That which is to come

It rained here steadily for New Year's. I wandered the streets, cut through the Port Authority bus station at one point to try to get unrained-upon to Ninth Avenue. There were hundreds of young revellers, in states of sleep and drowse on the floor, with amiable cops leaning around. A trio of cleaners laughed heartily at something, and I went up to ask if I could get through to Ninth Avenue, and one of them turned to me and opening his eyes wide, said "Why sir, you ask too much!" which prompted another round of chuckles, so I smiled and walked on.

There were cops everywhere, building in clusters in every subway station and in the trains, and presumably there were undercover guys everywhere. I trudged around in the rain.

Hardly anyone reads my blog, so therefore often blogging is a case of me talking to myself. My grandfather used to admit to talking to himself in old age by saying it served a twofold purpose: it meant he could get to talking to a sensible man, and it meant that he got to hear a sensible man talking. I lay no claim to good sense for 2007, being merely glad that 2006, a generally bad year for me, I feel, is finally gone and never to return. Someone I overheard on New Year's Day said something about how "everyone remembers January 1st but no one remembers anything about January 2nd." Here is a man who won't forget January 2nd, 2007.

Other things, in keeping with randomness: I suddenly remembered having had to report on the workings of IMRO about two years ago. IMRO is the Irish Music Rights Organsation, a kind of government-appointed-then-forgotten watchdog for the Irish music industry. They once recorded dozens of examples of Irish music being used as elevator music in American hotels and said that they would recoup millions of dollars in royalties; I don't think they did.

I mentioned Rudy Giuliani's possible run for U.S. President recently, and how shite I think he is generally; so it goes!