Console culture furnished the rooms of the opiate crisis. Halo in a finished basement that was never quite finished. Mountain Dew, stale carpet.

Consoles Console us. That was always the bargain.

NAFTA arrived. The 32X arrived. The jobs left first. The add-ons came after. Plastic towers in the living room while the mills went dark and the fathers came home early with bad backs, severance papers and prescriptions. The boys learned new worlds while the old one was liquidated around them.

Then came the caskets. Small towns lined them up beneath flags. Mothers blamed dealers. Politicians blamed China. Everyone found a culprit far enough away to remain innocent. But the room was still there. The green television. The stained carpet. The controller cord across the floor. America had spent twenty years teaching its sons to endure decline by sitting still.

The Console kept its promise. It Consoled them.

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That was not an accident. It belonged to houses with Bonus Rooms. Old televisions migrated upstairs instead of dying in the garage. System Link appeared. Lemonade appeared. Dinner happened at a table. Someone’s mother knew where everyone was.

The console war continued online because the survivors needed it to. PS1 men cited sales figures. N64 men cited memories. Xbox men arrived later with broadband, headsets and the heavier silence of a country already hollowed out.

The PS1 disc still shone.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5880729&forum_id=2ﾃ｢竄ï½���„1¤77PHPSESSID=3d8e678aec504db068978830e992758d#49992157)