Man Cave 2: The early days

Man Cave 2: The early days

Yes, I understand that the early days could easily be simple: cave men are men in caves. But we don’t know a whole lot about how these caves were appointed, as it were. Did early tool use lead to the first Laz-E-Boys? Were the first cave paintings precursors to NFL and Bikini team posters? It is hard to say. But I’m guessing, no.

Instead, the early caves were probably more like studio apartments in the current economy: dad, mom, vulnerable progeny, too-small stove, bad ventilation…or else, as theorized in various places, caves could also be very short term rentals. As in, humans find cave, fall in love with cave, move in, and have an enjoyable day or twelve until the previous owner – sabre tooth tiger, perhaps, if those were around in the early humans making housing mistakes era – returned. Then, fairly nasty eviction notice followed by a dinner of “homo sapiens du jour.”

No, the early days I’m talking about begin around 1570, when Michel de Montaigne, the Renaissance essayist, decided to retire from his job. He had just been denied a better job due to politics, and was sick of his job in the Bordeaux parlement.  So at the advanced age of 37, he decided to pack in the daily grind and retire to the first and perhaps greatest of all man caves: his Tower.

Montaigne lived in pretty sweet digs for the 16^th Century. Imagine one of those swank estates they are always showing in Downton Abbey or Upstairs/Downstairs or Ivory/Merchant films. Now take the estate, and put three huge castle walls in front of it; then (for some reason I always think of Legos) put two four-story towers on the front two corners. Plenty of woods and land to ride your horse (precursor of the ATV). Servants. 

Man Cave #1

1. My friend Kevin has a man cave. And when I say cave I mean door is blocked by man stuff so you have to climb over boxes of computer hardware and old programming textbooks, spilled boxes of CDs of various ilks, snake-cables in search of VGA connections. Musical instruments. Piles of books hunted and gathered from the local used bookstore. I mean a couch that hasn't been sat on for weeks because it is covered with man-ivy: tendrils of telephone wire and Ethernet connections and aforementioned cables woven into clothing and plastic bags of unknown provenance.

The story goes that a friend took a photo of Kevin's office in Washington and when people saw it they assumed that it was the after shot of the earthquake that had recently hit. Nope. Pre-earthquake. No one would have known that an earthquake had hit Kevin's office. Or if thieves had ransacked his place looking for those small thumb drives with information that could convict higher-ups in the FBI.

Kevin has a man cave. It has a moat (an anteroom you must maneuver, often filled with dangerously unstable piles of gear  and bicycles propped against walls like traps to snare the unwary). It is dark. It has a big desk that covers two walls and a big monitor that lets you watch film of the Grand Canyon at actual scale. It has a real turntable but also a digital thingy to take the turntable's weak original signal and turn it into a badass male signal worthy of the shielded speakers lurking darkly in the corner.

It is clear. A man had been here. Alone