Facing an Identity Crisis in Cyberspace

At first, the idea of going on-line was pretty appealing. It was like a self-help book for the ‘90s, offering a rare opportunity to take charge of my life. I could communicate with anyone, any time, anywhere. I could read any news I wanted any time.

Besides, I had little choice. Several friends refused to talk to me on the phone. If I wanted to catch up with them, I had to do it via e-mail.

Assisted by my wife, an ardent fan of the Net, I signed up with America Online. All I needed to start sending and receiving mail was an ID. As long as it was 10 letters or less, I was free to pick whatever moniker I wanted.

This was quite an auspicious moment. I didn’t have a vote in picking my name 35 years ago. This was the chance to make up for what my parents stuck me with.

“You can’t just select any name, because you want one that represents you,” said Barbara Jean, a friend who caved into on-line mania at the same time I did. “After all, if I am heading out into the great unknown of cyberspace, I want to make an impression in 10 letters or less.”

It seemed the task would be fun. It wasn’t. Coming up with an on-line ID takes only slightly less time than understanding quantum theory. Or the appeal of Gallagher.

“Since we have more than 2 million subscribers, people have to be a little more creative if they want to choose a unique name,” explained Margaret Ryan, spokeswoman for America Online.

In other words, coming up with an on-line name is not for those already suffering from an identity crisis. Just when you start thinking you’re a smart, creative individual, plugging in a name you know only you could dream up, you discover you’re not nearly as original as you’d thought. This can be very depressing.

My first choice was easy. I wanted to be Pangloss, my favorite character from my favorite book, “Candide.” I typed the name into the appropriate box but within seconds, the almighty electronic gods sent a message onto the screen informing me the name was taken. I had to choose again.

OK, it wasn’t so bad that somebody else enjoyed “Candide.” So I moved on to my second choice, Mo Fuzz, a character in one of my favorite films, the long-forgotten “Tapeheads.” I was rejected again. I tried another “Tapeheads” reference, Swanky Mode. This was also already in use. Now I was starting to worry. When you refer to a movie maybe 12 people saw and you are apparently the last of the dozen to go on-line, you really feel like a laggard.

I kept at it, typing in such names as that of my favorite comic-book character (the Spectre); my favorite Groucho Marx character (Wagstaff); characters from “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly” (Angel Eyes, Tuco); phrases from “The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying” ( Siddhi Hum ), even something as obscure as the name of the player Lou Gehrig replaced on the day his consecutive-game streak began (Wally Pipp). All taken.

More determined than ever, I continued to try other names. The only variation to the rejections were when certain IDs came back with a number attached. For instance, I tried Stax, the name of one of my dogs, and got Stax 43335. Spicoli, a reference to Sean Penn’s character in “Fast Times at Ridgemont High,” came back as Spicoli 513. The computer randomly decides whether to reject a name or give it a number.

“That’s just a random number,” America Online’s Ryan explained. “It’s a way of suggesting another approach to the name you want to use.” But it’s hardly the same. You’re sharing your name with too many other Spicoli wanna-bes. Use one of these names and you would feel like a number. So I kept trying. I used reverse psychology and deliberately picked the most anonymous names I could think of, like Everyman and J.Q. Public. They were taken.

Then I tried incredibly obscure references, like Spewey, a space alien who appeared in an episode of the short-lived TV series “Get a Life.” It was in use. I typed in Mr. Haney, the handyman from “Green Acres.” I’d even been beaten to that one.

This was the moment I was ready to give up, but Ryan had advice even for this occasion: “Most people come up with names that are some variation on their real names.”

A friend of mine, Bonnie, had tried that approach, but quickly went back to searching for something more original after accidentally wandering into the Cheerleader Chat Room.

“I realized that everyone in there can get a listing of who else is in the room,” she told me. “I had to do whatever I could to get a sign-on name that wouldn’t put my reputation at risk.”

Besides, using your own name is kind of like cheating. You’re falling back on your old, pre-computer identity instead of forging a new cyber-generation name. Of course, this comes from a man who had been reduced to naming himself after characters from “Green Acres.” It was only a matter of time before I tried Horshack or Urkel.

When you get to this point, it’s safe to say you’ve exhausted all reasonable resources. That’s why I made a deal with myself on the third evening of name hunting. If nothing I tried was accepted by the end of the night, I’d use my real name.

So, in my final bid to be an Internet individual, I started plugging in characters created by the Firesign Theater, a comedy troupe I loved when I was in college. I tried Nick Danger. Taken. R (for Rocky) Rococco. Also taken. Finally, I remembered a Sherlock Holmes parody the group had once done, where Dr. Watson became Dr. Whatsit. I entered the name and, for the first time in dozens and dozens of attempts, I’d come up with an ID the computer would accept. There were no flashing lights, nobody coming on the screen to congratulate me. Just a notice that I was now officially on-line.

I signed on that night and started writing messages to my friends. For the first month or so, it was exciting to hear the voice of Mr. America Online announce, “You’ve got mail!”

It reminded me of the way it was fun to rush home and see the red message light blinking on my answering machine when that was still a new toy.

Still, I couldn’t get over the fact that every name that meant anything to me apparently meant just as much to someone else. Someone who thought like me, a pretty eerie revelation. I was not as much of a free-spirited individual as I thought. Instead of cruising solo and carefree down the information superhighway, I felt like one of the crowd waiting for the information subway.

This whole trend reminds me of another fad I could never fully appreciate: citizens band radio.

Just as the Internet was originally the exclusive property of a select group--college professors and the military--CBs in their day were a new mode of personal communication that had once belonged to a group--truckers.

You had to pick your own unique name for CB as well. And the medium became a cultural phenomenon.

But within a few years, the CB craze faded. If nobody writes a country song about e-mail soon, maybe the same fate awaits the on-line services.

This is a theory I would like to share with my out-of-town friends. I think I’ll call tomorrow and tell them all about it.