Et Tu, Kodachrome

This morning was harsh. The weather was cool in NYC, the sky was white-blue-grey, and my hand was empty. A day earlier, it was calmer outside, a blue sky blanketed the skyline, and I was holding my other half's hand.

Bittersweet.

So the cavalcade of phone calls, faxes, e-mails, voice-mails, clients, spreadsheets, schedules, deadlines and follow-ups began anew. I was moving through my morning when, at 10:15, I managed a phone call to my now distant ladyfriend, 3,000 miles and three hours to the left. Hearing her voice was painfully wonderful, knowing it was a long distance call and not a call to my now-vacant apartment. And coming into an office to a waiting check for past sins tempted me to hop a taxi to JFK for a quick trip to the coast...and then I got a call from someone who needed something yesterday and that was that.

Aside from a minor bout with a bad stomach, we shared a great 120 hours; some of which were spent sleeping or something somewhat akin thereto, but all of which were wonderful. Thanks to an iPod speaker, a remote control, room service and the convenience of having two DVD players in the suite, we really couldn't have asked for more of anything except additional time together.

Saturday brought the impending burnout of the NHL season (for a second time) and the news was largely insignificant to me: without rehashing what was previously cemented a week ago, it was clear the NHL was already locked in a fatal downward spiral before Mssrs. Wayne Gretzky and Mario Lemieux flew cross-country to meet a contingent of Players Association reps who called a meeting to, ostensibly, re-enter negotiations and offer a new proposal that never came. After this newest, ridiculous maneuver by Bob Goodenow, I anticipate one of two things happening come May: either the current crop of locked-out NHL players will be a thing of the past and give way to replacement players from the AHL and elsewhere, or the Players Association will (rightfully) relieve Bob Goodenow of his duties and get the future of the NHL back on the table. Personally, I don't care which of these scenarios occurs, although I'd prefer they both come to pass. Thinking about the future of the NHL is sort of like masturbating with a cheese grater -- at first it's interesting, in an intellectual sort of way -- but it gets old and irritating very, very quickly.

The other news item of note was the suicide of Hunter S. Thompson; while I never really found his brand of observation something I needed in my daily existence, he was an original and will be missed -- not necessarily by me -- but he will be missed.

Finally, I await developed photographs to flesh out the sepia-toned memories I've got locked in (what's left of) the grey matter between my ears. In the meantime, I keep coming back to "Kodachrome" by Paul Simon and "You're My Home" by Billy Joel. The former makes me smile, especially when I think of my other half, because there's no one snapshot moment or photo in my head that I conjure when I think of her; I just get an overwhelming sense of peace, contentment, and happiness that's stayed with me for as long as I can remember. Between the day we met and November 8th, there aren't too many other days in my recent past that sate me or make me smile more. As for the latter, all that needs to be mentioned herein is a line from the lyrics: "Home is just another word for you."

More later.