Joe Essid directs the Writing Center at the University of Richmond, where he teaches courses in writing and literature. He is a Richmond native who attended the University of Virginia and earned a Master's and PhD at Indiana University. His research interests include technology in the classroom and Southern literary humor. His academic writing has appeared in Computers and Humanities, The Writing Lab Newsletter, and anthologies about technology and writing. He is a contributor to Style Weekly and has appeared in Eighty One and RVA. Ignatius Onomatopoeia is the "avatar" who represents Joe in the game-world Second Life. Ignatius will be wandering the virtual terrain of Second Life while his creator writes here about what may be either "the next big thing" for the Internet or the latest darling of the cyber-hip... the reader can decide.
E-mail contact: jessid@mac.com | Web address: writing2.richmond.edu/jessid

Location: UR Island

I went to the virtual island that the university has purchased for faculty and students to do experiments with virtual reality.  It’s a safe location for students, because only those approved and on a list may be on the island: no weirdos except Ignatius present.

While that protection, perhaps coddling, itself deserves an entry, I want to discuss how I took off my face.

“In a Strange Land” has led me to interview other SL residents for a series of upcoming profiles, and I was talking to Beeble Baxter, the avatar (in the form of a cartoon animal) of a UR colleague. We sat there on the island and Beeble asked me about how easy it is to change not just one’s clothing, but one’s entire appearance.  He’s not had as much practice as I’ve had. . .so. . . I made my face vanish. 

In the snapshots the result is as dramatic as it is comic.

Using the option to “change appearance,” I made my head into a blank white nothingness.

Avatars’ faces consist of a series of flexible graphics files that form a mask on a template. Remove that mask, and you have only the putty-like manikin head as a persona.

I put on my sunglasses. I planned to stay this way for a while

The interview continued.  More anon.

Location: 86th Floor, Empire State Building.  11pm

In the fabled location of Doc Savage’s suite of offices, I photographed Times Square glowing in the near distance.  I actually looked for the 1930s Superhero’s name, Clark Savage, Junior, on the building directory. He was unlike other superheroes in that he lacked superpowers: he trained himself, reinvented who he was, to be extraordinary.  What would Doc think of Second Life?

Manhattan has meant more than the best pizza I have tasted. It also jarred me because this place is so much like SL.

First is the erasure of topography and nature, except in Olmstead’s (magnificent) Central Park.  Next, the wild fashions of Greenwich Village near NYU or the Theater District show more modesty than in SL, but these gaudily plumed or subway-Goth natives could be avatars.  Finally, the tourists gawking at the neon canyon of Times Square are avatars, doing a scarecrow’s walk as awkward as any SL newbie’s. 

I don’t think that seeing the surrealist masterpieces at MoMA forced these connections.

A crazy man passed me singing, in a surprisingly clear and melodious voice, about why he hates Chinese people.  Later on, two lovers had a loud verbal tiff in public, right in the middle of the sidewalk.

Doc Savage’s New York was a place of great financial visions and futuristic dreams. If the dreams are parodies today--Trump’s hubris, Paris Hilton’s debauchery--we might excuse them. They hold up a mirror to the unreal worlds we are coding, one avatar at a time, online.

Location: Sandbox Island

A house just fell on me.  Then cars started to rain out of the sky.  I am buried by the word “HELLO!” in letters the size of garage-doors.

Public Sandboxes permit items to be made and modified.  I did not know, however, that in a Sandbox I’d be attacked by players with the power, and immaturity, of newly minted gods.  I only wanted to make a little content of my own. . .creating items makes SL a unique gaming experience.  Early on, Linden Labs decided that the players would be the world-creators.

I was also hoping to drive a white moon-buggy that I’d found in a “Free Stuff” store on Orientation Island.  I drove to a group of avatars waving their arms and making things--big things--out of thin air.  A house tumbled by. . .tossed between two avatars like a baseball.

“Tsunami!” a female avatar typed.  The big wave washed over me, without sweeping me away.  “Cruise Ship!” she next yelled, dropping a gigantic boat on me.  I had to crawl out from underneath; my buggy was stuck.

Was she flirting? I stood up and typed in her direction.

“Duck?” I have always wanted someone to yell it, so I could ask “Where?”

She replied “No duck. Buffalo!” and in a cloud of dust, a stampede was upon me.

When the dust cleared, I hopped on a free motorcycle and roared off, pursued by Linden knows what.  A woman like that is dangerous. . .

Location: Memory Bazaar, Mainland

Once newbies arrive on the Mainland, many of them head straight to the shopping malls or casinos.  This type of commerce may be so popular because most players do not have the skills, interest, or creativity to make their own items in designated “Sandboxes” where the game’s powerful creation tools can be used freely. 

It took me about 15 minutes to sweat out a free pair of sunglasses that way.

To buy anything, an avatar needs Lindens, the in-world currency purchased, like poker chips, with the real thing. On the day I arrived from Orientation Island, over one million real dollars had been spent to purchase just under 300 million Lindens.

Some poor avatars eke out a living of sorts by dancing or even standing on predetermined spots in clubs. This “activity” brings in other customers, the logic goes. . .I tried it and made no money at all.

In my inventory, I already have my sunglasses and these free items: three cars, one motorcycle, two houses, a tuxedo, some furniture, and a cup of coffee.  Oh, and the Prince-Charming outfit, but we won’t talk about that one now. . .it looks as creepy as a certain royal-themed fast-food mascot.

Location: Memory Bazaar, Mainland

I teleported into Second Life’s mainland and right away ran into a party store selling a to-scale pyramid and sphinx and another shop selling racy outfits for avatars.  Newcomers are popping in all around me; a few have the first name “Swedish Ambassador.” For a moment I think it could be a real title.  Sweden was the first nation to open a virtual embassy in Second Life.

Then I see that one “ambassador” is wearing a red sports-car around his waist, like a belt.  He has a punk’s spiked hair and his legs come through the bottom of the car: this is Salvador Dali’s interpretation of Fred Flintstone.

Newbie: he found a free car in one of the Sandboxes (this concept merits its own entry) and has not figured out how to drive it yet.

Oh, yeah. I’m going to love this place.  I have found my first free item (more on this later, too): a cup of coffee. Time to sip and walk around with the Anime ninjas, fuzzy animals, Goth lords and ladies, and bland, bone-stock avatars just off Orientation Island.

Location: Orientation Island

I can fly, hover, run, dance, and do other moves an avatar needs on “The Mainland” to avoid being labeled a “newbie”: advice from James Wagner Au’s ”New World Notes,” one of the best sources for in-world news, along with Adam Reuters’ News Center for the company.

Orientation Island had begun to feel cramped; lots of newbies flitting about, blowing kisses, falling out of the sky like cartoon coyotes.  Signs warn the uninitiated to not run around naked--Orientation Island is a PG region.  By the way, stock avatars have no naughty bits. . . like store manikins. 

Before I teleported--instantaneous transit to any point--to the Mainland, it seemed wise to make a few friends.  My students would soon be in-world for a project, and I wanted advice from a few experts who have been in Second Life since ancient times (that means since 2003).

So I needed to make friends but my list consisted of a Muscovite wanting to practice English, a Greek Cypriot bored at home, a teenager (in Second Life illegally--there is a separate teen area) who “likes 2 look at objects.” Hmm. . . none have logged in a second time.  No pearls of wisdom yet.

So I decided to teleport anyway. What risk?  That, I learned, is such a newbie question.

Location: Off the Coast of Orientation Island

One of the purest pleasures in Second Life involves flying like a bird. . .like Superman. . .like a jet. . . like a dorky English professor in a turtleneck. . .uh, yeah.

Wish-fulfillment is one of the greatest motives for this new virtual world, and what human hasn’t wanted to fly at some point?  By clicking the “fly” button or pushing Page Up on the keyboard, I make my avatar fly. 

The game includes some hilarious special effects (known, I think, as game physics) for when one hits an obstacle or accidentally hits the “stop flying” button. Consider what happens to a cartoon character who steps off a cliff. . . I know that readers will enjoy a shot of me falling from the sky (I’ll have to explain the car in another post).

But landing does not kill the avatar.  Landing in the water, or merely stepping off the shore, also does not drown the avatar.  One can walk around underwater forever. . .and practice gestures and dance-moves.  And get rid of the awful stock glasses and begin to make a pair of shades. . .

Second Life’s hidden gem, which I’ll discuss soon, is how players can create objects (from sunglasses to skyscrapers) for no cost.  It’s the show-stopper in-world: players BUILD this world themselves.

Location: Wooded valley, Orientation Island

I tried to have my first conversation with another person and I failed, miserably. 

Once Ignatius had his appearance more or less correct, I walked away from the central plaza on Orientation Island, flew into the air like Superman (a favored way to travel “in-world") and landed in a well designed forest.  A much later snapshot (I didn’t know how to take them when this happened) gives some idea of what the landscape looks like.

After crossing a small stream on stepping-stones, Iggy sat in the shade of the trees and thought about the utter strangeness of the virtual world.  Soon enough, a female avatar walked by. I waved, shouting “hey,” using a pre-programmed animation from a set that all avatars possess.  She walked over.

Once you get close enough to another avatar, you can type short messages.  I began to type, and Iggy’s fingers obediently made little typing motions in mid-air.

Being no stranger to MOOs and MUDs, the text-only virtual worlds long popular in academia, I figured that I would have no trouble at all.  My style is right: articulate with just enough shortcuts to keep the typing swift (lol for “laughing out loud,” btw for “by the way,” and so on).

Here is what I typed; I will never forget: “I am utterly new to this. What about you? Can you tell me anything?”

Reply: “???” followed by the other avatar swiftly walking away.

Jean Baudrillard, where are you?  He’s the French philosopher who predicted that we prefer simulations to reality.  Wait. Baudrillard just died.

I wonder if I can get a virtual T-shirt that reads “Dork. Utterly”. . .

Location: Orientation Island

I needed an identity for this world; you may not use your own name.  In fact, players must choose a last name from Linden’s list.  I picked “Onomatopoeia”; this was the one word I was beaten (repeatedly) by Father Raymond for never learning in 11th grade English.

I’ve chosen “Ignatius” as my first, after John Kennedy Toole’s Ignatius Reilly from A Confederacy of Dunces (to reflect my fears) and Iggy Pop (to reflect my attitude of “why not?).

After downloading and installing Linden Lab’s free player (for fast Mac, Windows, or Linux systems) my next step was to design Iggy’s avatar, the 3-D manikin that walks, flies, or drives its way around Second Life’s virtual world to meet, greet, flirt, or shop with other avatars. I chose a stock image from several, and like most players, the next step was to customize Ignatius to make his face, hair, body, and clothes fit some ideal.

I chose to make Iggy look as much as my first-life self as I could.  But here there is a snag; I cannot be nearly bald and gray.  In fact, when newly arrived avatars appear in the segregated starting place that Second Life calls “Orientation Island,” it’s hard to find an avatar who is not smooth and polished in a bland-but-a-tad-edgy, Barbie-meets-Ken, or maybe Paris-Hilton-meets-GWAR kind of way.

There are shiny, happy, bone-stock avatars all around me, bumping into others as they learn to walk and begin their second lives.  So, it has begun. . .more pictures soon!

Location: Keyboard, my office

I am ready to log in, for the first time, to Linden Lab’s Second Life.  When I describe it many listeners shrug and get odd looks on their faces when I say “Second Life isn’t a game. It’s an alternative world.” Writers William Gibson, Bruce Sterling, and Neal Stephenson imagined these worlds in the 1980s, and now coders and I.T. millionaires like Mitch Kapor went ahead and made what Gibson called a “consensual hallucination.” Once broadband became common enough, it had to happen.

Unlike other online games, Second Life does not have clear-cut goals or even that many rules.  It is less a competition and more a new way to communicate.  It’s a paradigm-buster like e-mail, chat, or the Web. This may be hyperbole or it may be a moment that we’ll long remember: the first virtual reality for the masses.

Evidence?  A meteoric growth in Second Life’s online population and the million dollars laid down every day by over 20,000 players, some of them running virtual businesses “in-world.” What are they “buying”?  Imagine virtual real-estate, clothing, vehicles, chips at the casino, and tickets to virtual events. Yet SL is free to use.

Or is this just more hype? Is Second Life just World of Warcraft for bored Yuppies?

When I dive in, what will I find?  Stay tuned.