At approximately 8:25 PDT on March 14, 2007, for the first time in my life, I met an owner of a Playstation 3.
He goes by the name "Steve" and politely responded to the questions I posed him. He says he plays a game known as Resistance, which I believe was supposed to be a killer-app at one time or another. I don't know how that panned out, as I haven't heard the word mentioned since November. He expressed concern over his choice in consoles, yet remained cautiously optimistic that it will pan out. My questions about Home and Flow only drew blank stares and I must admit that he didnt't take kindly to me pinching him -- I had to see if his flesh felt like my own. It did. Sort of.
My brush with this rare alien breed of gamer was uncomfortable. He spoke of waiting for Devil May Cry 5 and Warhawk (aka Tech-Demo) while I regaled him with tales of Xbox Live Arcade and my 2-1 record in the league I started with my friends for MLB 2K1. He said he believes he has the more powerful machine, yet was visibly uncomfortable throughout the conversation. He declined a request for a photo and when I asked him for an autograph "to prove he really exists" he lost all control of himself, grasped me by my Camelbak straps and started pleading for me to not tell anyone about what he did.
"Especially my wife, man. Don't let her know. Please? Be a pal. Don't tell her man. She'll leave me. How could I be this stupid? How? What was I thinking?"
He then started slapping himself in the head over and over with the battery from his NiteRider head lamp. After the fifth blow from the battery caused a slight hematoma to form, he slumped to the ground and began quivering and sobbing uncontrollably. He asked me to lend him $400 for an Xbox, but I just rode off into the night, visibly shaken from my encounter.