Caveman Circus
The Most Awesome Men's Entertainment Site On The Internet
I wish I could tell you there was a single moment — a sharp turn, a door I walked through, a mistake I made — that led me into the belly of the beast. That would make it easier to explain. Easier to blame.
But it wasn’t one moment. It was dozens. Hundreds. A constellation of small, stupid, seemingly insignificant choices that, when connected, spelled out a life I didn’t even recognize.
You never forget where your keys are. Or where you parked. Or the name of that minor character in that one episode of The West Wing. Studying? A breeze. Exams? Light work. You don’t “cram,” because you don’t need to. You read it once—really read it—and it’s there. Forever. You can recite entire passages from books you haven’t touched in years, tell someone exactly what day Caitlyn Jenner appeared on the cover of Vanity Fair, and what shirt you were wearing when you saw it.
[Read more…] about What’s It Like To Have a Photographic Memory?
There’s a version of my life that looks like a joke someone told at brunch.
Young wife. Older, wildly successful husband. Closet full of designer labels. No job to speak of, unless you count looking good at charity galas and knowing when to nod at the right hedge fund jargon over dinner. A walking, talking Real Housewife audition tape—minus the Botox (for now).
[Read more…] about What It’s Like to Be a Trophy Wife (and Know It)
I used to be a genius.
I say that with the same smirk I imagine washed-up child actors wear when they introduce themselves at Comic-Con. “Hi, I was the kid in that thing once.” Except instead of a minor role in a Nickelodeon sitcom, my legacy was an above-average ability to finish a worksheet before the rest of the class finished reading the instructions. I was a “gifted kid.” Capital G. Capital K. The kind of kid teachers talked about in the teacher’s lounge like a draft pick they were grooming for the majors.
[Read more…] about “Gifted” Is Just a Word for Kids Who Peak in Fourth Grade
Love is the world’s greatest magic trick that somehow remains entirely explainable. It’s the one experience every human chases, the thing that’s been repackaged and resold to us in every movie, song, and dime-store novel since the beginning of recorded time. And yet, when it happens to you, it feels singular. Like you’re the first person to ever really get it. Like all those past love stories were just rough drafts leading up to this moment, this person, this specific and unrepeatable feeling.
1. First of all, by well done, I mean brown all the way through, which is not the same as completely burned so that the steak resembles a hockey puck in appearance and flavor.
I have had some phenomenal steaks cooked well done at moderate-to-upscale steakhouses, and the outside was barely charred at all.
After trying steaks cooked to a variety of temperatures, I feel that well done is the best according to my tastes. I don’t feel that the flavor is substantially lost by cooking the steak for longer.
[Read more…] about 10 People Who Like Their Steaks Well-Done Explain WHY
I wake up and before I even move, before I even stretch, before I acknowledge the existence of the room around me, I reach for my phone. It’s not even a decision—it’s muscle memory, some primal, Pavlovian impulse. My hand, fumbling over the nightstand, finds the smooth, familiar shape, and there’s a brief flicker of anticipation before my thumb presses the button. The screen glows. The world opens.
I don’t check the time. I check notifications. The dopamine drip starts early: three texts, one missed call, a handful of emails, a notification that someone I don’t remember following posted a new photo of their overpriced meal at a restaurant I’ll never go to. I see it, I absorb it, I keep scrolling.
[Read more…] about The Endless Feed: A Day Without Looking Up
It starts like this: You don’t notice the walls closing in until the only thing left is the space inside your head. At first, it’s a slow fade, like a badly written TV character disappearing between seasons. You’re just skipping an outing here, a class there. Then one day, stepping outside feels like stepping onto an alien planet where the gravity is all wrong, and everyone is staring at you even though you know, logically, that they aren’t.
I always assumed I’d retire at 65. That was the number, the magic number, the one they tell you when you’re young, when you’re too busy destroying your body and your mind with whatever you can get your hands on to care about things like pensions or investment portfolios. I figured I’d be done by then, some weathered version of myself walking through an airport in an expensive, shapeless sweater, off to some mind-numbing coastal town where people wear white linen and drink two fingers of bourbon on porches that smell like money and salt. But then I hit 65, and the only thing I could afford was more work.
Here’s the thing about big boobs: they’re not just boobs. They’re a full-time job, an ongoing structural engineering project, and—depending on the day—a source of power or a complete and utter pain in the arse. I should have had some sort of induction day, a welcome seminar, perhaps a PowerPoint presentation entitled: “Congratulations on Your Massive Knockers! Here’s How They Will Rule Your Life.”