Shit is complex at Chez Gabriel, and in a rare twist, it isn't the direct result of his own malformed behavior. Star Wars Kinect, which was generally expected to be a bucket of mouth-temperature filth and may even be that, has its claws deep into his son.
I believe I have mentioned it, but just in case, there is a substantial portion of Gabriel's mind which believes that the Kinect - and, to a similar extent, the vanilla Wiimote - have no actual function. This moist lobe of his knows at some level that nothing he does matters to what are almost certainly empty plastic shells, and a result, he doesn't feel any particular need to perform for them. In fact, he feels put out by the whole thing. He has expectations re: how long it should take a device to register his commands, and the accuracy with which those commands should be rendered once the device finally gets around to it.
We were at Microsoft for something like ten years ago, and they had an elaborate structure that implored cafeteria customers to separate their leavings into five distinct waste strata. In his mind, all five apertures emptied into the same bin, the resultant slurry removed under cover of darkness. We're from Spokane, where the only recycling that is performed with any regularity is on the souls of the damn'd in the belly of the towering Hell Furnace. Even given that, Gabriel has taken a crazy assertion and run with it all the way to a metaphorical end zone. His peculiar melange of creativity, paranoia, and incision make him a truly unique specimen. The world's hideous undercurrents are always known to him, whether they exist or not. It's like being friends with Philip K. Dick.
Returning (however briefly) to Star Wars, no sentient can fully parse and understand the nature of the game's dancing minigame. You will twitch and sweat as modern pop songs are given lyrical alterations in an attempt to make them canon appropriate. The experience I had while watching these videos was of a slowly but perpetually increasing intracranial pressure.