The top eccentrics of San Francisco, and that's saying something.
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Firinn is an animated guy who oozes good intentions and a true believer's conviction with every inch of his 5-foot-9 frame balanced in geriatric orthopedic shoes. His regal posture gives away years of ballet training — one of the many subjects he says he dove into before UC Berkeley forced him to choose a major and graduate after seven years of undergraduate study. Now 51, he reads for four hours a day, and admits he cannot bear small talk. His events err on the cerebral side: discussing clichés in culture, reflecting on quotations, sharing books. His thick hair wicks up on end like a gray torch. Combined with stud earrings and his eerily intense aquamarine eyes, you can see him fitting right in at a hobbit casting call for Lord of the Rings.
Firinn opens the computer file of those banished since Linkup's debut four years ago. He jokes that the number has decreased as "the low-hanging rotting fruit" are weeded out. A sentence-long explanation is tagged to each profile along with the user's e-mail, phone number, and IP address. Of the 3,000 who have left, nearly 60 percent delete themselves. The rest, well, ahem:
"This is borderline, but this is a narcissistic profile," Firinn says, intoning a breathy voice to read, "'I am and always will be an artist at heart.'" He asks, "Are you interested in sports? In music? We didn't ask for a mini biography, you know.
"Oh, here's a guy — two no-show flake factors, his rating was down to 46 percent, and then he had a picture of himself from the back," he continues. "I mean, that's an antisocial pattern right there! You're not showing up, and then you've got a picture of the back of your head?"
Firinn pauses and stares at you, like, don't you see a problem with this?
"Maybe he's trying to be artistic?" you offer.
"Maaaaybe," Firinn says. "Well, maybe he just doesn't fit."
End of discussion, and off go others without discussion, either: the guy who listed his name as "Chrisanova" and his job as "foofy evil-doer." (No fake profiles.) A guy selling boxes. (Spam is not allowed.) The entire women's field hockey group that was too cliquish. The guy who used "kissmyass" in his password. (Firinn has programmed his software to alert him every time people write an obscenity or a competing Web social group's name.) The guy who listed in his interests, "I don't like [to] stay at home. sex, and alcohol, and, sex, again." ("Forget it!" Firinn says: Cruising is not allowed.) The guy who was e-mailing members to look for a harpsichordist for his chamber orchestra. (Firinn says if you want to message strangers, go to MySpace.)
Firinn seems amused to revisit the old troublemakers, yet he says playing policeman is the most depressing part of his job: "You're just reminded of all the shitty little things people do," he says. "For me, the programming is not only easy, but a total joy. But people can be so wonderful and people can be such a pain in the ass."
To begin to understand Firinn Taisdeal, to understand why he wants to be "the good parent I never had" for a group of people who agree to be courteous to one another, you have to go way back and way across the country to Westport, Connecticut, when Firinn was not even Firinn yet, but James Henry Cunniff II.
Firinn holds back details, but life in the Cunniff household was apparently volatile. Recovering-alcoholic mother, codependent father, and lies-that-keep-the-family-safe-from-the-truth bad. All were brutal to each other with impunity, he says. Firinn adds he was the family's black sheep, forcing conversations on the subjects no one would talk about.
