Wednesday, January 2, 2019
So one thing I've been thinking about as I come back to this curious form of public writing is the question of truthtelling. With retirement approaching, I've realized that the need to be quite so enigmatic as to the details of life is less; current events have provided a perfect opportunity to start that process.
So here goes: I'm a fed. And, at the moment, I'm furloughed.
Yes, carissimi, it's true: dear old Golden Handcuffs Consulting Amalgamated International was, truth to tell, a bit of a ruse. Most of the finer (and, if apropos, funnier) details of my employment have been quite true, but I've encountered them while in service, not to corporate mammon, but to the American taxpayer. For the moment I'm going to avoid anything more specific*, but I will say that it was all quite aboveboard and, on the whole, I'm pretty proud of my twenty years in public service.
But my goodness the last couple of years have made that a lot more trying, and the last couple of weeks never more so.
And now that the holidays are in the rear-view mirror, I'm finding myself uncharacteristically at loose ends. There's something about this kind of limbo that isn't conducive to getting things done, and I'm particularly peeved because I've got some rather amusing travel scheduled, but it's looking more and more likely that the classes I'd be teaching won't come off. I will be genuinely sad to miss one last go at a stay in Alte Wien, not least because the last time I was there I was still (although I didn't know it at the time) a bit of an invalid, and it would have been glorious to be able, when not hard at work, to do as much walking as I'd like.
So I'm puttering around the house and putting off taking down the Christmas tree (which we usually leave up through Orthodox Christmas anyway, in deference to Egyptian traditions) and generally not doing much of any use except keeping the dog blissfully happy. And now the museums have all closed as well, so there's not much to do were I to stir myself to some activity anyway.
But the real question, I think, is: how is it possible that I've never heard of a Tony Curtis picture featuring Stritchy—and directed by Blake Edwards, to boot? It's either a hidden gem or a real stinker, and I have a feeling I know on which end of that spectrum it falls...
*And I'll ask that you, mes amis, do the same in comments or elsewhere; I'd like to keep the Café off the radar, Google-wise, for at least a few more months.