My dad has a man cave. It’s a place where my mom fears to tread with any kind of cleaning tool. For when she does try to clean there then whatever my father can’t find afterward will be her fault. And as he sometimes struggles to find his nose with his hands, that is a serious danger.
One result of this is the precarious piles of electronics and tools scattered about which slowly migrate around the room. Like sand dunes in a windy desert. A second one is that we never know what kind of present to buy him. You don’t know how often we’ll think we’ve gotten him the perfect gift, only to find out that in some pile he’s already got some better version that he never uses. (I have no idea why always feels he needs to point that out).