, we were preparing to watch Caveman with Ringo Starr and Barbara Bach (and a young Dennis Quaid!), when she escaped out the door, no doubt into the arms of Federico next door in 7C. Federico is a weak-willed herbivore primed for extinction, yet he exhibits an unerring sense about when a woman is ovulating as Sally’s orgasmic screams wafting through the thin walls of my apartment so aptly attest. I may be one of Rousseau’s “noble savages,” but if I see Sally struggling at the door with a bunch of groceries again, she’s on her own. Would sleep in the Sheep’s Meadow tonight, outdoors as is my nature, but the Geek Squad is coming early tomorrow to fix my hard drive.

Went to my first New York Cavemen Society meeting. Some trader from Goldman got in my face saying I was a wanna-be. Fortunately, my boy Oog, the host of the meeting and an excellent Evolutionary Fitness trainer, set his pug “Phantom Killah,” on this guy’s gonads, and we all got a sense of just how brutal life could be 200,000 years ago. Moreover, they had no margarita machine, because ice is a luxury in which a troglodyte could not indulge. I made a joke about hoping for another “Ice Age,” but the room got really quiet and I had to apologize. The winter here has been tough enough, and I regretted it right as I said it. I felt like jumping in a tar pit, but I just went to the bathroom and did a crossword puzzle with my own feces in an effort to get back to a good, prehistoric place. I missed out on the smorgasbord of assorted raw meats, and I heard later that somebody (probably the Goldman douche) got drunk and claimed to have invented the wheel. Right, like, what are those four things on your Aston Martin, you F’ing phony!?

You know what? It occurred to me that cavemen probably didn’t know how to read (except for that precocious chick that wrote The Clan of the Cave Bear). So, I’m doing my best to unlearn this futuristic conceit. The VP doesn’t buy it. I tried to tell him I’d unlearned reading, but he tricked me by writing “You’re Fired” on a piece of paper, so I clubbed him with my Mets pennant. I think he knew that I knew what the paper said. Was going to try to woo a cave wife with some Alpha behavior, you know, feats of strength, but when Sally was struggling at her door and I brusquely snatched her bag of groceries grunting primally, “Go ahead, I’ve got these,” she shoved me and I bumped into that vegan Brontosaurus Federico who shanked me in the gut with an organic carrot and told me to “grow up.” Grow up?

As if evolution was something so simple.


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