I have a basement. Nay, I had a basement. In my mid-twenties, when we moved into our house, I wanted a basement I could claim as my own for gaming. For a while, I did; then we had children. Most parents would preface a post like this with words like, “I love my children,” but I’m not that insecure — and who are you to judge me? I know what you did.
I don’t want a man-cave, a she-shed, a hobbit-hole, or a fucking lair. What I want is a panic room with an Xbox, and don’t get cute, combine the words “man” and “panic”, and call it a “manic room.” This is a gender-friendly new kind of room; also it’s that way of thinking that makes me not care what you think of my parenting style.
Don’t picture this as big enough for Jodie Foster and her wheezy kid either; this is a one PERSON escape pod. When things are getting too real, you loudly announce you are abandoning ship, push a big red button, and the door slides open. Inside is a single chair/toilet, a screen, whatever you need to be fed intravenously through an orifice, any orifice, and a game console. When that door slides shut, you better believe it won’t open until help arrives.
You know what? Forget the chair, it’s a box you lie in, and when the lid closes tightly, there is a screen in front of your face and a controller at your hands. It can be shipped other places, buried in the ground, or rocketed into space, and you would know fuck all about it.
It’s been a long week.