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I had the distinct privilege of attending middle and high school in a small town outside of Austin called Leander. Leander is one of those remarkable places peppered across the country where, even though it is less than a 15 minute drive to the capital city, you will find that about half of the denizens have never traversed farther than the local Wal-Mart. The cool thing about the Leander Wal-Mart is that you don't have to dress up to go there like you do Wal-Marts in town. This is where the People of Walmart bring their embarassing friends.
As an added bonus feature, a 10,000-13,000 year-old female human skeleton was found in this town. Due to geographical convenience rather than biological accuracy, she was dubbed "The Leanderthal Lady." She wasn't a Neanderthal but a modern human who happened to be one of the oldest and most complete human skeletons found in North America. I mean, if you dug up MJ, I'm sure his skeleton would be more complete, but he wasn't a paleo-Indian Clovis hunter/gathering type, if you catch my drift. The wonderful thing about this discovery was not that a missing piece of the archaeological/hominid paleobiological record would be filled in but the coining of the word "Leanderthal."
I (and my equally cynical dad) enjoyed thinking of ourselves and others (mostly others) as Leanderthals. We are all just primitive stone-agers making our way through this preposterous culture into which we were born. If I had gotten a memo in the womb that I'd have to come out and hang out with Leander Wal-Mart patrons, I probably would have just ordered a futon from Ikea, nailed up a Debbie Gibson poster, and made a little bomb shelter in there. I'd just tug on my cord when I needed a snifter of brandy and leisurely make my way through the works of Dostoevsky. I'd come out after the apocalypse when all there were left were genuine Leanderthals, and we would all hang out eating seasonal berries and looking at the stars.
Then again, modern cavepeople are pretty fun to observe.
