I want the Xbox One to fail. It's a gooey and black taste coating the inside of my mouth when I read about what the marketing is intending this hardware to be. A centerpiece for people that use the term "man-cave," usually shouted, who then high-five, cuddling with their hollowed-out tree trunk of endorphic validation. Then they mow the lawn, thinking, "I mean, I just want to drink A LOT of beer. I like beer best when it's cold." A quick trip to the store, and they've got chips, frozen corn, a whole rotisserie chicken, and an 18-rack of Miller Lite.

These middle-aged white-boy dad-types with string-cheese personalities and hyperventilating helplessness are tragic. They hate / fear / hate again their wives. Their wives don't understand them.

But do these men actually exist?

There's this part in Independence Day where Jeff Goldblum is a scientist. He's upset with the President's craggy, cabinet members for doubting his warnings about the incoming alien attack. These old grumps aren't tech-savvy. They care about facts, Mr. Scientist! They care about bullets, and how big they are, and assessing danger, assuming point-blank that they know what they ought to fear. My guess is they have never read anything by Kurt Vonnegut and chosen Jim Beam and cigarettes as their vices and signposts in life.