Half-Naked & Semi-Bald

How many lives do I really need? I can’t even handle the one I’ve got.

Over the past year I’ve started to hear more about Second Life, an Internet world where lonely strangers can chat in an alley and a thousand may gather for a worldwide conference. It’s a beautiful place, with vivid sunsets, rippling water, waving palms… and I haven’t even seen what lies beyond Orientation Island.

My work requires that I keep up with screamingly fast changes in technology. I try. Really, I do. I spend probably sixteen hours a day on, or within shouting distance of, the Internet. I gasp my way down the information superhighway, running as hard as I can. It’s like the Bay-to-Breakers race. In the front are the real athletes, there to win, followed by the weekend warriors. After that are the Elvises and the guys who are naked except maybe a t-shirt that reads Ask Me About My Penis (an unnecessary question). There was that one guy with the silvered, glittery… oh, never mind.

Then come the brides, the Carmen Mirandas and the occasional W and Osama. Bringing up the rear is a cheerful handful of friends yanking an old red wagon that was full of champagne but isn’t any more. That’s where you’ll find me.

Still, I’m in the race. Not everyone can say the same.

Up by the Elvises are some of my colleagues on The DNA Files. During our meeting today, we talked about Second Life. Loretta and Sally are among those who really grasp how it works and understand its power as a communication tool. It’s exciting stuff to think about, but damned if I can get it to work. As I told them, I can’t even get my avatar functioning. She’s still half-naked and semi-bald, and all she ever does is fall off cliffs.

I shouldn’t be embarrassed. Only a year ago I’d never heard of avatars. Do you know the term’s derivation, by the way? Here’s the definition from my dictionary widget:

(Hindu) A manifestation of a deity or released soul in bodily form on earth; an incarnate divine teacher. Origin from Sanskrit avatāra: descent.

Inspired by what I heard at today’s meeting, I decided to give Second Life a second chance tonight…

I settle down at my keyboard and log on. There, right where I left her, is Dillo McMillon, my avatar. She stands hunch-shouldered from inactivity, looking like a hooker on the abandoned gray street corner in Move City.

The falsetto of Antony & the Johnsons starts playing on my iTunes…

One day I’ll grow up to be a beautiful woman. One day I’ll grow up to be a beautiful girl. But today I am … a boy.

A lot of people tell me that the avatar they create is an idealized version of themselves: younger or taller or thinner. I’ve gone the opposite route. Dillo is a gross exaggeration of my most unappealing features: a chin like Dudley Do-Right and thin slashes for lips (they don’t call me “wormlips” for nothing). What I didn’t intend was the fur on Dillo’s back or the hair falling out of her head in patches.

Now on iTunes Amy Rigby is wondering Are We Ever Gonna Have Sex Again?

What happened to Babe and Stud? Too much KFC and Bud…

Dillo needs a little makeover. It’ll take just a few minutes. I start with a new body. I set my height at 89 percent and decide on zero percent for body thickness. I adjust the face shear control.

I’ve just finished shaping my head and am adjusting the inside corners of my eyes when blam, some guy on a Segway slams right into me… and then drives off. Hit and run in Second Life. I get knocked clear off the screen and can’t find myself again for several minutes.

Skaggs and Rice sing…

I’m on my way to where the soul never dies. My darkest night will turn to day where the soul never dies.

Lesson: Never edit your appearance while standing in the street.

I dust myself off and put on finishing touches. While there are three adjustments you can make to your body, there are 26 for hair. I adjust my breast size and, with regret, slide the breast gravity control all the way to the right. A guy named Dennis walks by, stares at me a while as my breasts go up and down, and then moves on.

I can’t figure out how to put my tattoos on. I give up after accidentally painting a sunset beach scene across my entire torso.

Hoyt Axton sings…

Work your fingers to the bone. What do you get? Bony fingers, bony fingers.

At last I’m done, and it’s taken three hours. I “save” myself and start sashaying down the street. There’s a tweeting sound as a man flies through the sky past me. I’m feelin’ good. I’m lookin’ fine.

Oh my God, I forgot to put on feet. I’m wandering around on stumps.

There, that’s better. A nice size 7.

I see from the list of the options that I can do other things — shrug, look bored, blow a kiss, cry — but I don’t know how. I try flying. I fly the way I dance: elegant and graceful while I’m in the air, a disaster upon landing.

I buzz around on a Segway and run over a rat. On purpose.

Some nerdy guy stops and stares at me for, like, three minutes. Take a picture; it lasts longer, I think. He writes bonjour. I panic: what to do? I write hi. He turns and runs away. Typical guy.

It’s Amy Rigby again…

Hey, I love you. You’re perfect. Don’t ever change. Don’t ever change.

Second Life crashes. That’s okay. I’m bored anyway.

So now, somewhere in Move City stands an avatar named Dillo, abandoned once again on a remote street corner. Is she condemned to a life of neglect, or — worse — fleeting attentions from beer-bellied young eggheads? Will her life’s highlights be the occasional stroll off a precipice or collision with a tall building?

Or is her future as glittering as a Bay-to-Breakers penis?