What is Home, really? Is it a house, not a Home? If you leave, can you go back Home again? Is there no place like Home? Can you find your real self at Home? Is it where you hang your hat -- or, as Groucho Marx joked, is Home where you hang your head?

This doesn?t look like me at all, except for the feet.

Before the end of 2008, the PlayStation Network launched the beta version of Home, the Second Life-like virtual world where people who like games can socialize. So far, over four million people have checked it out worldwide. Home is a work in progress, but here are my impressions after living in my virtual studio and heading out to Central Plaza for a week.

It takes a while to get into Home. I can't get in if I don't have over 3 GB of space on my PlayStation 3. Then, I have to download each place I choose to go. My crib, the Central Plaza, the Mall and the hippest place, the Bowling Alley, all require an extra download of under 50 MB each. To get over the wait, I imagine I'm in line for a terrific nightclub experience, or a least a "Cheers"-like happy hour where everyone is affable. But they try to sell me something before I even get in: Warhawk at the wotta-deal of $19.99. I decline.

First, I'm alone in some sort of locker room. I have to make my virtual Ken doll by moving the controller's left and right sticks on a grid in a small square on-screen. I keep screwing up. And there is only one bald guy to choose from. Just one. Under my breath, I call Lack of Bald Guy Bulls**t. My virtual self keeps looking like G4's host Adam Sessler or old-school punk and videogame critic, George Tabb. Neither looks like Harold. Nor does the combo of the two. My Xbox Live avatar looks more like me. There, I wear boots. Here, I wear bare feet.

I don't put shoes on because Home looks very clean, without litter or dust anywhere. It's like Home has many very anal mothers. (But at least there's no plastic on the couches.) I put on a ski cap over my doesn't-look-like-Harold face. Then, I save myself. And move into my new digs.

Waiting for a movie, er, marketing tool, to load.

On first blush, my free apartment is really decent. It is a big, bright studio with a skylight and a balcony that looks down into an ocean. I think it might be Seattle. I can hear the seagulls and watch blue wavelets move. There's a Donald Trump-sized yacht docked there, near the horizon.

The door to the studio is always open. I can't shut it. Being from New York City, I worry about insects, rats and burglars. There's no bathroom here at Home, nor is there a kitchen. There is a place to sit. I sit. I think about things. Things freak me out, so I stop sitting and take the elevator out into the world. I want to get on that yacht.

This afternoon, there are about 40 people in the town square area. It's a little like Big Brother -- er, Big Sony. There's a giant screen on which trailers play and there are billboards for Killzone 2 and, yes, Warhawk. There's a place for people to get busy and dance to hip-hop music. There's a movie theater I want to check out. But it's closed. Did the recession hit Home already?

Actually, I try to go to the box office. When I go to the movie house door, it downloads the app and lets me in. I sit waiting for 10 minutes for a movie to download. People are getting feisty.

"This is taking for-***ckin-ever," texts one guy.

"Where the white women at?"


So when it comes up, it's not a movie at all. It's something about a Home-based Sand Table add-on for Warhawk. Then, the guy on-screen tries to get me to buy Warhawk. It's not a hard sell. But I'VE HAD ENOUGH WARHAWK. I thought I could watch, or at least pay to watch, movies in here.

I'm weirded out that no one has spoken to me. I thought Home would be friendly. Heading back out into the square, I notice the area has a lot of water features. Stopping, I think about how much I like waterfalls. Some guy comes up and touches me. I mean, dude doesn't even know me. I'm starting to type that on the Sixaxis keyboard attachment.

"Yo. You gay?" he asks.

Interesting first question, I think.

Some dude hawks Warhawk in Home.

"No," I type. People don't mince words in Home. Nor do they have time for niceties. He runs away like I'm the plague. So, gay people don't talk to non-gay people at Home? Is this the Home for me?

There are many more people in the Mall, which also has a babbling water wall. For some reason, people congregate at the top of the escalator on the second floor. Some people sit at chessboards. That's cool: You can play chess in a mall.

First thing overheard: "I really hate dat bitch."

Second thing overheard: "You really a girl?"

I walk around for a while. There's not much to buy yet. There's a T-shirt for $.99 with the Street Fighter IV logo. And a Christmas snowman ornament. I can't find the Resident Evil shirt that's supposed to be here. A slew of other stuff doesn't interest me. On a wall, that PS3 video marketing tool Pulse is playing, over and over again.

Third thing overheard: "I'll kill that no neck bytch." This has nothing to do with the person who said, "I really hate dat bitch."

I keep perusing stuff to buy, but the tables and chairs have no personality. The one thing I do like is a summer house for $4.99. But there's only one picture of it. Who buys a house based on one photo? Well, these days, I mean.

As I stare around in a virtual stupor, I notice that an avatar with blond hair and a short plaid skirt is hanging near me. Her name, which appears over her head, is Butter026. Suddenly, I get really nervous, the same thing that happens to me around people in real life.

I try to type something on the Bluetooth keyboard. But the dang thing that attaches to the controller has turned itself off. Butter026 walks away. I'm a little bummed. So I decide to run after her. I find another avatar in a red plaid skirt, but it's not Butter026.

This happened to me once in Tennessee. I thought I saw my favorite waitress from the Manhattan bar where I used to hang out. I ran for a block up a hill. I caught up with her, thinking I'd found her. But it was someone else entirely. At least there are no hills in Home.

A lot of solo avatars in the Mall are cruising around like zombies. So I go back outside, and I notice a lot of solo avatars cruising around the plaza like zombies. To other people, I probably look like I'm cruising around like a zombie. I feel that if I could just get to the Donald Trump-like yacht, no one would cruise like a zombie.

Ah, the intellectualism and witticism in Home.

Because there's no way to the yacht, I head inside the Bowling Alley. Beside me, three girls rightfully mock some idiot guy who gets in their faces. I bowl with some guy who doesn't say a word to me. There's a small latency issue, but that bowling ain't bad. There are pool tables, too. But they're all taken. There are two arcade rooms where I can play Ice Breaker and the always-enticing Echochrome. Ice Breaker has HD graphics, too. I spend a half-hour playing Ice Breaker, enjoying the power-ups.

Finally, someone's talking to me. She says she's good, but she's sick with a cold. I ask how long she's had it. She ignores me. Actually, she was talking to someone else called Mist who's part of her group. This happens over and over again. Man, I'm really glad I live in the real world with a fine view of the East River outside of my apartment and not one shallow friend.

On leaving, I wish some Sony god would break the ice in Home. It seems like a high school clique of mammoth proportions, a pretty unfriendly place.

Whether in single-player or multiplayer or online multiplayer, games make me feel a part of popular culture. Right now, as it stands, Home doesn't make me feel a part of much, not the Spartan studio in which I dwell, not the people I see and listen to, and certainly not the people with whom I've tried to talk. Home needs a party for the like-minded, not just the constant pitches for Warhawk, an old game. Home needs an architect to make buildings for games as soon as they drop. But more than that, Home needs many more welcoming souls who have soul.