Second Life ... Third Shift

Last night, my virtual social secretary and I dropped in an iVillage party for Arianna Huffington, and exchanged some dactylographic bons mots with the political opinioneer herself.

(In her virtual form as Arianna Hera, anyway -- as an aside, having to continually specify 'virtual' vs. 'real' is reminding me more and more of that Simpson's episode where Milhous accidentally sells Bart's soul (on an IOU) to the comic-book guy in exchange for Pogs, and later says: "Remember Alf? He's back! ... In pog form.")

Anyway, back to Arianna Huffington's 'Girls' Night Out' bash at the iVillage loft on Sheep Island (which is also, incidentally, where SL creators, Linden Labs, also have their main in-world corporate offices). The joint had been beautifully tricked out by virtual-loft-party experts Electric Sheep (one of two companies, the other being MillionsOfUs, who currently do most of the high-end brand/buzz-builders in the SL MetaVerse). They pretty-well maxed the sim (and probably several mirrors) on this one, but the Dobb's crew snuck into the VIP line and managed to shoulder our way to the bar without having to unholster heat or rez a particle-based Roman Candle as a distraction.

Since this was, officially, a 'Girls' Night Out,' (and because I am not officially a girl ... I mean officially not a girl ... You know what I mean -- and stop giggling!) I sent my transcendentally-beautiful companion into the scrum, while I did what I always do at loft-parties in virtual reality filled with transcendentally-beautiful women (most, but not all, with human-looking heads and conventional appendages) -- which is: hide in a corner, listen to the room-chatter, and IM with the guys back at the Top Secret Dr. Dobb's Virtual Lab, who were apparently trying to get a cannon to fire as part of a game-physics test suite.

After a while, I got bumped into by something below waist-height, and looked down to see a beagle sniffing around my ankles. I typed "Hello, puppy (pat head)" -- which seemed appropriately cordial, and the puppy responded "Hey -- you came as a _guy_? And here I am, the only other guy at this party, and I'm dressed as a dog??" To which ... Well, I must admit that no immediate reply came to mind -- at least no reply that would avoid my having to confront the irony that at a party filled with (ostensible) women, I'd managed to pat the head of the only other guy in the room.

Sahra, meanwhile, was having more luck squeezing her way into the dense crowd surrounding the guest of honor. She even managed to snap a photo (see below) -- Arianna is the one in the white sweater, center frame, whose face you can't see because digital cameras in Second Life are just as laggy as real ones. In case you're not familiar with Second Life communication motifs, rest assured that Arianna is not trying to claw the decolletage of her correspondent -- they're just talking. (When you chat, in SL, the default animation portrays your avatar as typing intensely, with appropriate "rustle-rustle/clickety-clack" sound effects. A large, crowded party (without an audio track) thus sounds like a troop of chipmunks dancing a buck-and-wing in a thatched roof).

The conversation, such as I could overhear, was about empowerment and creativity and freedom in virtual reality, and was entirely banal in a capital-markets-friendly, "this might be the next Internet bubble and we all have some skin in the game" sorta way. At one point, someone asked if perhaps, beyond all the empowerment and liberating energy of virtual reality, there might be new forms of fear waiting to be discovered -- which I personally thought was a really interesting question; but it was definitely not the kind of question that was getting answered last night.

Arianna and her handlers swiftly moved on to sample the boites and barrel-houses of the archipelago, and the mass of iVillage party-goers settled in to listen to a live set by Cylindrian Rutabaga, a talented and funny singer-songwriter. Towards the close of her (excellent) set, a giant cockroach walked into the room and sat down on her piano-stool -- but she didn't seem to mind. Neither did I -- I figure, if nothing else, the cockroach made three of us in the room who were definitely guys.

Posted at 12:21 PM  Permalink

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