Did Mr. Universe live in Cumming, Georgia?

Here's a fun article from I09 about "high tech lairs." It's cute. Go read it. Come back.

Okay, as I was reading through that, I was daydreaming about how frelling cool it would be to have one of those. Especially the Mr. Universe set up from Serenity (which I think I've watched about 7 times in the last month). Their summary:

Mr. Universe's Satellite Broadcast Station from Serenity: If you're a reclusive techno-geek who intercepts signals and watches television 24 hours a day, then you'd want your own giant, orbiting headquarters that could snag signals down from everywhere in the universe and rebroadcast them whenever you felt like it. Sort of like your own personal intergalactic YouTube. Plus in your spare time you can build a hot love-bot to marry and get busy with. All the comforts of home. Of course, it wasn't that "secret" of a place, since no one seemed to have trouble finding it.

And then it dawned on me. Didn't I really spend a couple of years exactly like that? Okay, my McMansion wasn't really orbiting greater Forsyth County, and I didn't send videos out over the broadwave that lowered the stock price of Blue Sun, and I didn't build any hot love bots. But I did have a richly appointed and spacious Death Star all to my own, hermetically sealed off from virtually all human contact with everything I need neatly organized alphabetically or by size/shape. I had hundreds of channels beaming into every nook and cranny of the house 24/7, with so many TiVos I could record all of human history and still have room for a few "suggested" random episodes of Arrested Development to make their way onto the playlist. Between the PC and the crackberry, I could blog, email and text without ever getting out of my bathrobe or hearing the shrill din of the human race. I pushed my self-absorbed, manic depressive and random musings out into the universe for all to read and most to ignore. The "lair" was right there on a hill for all to see and find via Google maps or see on Google earth, yet the palpable stench of angst and bitterness acted as a force field to repel all but the most intrepid. And while I could repair a hard drive, change the lights in a Bimmer (harder than you think) and solve the most vexing MS Office problems, I couldn't really build my own love bot (Noted philosopher William the Bloody: "sex with robots is more common than people think"). Yet I still managed to connect with the occasional honey who would make a visit to Mister Universe's suburban annex for a dip in the deranged end of the pool.

Ahhhh, those were the days. Until The Operative (aka real life, aka the mortgage company) came to put an end to The Signal.

Hey, who's up for drinking on a Friday night? Suddenly, I want to watch Serenity again and go buy a house. With a basement, a T1 line and a huge fucking satellite dish. And a hot robot.