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Here's some updates and/or illuminations that concern previous FTRs.
Going back to the beginning, not surprisingly, I never got any of my stuff back. I held a little hope the magical power of the interweb would send at least one sentimental bauble back, (and I'd get a book deal for "The Things I've lost and that the Glorious Web Returned," but what the hell, I wasn't counting on it, and it was nice to make a list of lost things--but really now, why does someone want to keep a wooden plane my Dad carved with a buck knife? Maybe one day said person will come across happyrobot and email it to me with some new technology MIT is developing.
Google. Well, damn it to hell-gle. They're doing better than ever, and are soon to make many people not me super wealthy. Before I became a bigtime screenwriter, I worked in the same building as their NYC office. Nice guys, at least, the ones who smoke outside.
Full confession, when I wrote about Googling "writers I like," specifically ZZ Packer, Zadie Smith, and Heidi Julavitz, I meant I liked their work, but I also liked them. (Listen, I'm married, but I'm not dead.) They're doing swell, googlewise and in their careers. I neglected to actually name drop (meaning overemphasize my associations with them) when I wrote it, an annoying practice I hope to excel at from here on (call it Gawkerfied). I've been at parties/gatherings with them all, and I doubt they'd know me from the guy who collected their empty wine glasses. However, I tried my best to shoot dramatic headturns at Zadie Smith, and why not? She's tall, gorgeous, young, brilliant and rich (with an English accent). ZZ and Heidi are most of those things and then some, but the operative word is rich. (I'm sure ZZ will catch up when her novel gets moviesized). Still, despite the headturns, successful and beautiful Zadie Smith-types are hard to speak to, so all I could manage to do was smoke her cigarette(s). (Did I mention I'm married to a gorgeous novelist?)
I'm going back to my birthland next week, and hope to hear some more stories.
The NYC Film Commission piece and the slew of Multi-phasic Personality Exam FTRs were written long before they were posted, and should have simply been called McSweeney's Rejections. (Dave Eggers still owes me 74 cents.) These entries wildly vary from everything else of mine here on the robot, which were written at work the same day as posted. (Can anyone tell the difference? Please don't answer that.)
The End-of-Summer-Funtime List was basically written because I wanted to talk about thongs and butt cleavage. I'm happy (or sad) to report thongs, butt cleavage, and sheer white pants, low riders and midriffs are still with us.
I did labor some over the 9-11 post, mostly writing and deleting again and again, and it's actually the only thing I've written about that time. It is what it is. It's true I overheard a little kid ask his Mom if Tourists had attacked us.
Dogs of the World. Well, I miss my dog something fierce. Everyone should have a dog. I'll adopt another once I have a yard or perhaps live in a park.
Lordy, them Rings. Well, Mrs. FTR and I had a conflict and couldn't make the movie. Funny, I thought it was simply a routine screening, but it was actually the elfin-studded NYC premiere. Two of our ring-loving friends went in our stead, also not realizing beforehand all the hobbits and hobbit paparazzi would be there. I eventually watched the movie with my good pals and had a grand old time. Mrs. FTR never saw LOTR 2 and 3, and hasn't suggested renting them.
Bing is still the greatest.
Our Ikea furniture actually turned out fairly swank, once we finally put it together, and no one was injured or irradiated in the process.
I'm no longer Buried under anything except a massive ego, and piles of monopoly money.
My Business Card turned out pretty good. I'm afraid I have to get one of those cheesy card holders. I was given a new wallet because my old one succumbed to ass-sweat stink, and this new one, which was a gift from Mrs. FTR and is cool as hell, just doesn't give that quick access to the cards (fumbling for them does not make me look good with the Hollywood big shots--neither does ass-sweat stink). Perhaps my new wallet will loosen.
Which leads me to my most recent post, Homebody/Kabul was an incredible piece of theater. The first act monologue (Linda Emond) was one of the most amazing things I've experienced--a fantastic rollercoaster of language and storytelling. The play was long, sure, but because of how thrilling and well-made it was, I didn't notice, and the two intermissions I'm sure helped. (I've heard it's shorter than earlier versions, and I imagine, improved.) There were some partly-deaf, aged gentleman sitting behind me (I think one wore a pith helmet, bless him). When Maggie Gyllenhaal made her first appearance on stage, there was total silence, and the guy behind me loudly said in his old-time Brookyln accent "Der she is." The character of Quango, the English foreign-service quasi-diplomat I'll bet will be offered to Philip Seymour Hoffman for the film version.
Enjoy your summer. I'll be on location and can be reached through my people.
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