b!X Frankonis is a nineteen-year resident of the Portland of Oregon born forty-six years ago in upstate New York. A devout agnostic, introvert, and misanthrope who aspires to be an at least passable humanist, he believes that cynicism is but frustrated optimism, resulting only from first believing that people are capable of better and then too often being proved wrong. He also believes this is why the small, every day courtesies matter.
He neither bikes nor dances nor dates nor drives nor drugs nor sexes nor swims. (He is open to negotiation on some of these, leaving which to your imagination.) He does, occasionally but with an increasing rarity, drink. Since the death of his father, he no longer smokes. He is a lifelong if sometimes lapsed resident of Red Sox Nation who, when not wearing his baseball cap, sometimes can be recognized by his cheap, straw gardening hat. He still has most, but most assuredly not all, of his teeth; ask him about his fetching dental appliance.
If events were pictures and emotions were sounds, his memories would play as silent movies.
Rolling Stone felt compelled to call attention to his “long black eyelashes” and “face that sees very little sun” while deeming him “a kid from upstate New York with a quick wit”. A public relations professional said he was a “sissy”. Bruce Sterling referred to him as a “punk”. Joss Whedon technically once might have called him “twitchy” and “unreliable-looking”.
As a child, he wanted to become an outer space moving van driver. As an adult, he is not one.
By the Oxford English Dictionary definition of “slack” as the amount of time in critical path analysis by which a particular event may be delayed without delaying the achievement of the overall objective, he considers himself a slacker. To this day he has yet to determine the overall objective.
For seventeen years he owned a cat named Scully. Now he owns a cat named Meru.
After (among other things) the pioneering Internet civil liberties effort of Hands Off! the Net, the worthwhile cybercafe failure of the Millennium Cafe, the celebrated stand-alone journalism success of Portland Communique, the landmark fundraising creation of Can‘t Stop the Serenity, the surprise uncovering of the WWII shipyard workers zine The Finger, the years of engaging the wilds of various movie and television fandoms, and the publishing of his late father‘s novels under the banner of Myrln Books, he now jointly operates The Belmont Goats, a nonprofit urban herd of fourteen.
“Stop worshipping false b!Xes.”