Episode three: full of sand and furries — signifying nothing
"In a flaming crash / Like a falling star / Heading straight for the dive / Gonna make some cash / With the avatar..." — Duran Duran, Zoom In
Gosh, what an epic week of news. If rumours of a 2.5% VAT cut, or allegations that a TV chef was having an affair, or a man in Scotland being jailed for three months for singing the Spiderpig song at a policeman, weren't enough to make your brain explode, then came the earth-shattering news that Reuters has — hold on to your hats — pulled its reporter out of Second Life.
I know what you're thinking, and you're right — as news weeks go, it knocks that one in 1997 when Princess Diana and Mother Theresa died two days apart into a cocked hat.
I mean, Jesus, Second Life? The only thing in any way surprising about this news is that a major news organisation kept a full time reporter in there this long. What the hell did "Eric Reuters" do all day?
Wandering around Second Life today is like visiting Blackpool in February; all sad empty shops, deserted car parks and the stench of loneliness — and the opportunity to buy a fake cock for two quid. Occasionally — very occasionally — you'll chance upon another depressed lump of sub-humanity, wandering aimlessly and wondering what wrong junction they had taken off the M6 motorway of their life to end up somewhere so desolate. At least Blackpool has Cannon and Ball — Second Life couldn't even book the wife out of the Krankies (I mention that just so you'll imagine the Krankies having sex. And again.)
Presumably Reuters had to make the decision to withdraw because they could no longer guarantee their reporter's sanity. Certainly Second Life today is a one way ticket to depression-town. Which is why I feel the need to admit to something: its demise is all my fault.
Less than two years ago — the start of 2007 — Second Life was booming. Barely a day passed without some big name unveiling a ludicrously ambitious virtual presence. Starwood built an entire hotel to promote its new "aloft" boutique hotels; American Apparel opened a store selling virtual clothes; Jimmy Carr did a "live" stand-up set; Suzanne Vega, Jay Z, Ben Folds and Duran Duran performed gigs — in fact, Duran Duran wrote an entire song, Zoom In, about the experience. It included the lines... "Na na na na na na / I know you know / I don't want you to go / Na na na na na na / I'm zooming in and out on you", a fact I only mention to underline how ridiculous Duran Duran lyrics look written down. Mainsteam media started to pay attention too, with episodes of The Office and CSI:NY featuring major characters using Second Life. New users were signing up in their millions in the hope of being able to punch Gary Sinise in his virtual face.
And then came the call. It was an editor from Boxtree wondering whether I'd be interested in co-authoring a book about Second Life. The Unofficial Tourist's Guide To Second Life, it would be called — a travel book exploring the weird and wonderful sights the metaverse had to offer. "But I hate Second Life," I started to protest. "In fact, I hate all virtual worlds aimed at grown-ups. They're just videogames with terrible usability and anyone who thinks they can do actual business there is delusional. I mean, have you seen the people who use these things? Fat American adulterers to a man. They don't leave the house, let alone stay in boutique hotels..." That's what I started to say — but I knew I was being unfairly hasty. "How much?" I asked.
The book came out in mid-2007 and in the intervening months, like a tsunami of sanity, the the whole world has come to its senses. Marketing departments have stopped spending money building virtual stores that no one will ever visit; the company's CEO Philip Rosedale has stepped down to concentrate on his career as a professional Ze Frank look-alike (Google Image Search: Ze Frank; Rosedale) and now Eric "Reuters" Krangel has abandoned his post saying that "the buzz is gone".
Coincidence? I'd like to say yes, but I can't. You see, and here — for the sake of Rosedale and Krangel and all of the fat American adulterers who, if Second Life continues to wither, will soon have to be winched out of their houses for the first time in years — is what I wish I'd told Boxtree when they called: my keyboard is cursed. The very moment I write about something, its fate is sealed. Consider the evidence: Second Life? A ghost town. Almost all of the sites listed in my series of web guide books, published days before the web 1.0 crash? Dead. The business plans for all of the companies I've started and subsequently been fired from? The list reads like a Little Book Of Trainwrecks.
At the start of 2007 Orion commissioned me to write a memoir about my life as a successful dot com entrepreneur; by the end of that year, when I filed the manuscript, I was unemployed, broke and had been dumped in spectacular — and public — style by not one but two girlfriends. Then there's this column. Week one: how much I wish the UK had a Valleywag. The following day? Nick Denton decides to close Valleywag. If I were Jerry Yang, I'd be giving owls a wide berth after last week's instalment.
But Second Life is the last straw. No more innocent victims of my keyboard curse. From now on, I'm only going to use my powers for good — writing only about people, companies and things that I actually want bad things to happen to. And that's why for next week's column, myself and Jodie Marsh will be flying to Austria to interview Josef Frizel about his hopes of becoming a Scientologist and his upcoming appearance on I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here (sponsored by Angus Steak House).
I'm available for private commissions, too. Tana Ramsay — you've got my mobile.
Paul Carr is author of Bringing Nothing To The Party: True Confessions of a New Media Whore. He blogs at bringingnothing.com. His Unofficial Tourist Guide To Second Life is available in all good pound shops.