Yes, sir, that’s my electronic alien cyberbaby

Geoff Carter

Thursday, May 15, 1997 | 11:59 a.m.

The persistent, programmed thud of the Chemical Brothers was shaking the Hard Rock Hotel's showroom while a thousand-odd fans boogied away. I stood in the center of the frenzy, surrounded by curious onlookers. Not because I have a small but serious local reputation, not because my dancing is noteworthy (it most certainly is not). What had piqued so much interest was the Tamagotchi hanging around my neck.

"What's it doing now?" a woman asked.

"It's asleep," I replied. "He fell asleep at 9."

"Wake 'im up," demanded a man with a thick Scottish accent. "Hit 'im with a stick. Ye canna tell me that thing's livin'."

It is and it isn't. The Tamagotchi is a virtual pet, Japan's hottest export since sushi. Simply put, this toy -- a small, egg-shaped device with four buttons and a small LCD screen -- is your own personal alien being. You raise it from an egg, feed it, play with it, discipline it, medicate it when it takes sick and clean up its frequent scats.

The lifespan varies according to how much care you invest (every day represents a year). Eventually, it dies with a Heaven's Gate flourish, at which point you can press a button and hatch another.

"Tamagotchi is a tiny pet from cyberspace who needs your love to survive and grow," gushes the toy's bright, happy packaging. "If you neglect your little cybercreature, your Tamagotchi may grow up to be mean or ugly. How old will your Tamagotchi be when it returns to its home planet? What kind of virtual caretaker will you be?"

I was ready to find out. I named mine Jeremy (I decided my first Tamagotchi would be male, though they are conspicuously sexless), after somebody at the office who had done me a favor.

"I'll name my firstborn child after you," I had thanked him. Bandai Toys had already pleased me -- I didn't have to name my first flesh-and-blood offspring after an advertising sales representative.

The next few days were fairly idyllic. My Tamagotchi grew from a small happy face to a larger happy face, then to a happy face with limbs. He ate little, complained seldom and only made two messes a day, which was disappointing since it was the most interesting thing he did. After depositing a tiny Tamagotchi bomb, a giant smile would light up Jeremy's face. At that point a fast clean-up was in order, because if he frolicked in his own doody for too long he would get ill. That was interesting, too. A floating skull would hover over his comatose form until I gave him a shot or two.

Without notice, the salad days ended. Late one night, as I was interviewing a local musician, my Tamagotchi began to jingle, a warning that a growth spurt was taking place. Jeremy was about to become an adult!

"Oooh!" I cried, waving the toy in the tolerant musician's face. Which would it become? The cute-as-a-button Mametchi? The playful Ginjirotchi? The screen rippled, and out came...

"Wow," said the musician, amused. "You gave birth to Coolio."

I looked at my offspring. I'd gotten the Masktchi, the laziest, grouchiest, most selfish pet of all! He stomped from one side of the screen to the other as if looking for an opening. He wore a surly expression and what looked like a knit cap. True to the original intent of the toymakers -- to teach Japanese children the responsibilities of raising kids -- I was about to discover the little joys of parenting.

The days of Jeremy going to bed at 9 p.m. were gone; this new beast wouldn't go to sleep until 11. He ate twice as much and excreted four times as often, taking pains to go right before he fell asleep so he could sleep in his handiwork. He whined incessantly, and, true to the Scotsman's wishes, I had to discipline the little bastard every hour.

"I don't understand it," I lamented to a co-worker. "I started off with Curious George. Now he's Mickey Rourke."

"Perhaps it's you," my friend suggested. "Maybe the machine can read your mind and figured that's the kind of kid you would have."

"Hmph," I muttered. Later, I took Jeremy to a bar, considering the use of a sledgehammer to correct his behavioral problems. I was about to dunk him in my cocktail when he fell asleep, pile of dung proudly deposited at bedside.

I looked at him. His little face was as peaceful and serene as a digitized sprite could look.

Unconsciously, I smiled. I had no idea how much time we had together, but I promised myself I'd make the most of it. And I swore to myself that when he passed, I wouldn't hatch another. At that moment, I had a more profound regard for life than I had ever felt. Plus, I knew that if I had to listen to another week of that damn beeping, I would scramble that egg like a short-order cook. I guess there's a Masktchi inside me, after all.