Larry Robinson is not exactly a clotheshorse. His shoes, a battered pair of brown Adidas, have holes the size of quarters in the soles – perfect for the wet, snowy January weather. He spends most of his time in one of two American Apparel hoodies his girlfriend forced on him a year ago – both are now missing their drawstrings, torn at the seams, and stained with beer and Cheez-Its. And his one pair of pants is a threadbare pair of Levi’s that haven’t fit since he lost that weight over the summer, and have a set of holes ranging from the minor to the inappropriate.

But for the first time in over two years, Larry went clothes shopping on his own yesterday – and made a purchase he was immediately proud of. “I mean, check it out – look how good I look in this thing! Look at me go – oh, look, now’s he’s got dizzy eyes. Sorry, little me. Didn’t mean to spin you too fast!”

When he first heard about the Avatar Marketplace on Xbox Live, Larry laughed it off. “What kind of loser would spend money on virtual clothes for their stupid avatars? I mean, come on. This is ridiculous.” But then the peer pressure set in. “I mean, I was playing 1 vs. 100, and everyone else had all these awesome outfits. And there I was, in a stupid blue sweater. The guy next to me had a wizard hat and a Beatles shirt. I mean, how cool is that?! What if I had gotten up there on that stage? Everyone would have thought I was totally lame!”

So out came the credit card – and on went $12.50 in Microsoft points. The number, interestingly, is roughly what he spent the last time he bought clothes at all – a $11 pack of undershirts four or five months ago.

After putting his avatar through a virtual dressing room show lasting about four times as long as his last clothes shopping trip, he finally decided on a Longhorns jersey, setting him back a mere 240 Microsoft points. “What is that,” he asked, “Like $2? $3? Well, it’s worth it. I guess.”

As he stared into the eyes of his newly orange-clad mini-self, he smiled. Then, he looked around himself – at his threadbare jeans, his unreplaced burnt-out lightbulbs, the jar of change he needed to exchange if he was going to buy books for next semester – he took a second look at his new “shirt.”

“Man, I’m a fucking moron.”