Page 10

The Blue-and-White Echo Chamber And How Toronto Sports Media Helps Keep The Leafs Stuck

A modified version was originally posted on Substack

It’s not just the players and the coaches. And it’s not the curse of Harold Ballard, Gary Bettman’s fault, the referee’s fault, a league-wide conspiracy against the Leafs, the three games in four nights to finish a season, any season, that wore the team down. No, it’s not the pressure of playing in Toronto under the media glare, playing in the wrong division or conference, or whatever fits the bill of fifty-eight years of excuses.

The Toronto sports media echo chamber is one of the most overlooked forces keeping the Toronto Maple Leafs locked in this eternal loop of hype and heartbreak. It’s a high-decibel, self-reinforcing swirl of hot takes, nostalgia, unwarranted optimism, selective criticism, and corporate conflict of interest. And it’s been warping reality in Leafland for a long time.

Let’s break it down: The Leafs are owned by Maple Leaf Sports & Entertainment (MLSE). MLSE is majority-owned by Rogers (75 percent, with their recently added 37.5 percent stake bought from Bell, owners of The Sports Network), the same Rogers that also owns Sportsnet, the most expansive sports media presence in Canada. In April 2025, Rogers secured a 12-year, C$11 billion national media rights deal with the NHL, extending their exclusive broadcasting rights through the 2037–38 season.

So let’s get this straight:

The team is owned by the same corporation that covers the team.
The journalists, analysts, and talking heads who appear are paid by the same companies that sign the team’s checks.
The coverage, commentary, and critique all exist under the same roof as the product they should evaluate objectively.

See the problem? When the people covering the team are also in business with the team, it’s no surprise that objectivity gets watered down, harsh truths get softened, failures get reframed, and problems become narratives. Fans don’t get reality — they get corporate storytelling.

Case in point: Every fall, Leafs Nation is told that “this is the year.” Maybe not in so many words, but there are strong hints. The core has matured and is more battle-hardened than ever. The offseason moves were shrewd. The goaltending is good, with maybe a few blips, but it is Stanley Cup Final-worthy. The cap is under control. And no, they didn’t need to get tougher, well, a bit more grit in the playoffs; they just need to be themselves. Every year, it’s the same spin, and it seems like only the Toronto Maple Leafs tried to get better in the off-season or at the trade deadline. And every spring, when the inevitable collapse arrives, the same media machine goes to work shifting the narrative:

“They played well enough to win.”
“They lost to a great team.”
“They’ll grow and learn from this.”
“The No. 1 goalie was injured.”
“Look how close it was — just one bounce and one game when it comes right down to it.
“A few calls didn’t go their way, which made a difference.”
“They were playing with a few injuries.”
“They were up 3-1 in game three, had they won that one, they’d be up 3-0 in the series.”

But when is close no longer good enough? When do some stop handing out maturity medals and start demanding results? You won’t hear many probing questions about culture, locker room dynamics, or real accountability. You won’t see panel discussions wondering if a fundamentally flawed leadership group or dressing room chemistry is at the heart of the problem. Instead, the media dances around it — partly to protect access, partly because of internal pressure, and partly because conflict doesn’t sell in a market that’s been trained to hope, not demand. You see the real story in a few insightful comments online and from selected columnists who aren’t afraid to ask the tough questions and write hard-hitting columns, but not in a media company that owns the team. In most markets, the media drives accountability. In Toronto, it often deflects it.

Can you imagine the Philadelphia media letting the Flyers off the hook like this? Or the Boston media playing softball with the Bruins? Toronto’s media complex has become less a watchdog and more a warm blanket wrapping the team in comfort, regardless of outcomes. After all, they are treated like gods, said one player, after the 2024 version of the annual collapse. Not all Toronto media are complicit in this, just some.

Let’s be clear: Toronto fans are some of the most loyal and passionate sports fans. They’ve filled the arena for decades. They deserve better than panel shows designed to insulate rather than investigate. They deserve analysis with teeth, not roundtable therapy sessions for another blown Game 7 and a funeral-like atmosphere in the studio. Fans can handle the truth. What they can’t handle anymore is the gaslighting and the sense that maybe they’re the problem for expecting more, booing, and criticizing the sacred “core four.” This writer applauded those disgusted fans who tossed their jerseys on the ice and walked out with ten minutes left.

When there’s no real pressure from the media, there’s no real pressure on the front office. When fans are fed a steady diet of emotional copium instead of hard questions, they settle for “almost.” When the broadcast partner is also the landlord, the bar stays low. This is how a team becomes stuck. This is how a culture of underachievement takes root. And this is how one of the wealthiest, most resource-heavy organizations in the NHL can go over twenty years without getting past the second round and still be called successful because they win a lot in the regular season. Until the echo chamber breaks, the cycle will continue.

But step outside of Leafland, and you’ll find cities where the media doesn’t coddle; it confronts. Where excuses aren’t just questioned, they are torched, cut off at the knees. Let’s look at three of North America’s toughest sports media markets: Boston, Edmonton, and Philadelphia, and how their approach starkly contrasts with Toronto’s corporate pablum.

Boston is a city addicted to winning. With the Patriots, Red Sox, Celtics, and Bruins all delivering championships this century, the bar is sky-high, and the media helps keep it there. Here’s the difference: the gloves come off when a Boston team underperforms. The Bruins lose in the first round or don’t make the playoffs, as happened this year? The Boston Globe, NESN, and local sports radio and television don’t spin it as “progress” or “a learning opportunity, we will grow from this.” They ask fundamental questions: Why didn’t the coach adapt? Who didn’t show up? Are the players hungry, and if not, why not? Is there a problem with dressing room chemistry, and who may cause it? The same applies to ownership and management. Nobody is protected, and no one gets a pass. And when a player says something tone-deaf, the headlines reflect that. The pressure in Boston is immense, but it drives accountability and forces results. It also explains, in part, why the Bruins have remained competitive even while retooling because there’s simply no tolerance for “almost” being good enough.

Edmonton may not have (the city of) Boston’s championship pedigree in recent decades, but its fans and media are fiercely engaged. The Oilers have won five Stanley Cups since entering the league in 1979-80 and eight trips to the Final. The Leafs? Zero. Not even one trip to the Final for the blue and white. What’s unique about Edmonton is that it’s a small-market team with a large-market fanbase. When the Oilers falter, the questions aren’t sugarcoated. Local media from TSN 1260 to The Edmonton Journal to independent outlets like OilersNation will criticize coaching decisions, challenge front-office moves, and openly debate whether the McDavid-Draisaitl era is being squandered. And they’re not afraid to take aim at the stars. If Draisaitl or McDavid has a bad game, it gets called out, not buried under platitudes. While the Oilers haven’t broken through yet, they’ve shown far more urgency than the Leafs in making bold moves, from coaching changes to deadline deals. Edmonton’s media doesn’t babysit the team; they hold up a mirror.

Then there’s Philadelphia, a city where sports media comes with brass knuckles and no filter. The media is brutally honest all the time. It’s not just the Flyers who feel the heat. The Eagles, Phillies, and 76ers get roasted when they fall short. Philadelphia media reflects the city. Gritty, skeptical, impatient. If you choke in the playoffs or give a half-hearted quote to the press, you’ll hear about it on talk radio, local channels, in columns, and from knowledgeable fans who read and study what was said. Philly doesn’t do spin, they do standards. Teams don’t get to coast on potential, and coaches get fired mid-season. Front offices don’t hide behind PR statements. There’s a direct line between fan expectations, media pressure, and organizational urgency. The difference isn’t just tone, it’s consequence. Media heat translates into real pressure in Boston, Edmonton, and Philly, forcing change. In Toronto, the machine reboots and tries again with the same media faces and script. It’s easy to see how the Leafs stay stuck.

Let’s go through some of the greatest hits this year, some of which have come from fans who have bought into the excuse factory:

1. Their top goalie was out.
Andrew Stolarz got injured. Yes, it’s unfortunate. But if your backup goalie, who you’ve been hyping all season, is that close to being just as good, why is this a fallback excuse? Isn’t building a team supposed to include depth? This was a 1A/1B situation all year. At least, that’s what the spin was.

2. It’s a tough conference.
Sure, the East is brutal. You have Florida, Tampa Bay, Washington, Carolina, and some up-and-comers. The Leafs lost to the defending champions in 2025, but wasn’t this supposed to be their year? It’s different this year, was the mantra. Didn’t they win the Atlantic? And yet, they were blown out twice in their own rink against Florida, including game seven. And, hey, whatever happened to their famous core four that was going to lead them to the promised land?

3. It’s Bettman’s fault.
Right. Because the NHL Commissioner is sitting in his Manhattan office, scheming new ways to keep Toronto from winning. Gary Bettman is why Mitch Marner can’t shoot the puck in the second round and Auston Matthews disappears. It’s Bettman’s fault that Stolarz gets hurt, Woll lets in a few softies, and the Leafs collapse and are thoroughly outclassed in games five and seven without even a shot on goal in the first ten minutes of the latter.

4. It’s the refs.
This is the new old favorite that I have heard since I was six. “The refs are out to get us.” It’s the ref’s fault for missed calls, phantom penalties, inconsistent standards, and this happens to the Leafs and no one else. Sure, officiating in the NHL playoffs is sometimes questionable. How much do you call, and how much do you let go? But every team deals with that. You think the Panthers got every call? You believe the Oilers aren’t battling whistles and head-scratchers? Blaming the referees is the easiest and laziest way to avoid saying what few in the Leafland media want to say: they weren’t good enough. I’ll repeat that. The Toronto Maple Leafs weren’t and aren’t good enough. They haven’t been since 1967.

5. It’s a curse.
Right. Because the universe just doesn’t like the Leafs. Decades of disappointment? It must be dark forces at work, the planet Mercury in retrograde, the eclipses – solar and lunar, meteor showers, the Orion constellation, or the minor turbulence their plane hit on the way back from Chicago five years ago. Maybe Harold Ballard cursed the team on his way out. Perhaps the ghost of 1967 has moved from Maple Leaf Gardens, settled into Scotiabank Arena, and refuses to leave. Or maybe it has nothing to do with the heavens and everything to do with poor roster construction and playoff jitters.

6. It’s a league-wide conspiracy.
This one’s for the real die-hards. Bettman, the refs, the media, American teams, and even the other Canadian teams are all in on it. Toronto can’t win because the league won’t let them. Every pre-season the stakeholders in this conspiracy have a Zoom meeting and come up with ingenious ways to scuttle the Leafs. Never mind that the league would probably love for this hockey-mad market and most profitable franchise to win one finally. Imagine the ratings. The merchandise sales, of which the League gets a cut. Imagine the happy chaos in Southern Ontario and pockets of Leaf fans throughout Canada. Imagine the parade as one of the league’s most storied franchises parades that Cup through the streets of downtown Toronto. This conspiracy theory collapses under its own weight.

7. It’s their travel schedule.
Ah, yes, the poor Leafs have to fly to Pittsburgh, Buffalo, and then Detroit for three games in four nights, or a similar circuit a few times a year. What a grind; it wore them down come playoff time. Try being the Vancouver Canucks and having to cross multiple time zones every other week. Or Seattle, Edmonton, and Calgary. Or the Sharks, Kings, and Ducks. And how about the Dallas Stars? Their closest opponent, the Colorado Avalanche, is 663 miles and one time zone away; most of the league deals with brutal travel. The Leafs, meanwhile, spend most of the year bouncing between first-class hotels in the eastern time zone. Enough.

The media bubble enables the status quo. This leads to softball coverage, endless excuse-making, and often a lack of serious accountability for team failures. When your media arm doubles as your PR department, the message to fans becomes: “Everything’s fine, just a few tweaks here and there, stay the course; the team is so close. If a few bad bounces went the other way, the Leafs would have a few Cups in recent years. The team is just unlucky. The injury bug hit at the worst time.” The owner and media gatekeeper has fostered a Leafs culture where accountability is muted, profits are protected, and success is defined more by content metrics than playoff results. They’re not the only reason for the Leafs’ failures, but they’ve certainly enabled it.

Why People Believe in Myths, Urban Legends, and Conspiracy Theories in the Digital Age

In an era defined by a glut of information, it may seem counterintuitive that myths, urban legends, and conspiracy theories persist and often thrive. Yet, the very characteristics of our interconnected digital world, coupled with human psychology, create fertile ground for these narratives to take root and spread like wildfire, or to use the au courant vernacular, go viral. Understanding why some individuals are susceptible to these often unsubstantiated claims is vital in navigating the vast amount of information available in the 21st century.

At the heart of the inclination to believe in these narratives lies a fundamental human drive: the need for meaning and understanding. When faced with complex, ambiguous, or unsettling events, our brains naturally seek coherent explanations. Myths and conspiracy theories often provide deceptively simple answers, offering a sense of closure where official accounts might seem incomplete or unsatisfying. In a world that can feel chaotic and unpredictable, these narratives can provide a comforting illusion of order and control, even if that control lies in understanding a hidden, potentially malevolent force.

Furthermore, our cognitive biases influence the formation of our beliefs. Confirmation bias, the tendency to seek out and interpret information that aligns with our existing beliefs, makes us more likely to gravitate towards narratives that resonate with our preconceived notions. Our pattern recognition abilities can also lead us down rabbit holes, causing us to see connections and conspiracies where none exist.

The digital age has amplified these psychological tendencies in many ways. The internet, with its often unregulated and unfiltered landscape, is an unprecedented breeding ground for misinformation. Echo chambers and filter bubbles, created by algorithmic curation, reinforce existing beliefs by limiting exposure to other perspectives and critical analysis. Individuals can easily find online communities that validate their beliefs, regardless of how unconventional, thereby strengthening their conviction and fostering a sense of shared identity.

The ease of sharing information online also contributes to the spread of myths and legends. Sensational or emotionally charged content, often a hallmark of these narratives, tends to go viral, bypassing traditional gatekeepers of information, such as established media outlets. The lack of editorial oversight on many online platforms means that unsubstantiated claims can circulate widely and rapidly, often outpacing factual corrections. Even simple quotes can be taken out of context or fabricated and attributed to someone who never said it.

A growing distrust in established institutions, including government, science, and mainstream media, will make individuals more receptive to alternative explanations, particularly those that posit hidden agendas and deception. In an era of perceived political polarization and social upheaval, conspiracy theories offer a seemingly coherent framework for understanding complex societal issues, often by identifying a clear “enemy” or a shadowy “deep state” that is allegedly pulling the strings.

The enduring appeal of myths, urban legends, and conspiracy theories in the digital age is a complex interplay of human psychological needs and the characteristics of our interconnected world. The desire for meaning, the influence of cognitive biases, the amplifying effect of online echo chambers, the ease of information sharing, and a growing distrust in traditional authorities all contribute to the persistent allure of these hidden truths, often making them more compelling than the complexities and uncertainties of reality.

The Patio Crowd Is a Different Breed

The is the penultimate entry in the bar series and based on my observations from last summer and already this year. I’m not saying the entire patio crowd fits the narrative or the true stories below, but many do.

It’s that time of year when the snow is long gone, the temperatures climb, and suddenly the patio reopens, and with it comes a whole new species of bar and restaurant clientele. They’re louder and more entitled for the most part. Not all of them, just some. They’re sunnier (literally and figuratively). They wear sunglasses at dusk and order a glass of wine they had never heard of until they looked it up online five minutes before arriving, because they want to look and sound like a wine connoisseur. Welcome to patio season, where the energy shifts, the dogs come out and sit under their master’s table, and it gets a little wilder. If the regulars inside the bar are like family, the patio crowd is more like a music festival—seasonal, enthusiastic, unpredictable, and not always in a good way.

First, let’s talk about entrance behavior. The patio crowd doesn’t quietly sneak into their seats. They arrive. They arrive in golf carts, on motorcycles, bicycles, or by automobile and occupy a spot-and-a-half in the parking lot. If the patio is on the water, they may pull up with a “My boat is bigger than your boat, and I don’t like to line up like the great unwashed” attitude. They survey the patio as if it were a territory to be annexed. They want the table with the best view of the lake and their boat (“Yeah, mine’s the 48-footer with the blue trim”), the best sun exposure, or the most shade, depending on the day’s UV index and skin tone. “Can we sit at that table?” is often their mantra, even when the section isn’t open yet because the full staff won’t arrive until noon. Some insist but don’t think logically that if four more tables, or even two, are opened up, the experienced server will be overwhelmed, the service quality will go down, and then they will complain. Dammnit, where’s my drink? I ordered it 38 seconds ago. The service in this place sucks! Here’s a thought, mister and missus, “I want a table now. I don’t want to wait twenty minutes (while mentally stamping their feet like a whiny two-year-old)!” Make a reservation. One phone call is all it takes. The patio crowd usually shows up on a sunny day, a week before the patio is officially open, and things are getting set up for the busy season. They expect to be seated and served there, despite the signs everywhere, including the website, that say, “Patio Opens May 16.” May 16 means May 16, not May 9.

For the restaurant team, numerous logistics are involved in opening an entire patio or even sections. And no, the server will not tell your kids at the playground to return because lunch is coming to your table. That, dear entitled parent, is your job. It is also not your server’s job to find out if the ice cream store a block away will deliver, even with the lineup there that can clearly be seen from your sightline. Really? Deliver ice cream on a hot day or ask your server to go get it? Yes, never mind the six other tables she is looking after, but that never entered your mind, did it? You expect your server to walk up there, stand in line, and get four ice cream cones for you and your kids. Do you think? Are you that self-absorbed? You, center of the universe, call them yourself when your meal is complete, or go get your ice cream afterward. I’m sure you can do that. And if your kids cannot wait that long? Look in the mirror to find out whose problem that is.

And they come in packs: Couples, families of four with their kids slathered with sunscreen, groups of twelve that didn’t make a reservation and somehow think they will be immediately seated on a long weekend when there is a lineup, birthday brunchers, the weekend warriors fresh from the boat launch and far too old to be wearing their caps backward, and those wearing t-shirts and tank tops that say, “Cozumel Dive Club” on them. If the inside bar is a slow simmer, the patio is a full-on sizzle. Everything is louder out there and more demanding. Conversations. Laughter. Bluetooth speakers (even though they’re not allowed). The patio crowd believes in curated Instagrammable moments with cocktails, sunglasses, and that perfect golden-hour lighting on the water. Someone always brings a dog or two. Someone always brings a rambunctious toddler. Some even bring both, so the servers can dodge them as they make their rounds.

Ordering is a little different, too. The patio crowd likes their drinks cold, their food to be visually appealing, and their whole order to arrive four minutes later, even when the place is packed. Patience and common courtesy aren’t always their strong suit, especially when it’s hot, and they’ve already posted a picture of their drink on social media but haven’t tasted it yet. If the ice melts too fast or the breeze flips a napkin, it might turn into a negative Yelp review before dessert arrives because, you know, the servers have complete control over the temperature and wind speed.

The servers know working the patio is a different game. Balancing trays over concrete, dodging umbrellas and children, and persistent wasps bent on helping themselves to the strawberry daiquiris being delivered to table 12. It’s a workout. But it’s also where the best tips sometimes live because the patio crowd tends to spend freely and tip generously if you match their energy.

And let’s not forget weather denial. The patio crowd doesn’t leave just because it’s raining, especially if they’ve waited 45 minutes for that table. They’ll huddle under umbrellas, use cocktail napkins to cover their drinks, and insist “It’s just a sun shower” until their gin and tonic is swimming. The sun could vanish, the temperature could drop ten degrees, and it’s still “We’re good out here!” for some.

But for all their quirks and demands, they fill the air with laughter, clink glasses in celebration, and turn an ordinary Wednesday evening into a mini-vacation. When the patio is full, the whole place feels more vibrant. The staff move faster. The music gets more upbeat, and strangers bond over shared sunlight, and that one wasp who still won’t quit despite his compadres giving up and heading back to the nest. The patio crowd is a handful, and even the regulars may complain about all the tourists treading on their turf, but let’s face it, the spring and summer crowd is great for business and makes up for the slow winter season when the place is likely treading water.

Treating Women with Dignity and Respect Always

A particular kind of discomfort creeps in when I witness someone being disrespected in public, especially a woman in a service role. Whether it’s a waitress just trying to do her job or a retail associate managing a long line of customers, the lack of basic respect shown by some people, usually men, is deeply unsettling. These women aren’t there for your entertainment and they aren’t your slave. They aren’t there to absorb crude remarks or flirtatious innuendos and verbally abused. They’re doing their job, even if they make a few mistakes along the way, and they deserve to be treated with dignity.

Let’s be clear: Women in public-facing roles already face enough challenges. They juggle demanding schedules and often work double shifts, sometimes rude or entitled customers, and the pressure to smile and be polite no matter what. However, layered on top of that is persistent, ugly behavior that objectifies them or places them in a powerless position where they can’t respond honestly without risking their job. I overheard a married female server-friend look after a table, and one of the patrons said, “After your shift is over, why don’t we go to your place?” She was appalled but responded with a nervous laugh as she walked away. I felt so bad for her. Surely the scumbag at the table saw her wedding ring every time she serviced the table.

What’s worse is that this isn’t just something coming from clueless teenagers. Grown men (like the scumbag), some of whom are married, wearing wedding rings, and possibly even fathers of daughters, are often the culprits. It’s not just about crude jokes or unwanted compliments either. It’s the leering and the comments made when their back is turned or they are out of earshot. The “accidental” touches that become a massage of her hand when she hands over the credit card machine. It’s dismissive language, mansplaining, and subtle intimidation masked as charm or with an “I’m only kidding; I’m not like that.”

And it has to stop.

Respecting women isn’t about being a hero or earning a pat on the back. It’s about decency. It’s about the kind of person you are when no one’s watching, and especially when you think there are no consequences for your behavior. How you treat someone in a service position is a window to your soul and character. True character is shown when you’re in a position of perceived control—like being a customer—and you choose to act with empathy instead of entitlement.

Some may brush off inappropriate behavior as harmless fun or “just being friendly.” But if your version of friendly makes someone uncomfortable, it’s not harmless. If your compliment is about their body instead of their service, it’s not respectful. If you know the female server (and maybe if you don’t – read the room) it’s okay to say, “That a nice hoodie,” without leering, but it’s not okay to say, “So, you’ll be wearing the tank top and shorts during patio season,” or “So you went to the Metallica concert last night. Did your top come off in the mosh pit?” Yes, I have heard those exact lines from a jerk.

This issue hits a nerve with many of us because we’ve seen it happen too often. Maybe we’ve been silent observers while someone crossed a line. Perhaps we’ve spoken up and been brushed off. However, more people, especially men, need to use their voices to challenge these behaviors. A casual “Hey, that’s not cool” or a redirecting comment can go a long way. It’s not about shaming someone but signaling that respect is the expectation.

And to those in service roles who have to bite their tongues daily, I see you. Many of you are masters at diffusing tension, keeping your composure, and walking away from situations that should never have happened in the first place. You deserve better every shift.

The golden rule still applies. Treat people how you’d want not only yourself but your daughter, sister, friend, or partner to be treated, whether she’s serving you coffee, ringing up your groceries, or taking your order at a busy restaurant. That’s not just good manners. That’s basic humanity.

Am I Getting Crotchety or Just Tired of Inconsiderate People?

Lately, I’ve been asking myself a question that might sound familiar to anyone over 40 (or anyone under 40 with low patience and high self-awareness): Am I getting crotchety … or are people just getting worse? After all, I have a blog series coming up where I rant about various things that get under my skin, including those touched on in the next paragraph, and another series titled “The Unwritten Rules of … ” that is well under way behind the scenes and will begin later this year.

It’s not a rhetorical question. I genuinely wonder, so feel free to comment and share your story of what irritates you. Because in the last few years the group who decides to sit at the booth next to mine in an empty restaurant, and the family who decides, in a park the size of half a football field, to plant their carcasses twelve feet from me and begin a singalong despite there being a playground at the other end and no one else in the park but us, are grating on me. I mean, this stuff is really starting to get on my nerves. And I mean irrationally so.

Don’t get me wrong, I love people, and I know I’m not the mayor of public space. I don’t get to assign restaurant seats or hand out personality makeovers. It’s our quirks and differences that make us unique and interesting. But something about the constant stream of inconsiderate behavior is chipping away at my nerves. It’s not one big explosion — it’s more like social erosion.

First off, I am a teetotaler, as mentioned yesterday, and I don’t touch, uh, substances, so mind-altering consumption isn’t a factor with this irritation. There are the loudmouths, plural, in the movie theater lineup, some of whom decide they will put their friend on speakerphone and practically yell in my ear because they are right behind my friend and me in the lineup. Or others think belching loudly in a restaurant, art gallery, or museum in North America is now socially acceptable. It isn’t. The inconsiderate ones are in the grocery store line, maybe on speakerphone, maybe not … What? Pick up what? Pick up another carton of milk and two rotisserie chickens? Those things are getting expensive. It’s noisy in here. What? Soya Milk? Oh, Almond Milk. Are your sister and her boyfriend still going to be an hour late for the party? What? They had a big fight and aren’t coming now? They broke up? Great … I didn’t mean it that way. Yes, I do care about your sister, but I’m already in line, for crying out loud, and now I have to step out of the line and get that stuff … we’ll talk about it after the party. No, your sister’s breakup, not how expensive rotisserie chickens are now (shouting in someone’s ear). Uh, ever heard of texting or maybe figuring this all out at home before you send your partner to the store? I seem to be a magnet for people who treat volume like a competition. And it’s not just loud voices because some people do have strong voices in conversational mode that carry. And yes, our hearing gradually declines as we age, so some may have to speak louder. However, the lack of awareness and absence of common courtesy irritate me. It’s those who block grocery aisles or the entrance so others can’t get through. It’s leaving trash behind in public places, sometimes beside a half-empty garbage can, not returning shopping carts but letting them roam free, especially when the wind picks up, not giving up your seat for an elderly person on public transit, or neglecting to clean up after using shared facilities. It’s not asking if you can eat or drink in someone’s car before taking a sip or bite; it’s clogging the line for your flight when they call Zone 1, but you are in Zone 5. Oh, how that must piss off the departure staff.

And let’s not forget the guy who sat right beside a friend and me in the otherwise empty bar portion of a restaurant. Not at a table with a beautiful view of Chesapeake Bay. The next seat to us. Like we were emitting a “please start casual conversation” beacon. My friend and I side-glanced at each other and couldn’t tell if he was lonely, clueless, or just thought we were safe and friendly. Respect the bubble, sir. Sure, we’re friendly, but you and your halitosis are too close.

So yeah, I’ve been wondering: Is this me? Am I just becoming a grump with a word count and a blog? But here’s the thing — I don’t think it’s crotchetiness. I think it’s clarity. As we get older (hopefully wiser), we start recognizing what we value: peace, space, kindness, quiet. And we realize how rare those things can be in this busy, loud, electronic world. It’s not that I can’t tolerate other people. I love them. I do. I enjoy conversation. But when others take up more than their fair share of space — physically, emotionally, or audibly — I start noticing, and resenting, while mentally drafting blog posts.

So no, I’m not crotchety. I’m tired of people acting like their presence is a gift we’re lucky to receive. I’m tired of the increasing lack of common courtesy, no concern for posted rules or awareness of surroundings, the use of speakerphones and loud videos where others are gathered, the public belching in a public room, those who spoil trivia night by yelling out answers when they are not even playing, interrupting participants with loud banter, and yelling across the restaurant despite repeated reminders from the host not to do either until the designated time, and to tone it down until the game is finished. You’re not amusing, you’re a drunk jackass.

That said, I’ll keep biting my tongue (most of the time; pick your battles), ducking into quiet corners (of the park), and writing about it (always). Because, as much as inconsiderate people annoy me, they also help feed this blog … you’ll read the rants every Tuesday beginning June 10.

So go ahead and sit too close, block the grocery aisle, shout your life story, slam another door loud enough so the folks in the next county can hear it, and wonder what that loud bang was. I’ve got a keyboard and 700 words, maybe more, waiting for you.

Watching the Slow Fade in a Barstool Life And Then Some

I wrote this entry in one creative burst, something I rarely do in a piece this long, with barely an edit except for the odd typo. The roughly 1,600 words that follow are raw and visceral at times, and I likely could have written more … maybe in a part two if I’m so inclined. And while the overarching theme may be personal, it might appear ironic or even hypocritical to write these words because I worked (note the past tense, which we’ll get to) from a bar/restaurant a few days a week and am writing a series of blogs about the bar life. However, water and coffee are my beverage choices, maybe a Diet Pepsi or two, and most of the time when I was there, I was pounding away on my laptop’s keyboard in a corner booth as I nibbled on a light lunch, taking advantage of the excellent Wi-Fi, the view, and the energy this space gave off. When finished working, I walked the twenty minutes home, or first sat at the U-bar by the POS system (John’s former spot) and unwound, or chatted a little with those nearby. Staff and regulars know I’m quiet and low maintenance, and we respected each other’s space.

That addressed, it’s not the dramatic kind of drunk that gets talked about in headlines or rehab commercials. It’s not the one where someone’s sprawled out on the pavement, slurring apologies or wearing smelly clothes and unshowered for a week. It’s not the one who goes on a bender once and has to be helped into a cab since he can barely walk. He or she does that one night, but then returns to a manageable two drinks a week. That kind of drinking is explosive and easy to spot, easy to distance yourself from, and easy to criticize.

What was harder to watch were those who arrived daily, usually at the same time, consuming five or six beers and a couple of tequila shots, maybe more. A gradually louder tone soon started with a dollop of profanity making its presence as did the stories that begin halfway coherent and trail into nonsense and maybe even shouting to emphasize a point. The people, a few, not all, came not for a social hour or a celebration, but for a four-hour sedation. It’s a numbing habit and maybe an addiction because they came in for the buzz that never really ends.

I saw it slowly take over as one drink became two and three. The fourth beer or mixed drink glass hits the counter louder than the first or second. So does the drumming on the counter. By hour three, they were not there in a sense; they were still laughing and talking, sure, but louder than only thirty minutes before, and some took the inebriated step into recalcitrant. The F-bombs became more frequent. The eyes slowly narrowed, and some females became especially touchy-feely. Their light behind their eyes began to dim; not all at once, but progressively over weeks, months, and years. It doesn’t happen to all of them, just some. Yes, I know they are sitting at a bar and that is what people do there, consume alcohol. But bear with me.

I watched this unfold where I had been working from, but not anymore. I planted myself more permanently at the library today. It’s the same scene on repeat where I was, and I needed to get away from it, maybe for a month or two, probably longer. I needed to because lately, besides inspiration, I felt something between sadness and exhaustion whenever I saw it. Because I know this story and I know it very well. I grew up in it. Both of my parents were alcoholics who kept their addiction to the home front. My siblings have wrestled with the bottle in their own way. And me? I consider myself a teetotaler. Maybe once a year, twice every five years, I’ll have a beer or a rum and Coke. That’s it. Not because I’m holier-than-thou or above it, but because, frankly, any more than that scares me. I also like being in full control of my faculties and never worrying about a DUI or some other negative event influenced by alcohol consumption. I saw what alcohol abuse did, and I felt the peer pressure to consume more after I made that decision. I saw what it kept doing to people. I can’t and don’t expect to avoid every place that serves alcohol, including people’s homes. That is unrealistic. But I’ve decided to greatly reduce my exposure to it for reasons discussed in this piece. I have also seen what alcohol could have done to me had I let it.

I was working my way through college, and one Saturday morning, I was expected to be at my retail job extra-early to do some duties with my colleagues. I never showed up because the night before, I partied hard into the early hours with some buddies and slept (maybe I passed out, which is a much more serious condition) until 1 p.m. or so. One of those guys I partied with was also expected to be there the next morning. He was wiser than I was and checked out of the party early, with only a buzz going. Me? I could barely walk after downing twenty-six ounces of rum straight up, and don’t remember most of the night, who took me home, any part of the ride, or how I got into bed. I don’t know why I went on that bender, especially knowing I had to be at work by 7:30 a.m. When I woke up, there was a pile of vomit next to me on the bed, that I somehow didn’t choke on it in my state. I shudder when I think of it as I write this. Naturally, my manager was livid and wrote me a warning when I was coherent enough to come in and face the music. I was a good and trusted employee, but I had let everyone down, including my friend, and their respect for me took a nosedive. I got a few side lectures from co-workers about responsibility in the ensuing days that I didn’t want to hear, thinking they were overstepping their boundaries, and thinking my supervisor’s discipline and talk were sufficient, but I deserved every one. It took me a while to rebuild my reputation and longer to forgive myself. My manager asked if alcohol was a problem; she knew I was a stereotypical weekend partying college student (no drugs of any kind), but it never affected my performance or my attendance until that fateful morning. I said no, but my parents, both still living at the time, were alcoholics, and maybe I’d better watch this. That was the day, way back in the mid-1980s, that I said enough was enough and quit drinking, except for that rare one.

Alcohol, in my experience, and let me emphasize that, my experience, isn’t a casual friend. It’s a thief that destroys, not only brain cells, but lives. It steals clearheadedness, potential, connection, time, and money. It shatters relationships, sometimes permanently, and I don’t just mean someone getting killed or maimed. It turns rooms that could be full of possibility into places where stories die the same way they’re told: slowly, messily, and without an ending. Depending on the personality type, alcohol abuse can turn decent people into loathsome, despicable, manipulative, fear-inducing, entitled, respect for no one, physically and emotionally abusive, repulsive assholes. Harsh words and too many adjectives? No, and I stand by them because I (and maybe you) have experienced it up close.

What I saw at the place I used to work from, a lot wasn’t villainy — it was resignation. They weren’t raging (well, maybe one was) or aging well. They’re fading. Punching the clock on their days with several pints, a shot or two; a ritual. Possibly dulling the edges of disappointment and maybe trying not to feel the sharpness of a life that didn’t go where they thought it would. Sometimes, it’s easier to pour something into a few glasses than to pour yourself into change.

But it became hard to watch and listen to, even as background noise that normally didn’t bother me, especially when you’ve seen where alcohol abuse leads. I’ve seen the vacant expressions, the tension in the shoulders, and heard the forced laughter. They have good hearts, and I’m not speaking of all of them here, but I’ve seen how the first drink is a relief, and the third, fourth, and fifth are a need. I’ve heard the same conversations told by people who, deep down, are begging not to feel anything at all and masking pain. So I sat there, working quietly in the corner, but now saying, especially come afternoon when they began filtering in, I can’t be here anymore, and what the hell am I doing here? I didn’t feel this way two weeks ago, but now I do, and it’s not a fleeting thing. Perhaps this place served its purpose when it came to inspiration. Believe me, it opened the door to more than just the bar series. Maybe the kegs of afflatus there ran dry. I am not judging (well, perhaps a bit. I’m human); I am just observing. Observing possibly, but I doubt it, with too fine a sensitivity needle because of my own choice when it comes to alcohol, how I grew up with it casting a massive shadow over the family, and the repercussions that can still be felt to this day. Because this isn’t about a night out for those few but rather a pattern. A loop and a trap disguised as comfort.

It’s a reminder of everything I’ve walked away from. Everything I’ve chosen to break free of, even when it would’ve been easier, far more socially accepted, just to join in. I don’t hate bars or hate drinkers. I was at that place, wasn’t I? And tacitly spoke well of most. I just know what this kind of drinking does. And I know that some people don’t realize how far they’ve sunk until the buzz is the only thing keeping them upright. I know once beautiful people, inside and out, who are no longer either. It’s not because of aging, but because of a nasty drinking habit.

It’s been said that Leo Tolstoy was inspired by the people in the village square who unwittingly helped him write. But for now and likely for a while, I’m moving to the library for most of the day and leaving this place behind. I like these people, including the amazing staff who let me work out of here. I will miss some of them and the view of the lake this place affords me, but the library is only two blocks farther down the road.

Why the Bar Regulars Get Away With Almost Everything (and Shouldn’t Always)

If you’ve spent any time at a local bar or restaurant, you’ve probably noticed something curious: there’s a small group of customers who seem to play by a different set of rules. They order off-menu, say things that would get anyone else kicked out, and somehow still get a warm hello, their drink poured before they sit down, and a laugh from the staff even after nearly crossing the line. They’re the regulars—and yes, they often get away with more than most customers.

To the uninitiated, this can be baffling. How and why does that guy get to act like that? Why is the bartender tolerating her interrupting service for the fifth time? Why didn’t the manager say something when the regular started loudly critiquing the new staff or leering at them lasciviously, even if the customer is old enough to be the newbie’s father? The answer isn’t always fair, but it’s pretty simple: time and money.

Regulars have history. They’ve spent years (or what feels like it) filling bar stools, filling the coffers, tipping decently, weathering the highs and lows of ownership changes, menu revisions, new staff rotations, and slow nights. They’ve seen it all—and for better or worse, they’ve become part of the place, like the neon beer sign still hanging on the wall, even though the brand was discontinued during the Reagan administration.

In many cases, they’ve earned that loyalty. They’ve supported the place during tough times, such as the non-tourist season, brought in friends, or even helped out in a pinch, like holding the door for the manager bringing in a cartload of booze, or fixing the TV reception. They may have been around longer than the current staff. Their presence is comforting to some and nostalgic to others. So when they bend a few rules, staff might look the other way—not because they want to, but because it’s not always worth the confrontation.

But here’s the thing: just because someone’s a regular doesn’t mean they get a free pass forever. There’s a big difference between being familiar and being entitled. When regulars start to believe the bar exists for them—and only them—things go downhill. They expect special treatment, monopolize staff attention, cut in line (figuratively or literally), and treat new customers as an intrusion or staff as if they managed them. And that’s when the good kind of regular becomes the bad kind, even leading to their expulsion for a set time because management realizes their attitude is bad for business, and a temporary banishment will teach them who really runs the place.

For new customers, this dynamic can be off-putting. It creates a feeling of “this isn’t your space.” And in hospitality, that’s poison. A good bar or restaurant should feel welcoming, not like you walked into someone else’s living room without an invitation. When the regulars run the show, the place becomes insular, cliquey, and closed off, making it harder for the place to increase revenues and draw new customers, and good reviews. It should be noted (sometimes verbally to the regulars) that they once walked into the place for the first time; strangers in a strange land.

For staff, managing this balancing act is delicate. Challenge a regular and you risk a scene, a bad Yelp review, or a regular who tells everyone “This place is going downhill fast,” even when it isn’t. However, enabling bad behavior is just as risky. It drains good employees, creates uneven standards, and can drive away better-paying, more respectful customers.

The best regulars know the difference and understand that familiarity is a privilege, not a license to be careless. They lead by example, not ego. They respect the staff and make room for new faces, warmly welcoming them. They know what it was like to walk in for the first time and not know the unwritten rules. And they help preserve the vibe, not hijack it.

So, here’s to the regulars who don’t abuse their status and treat staff with respect and everyone like they are welcome. Being a regular is about what you give, such as your loyalty, patience, and, yes, your tips. As for the others? Maybe it’s time someone gently reminded them: no one is too important not to get cut off or tossed out, not just for the night, but permanently.

Benefits of Regular Journaling for Writers

Professional writers can enhance their creativity and freedom by incorporating regular journaling into their routines. Your journal is a space for unfiltered expression, so it can be as neat or messy as you want. No one is grading it, so you can structure it however you want (like this blog entry) and write more formally or in a stream-of-consciousness style. It’s yours to do as you please, allowing you to explore your thoughts and ideas without the pressure of perfection. Should you worry about typos, syntax, editing, etc.? I don’t, for the most part, but it’s up to you. Here’s a breakdown of the advantages of journaling and guidance on how much to write:

Enhanced Clarity and Focus: Journaling helps you declutter your mind, allowing you to identify and prioritize your thoughts, ideas, and concerns. This mental clarity can directly translate to more focused and effective writing sessions.
Emotional Processing and Understanding: Closely tied to No. 1, writing about your feelings and experiences can provide valuable insights into human emotions, enriching your character development and storytelling. It can also help manage stress and anxiety and improve your overall emotional well-being. Consistent journaling allows you to track patterns in your thoughts, behaviors, and reactions. This self-reflection can lead to a deeper understanding of your own perspectives and biases, which can inform your writing and make it more authentic.
Tracking Progress and Growth: By revisiting past entries, you can your identify recurring themes or challenges, and acknowledge your achievements. This can be highly motivating and provide a sense of accomplishment.
Idea Generation and Brainstorming: Your journal can become a dedicated space for brainstorming new story ideas, plot points, and character sketches. Regularly jotting down thoughts, even seemingly random ones, can spark unexpected creative connections.
Strengthened Writing Skills: Like any skill, writing improves with practice. Regular journaling provides a low-pressure environment to hone your writing voice, experiment with different styles, and build fluency.
Overcoming Writer’s Block: When facing a creative block, reviewing your journal entries or simply writing freely about the blockage can help unlock new perspectives and break through the impasse.

There’s no one-size-fits-all answer to how long or how many words you should write in your journal. The most important aspect is consistency, but notice I didn’t say daily anywhere. For some folks, that works. However, every few days works better for many. That said, here are some general guidelines and factors to consider:

Time-Based vs. Word Count: Some people find it easier to set a time limit (e.g., 15-30 minutes), while others prefer a word count goal (e.g., 300-750 words). Experiment to see what feels more sustainable and less like a chore.
Start Small: If you’re new to journaling, begin with a smaller commitment. Even 5-10 minutes or a few sentences can be beneficial. Try gradually increasing the duration or word count as you build the habit. However, there are no hard and fast rules; writing 37 words on Monday, 985 on Tuesday, and 102 on Wednesday is fine too. Don’t feel pressured to hit a rigid target.
Quality Over Quantity: Focus on writing genuinely and thoughtfully rather than just hitting a word count. The value of journaling lies in the process of reflection and expression.
Consider Your Goals: If you’re using your journal for idea generation, you might focus on jotting down bullet points and quick thoughts. If you’re processing emotions, longer, more descriptive entries might be more helpful.
Research Suggests: Some research indicates that journaling for 15 minutes a few times a week can have positive effects on mental and physical health. Aiming for daily practice if that works for you, even for a shorter duration, can enhance these benefits.
Online journal or handwritten: Ah, the ongoing debate. Do I journal in Word, Google Docs, or some other electronic form, or do I use a handwritten journal such as a Moleskine or any other notebook? My answer is both. My hand gets sore before my thoughts end, so I switched to the cloud a few years ago. However, I have a notebook by my side to jot down ideas, and it’s a sprawling mess I wouldn’t have any other way. What about privacy? If I croak tomorrow, someone will find my handwritten journals anyway (I wish I had kept them all). I participate in nothing illegal or inflammatory, so Google or Microsoft can read what I wrote now and when I am gone, and I don’t care if they do.
Famous Writers’ Habits: Some well-known writers use specific daily word counts in their professional work (e.g., Ernest Hemingway aimed for around 500 words and Stephen King shoots for 2,000). However, your journal is personal and outside the famous writer’s word goal, and the pressure should be lower.

Aiming for a regular journaling practice that feels manageable and beneficial for you is key. It shouldn’t be a grind. Start with a realistic time or word count goal and adjust as needed. Make it a consistent habit to reap the numerous rewards for your well-being and professional writing career.

When Life Flips on a Dime And You’re Left Reeling

You can be riding high one minute and knocked flat on your ass the next. That’s the nature of life; not just unpredictable, but often indifferent to your plans, years of loyalty, or even the carefully curated image you’ve projected to the world.

I’ve seen it happen several times in the last year. A friend who worked for nearly two decades for a respected European publication just got downsized. Nineteen years of showing up, putting in the work, and being dependable were gone with a single decision.

After four years at his post-Christie job, another former work colleague was just downsized. He is one of the nicest people you could ever meet. Before he was with us at Christie Digital, I had the chance to interview him at his then-employer for a Christie installation, and he couldn’t have been a better interview. Curiously, the afternoon I was set to interview him for a Christie feature when we were both there, I was let go in a major restructuring. It would have made a great story about his naval background and business expertise, but I had to text him that I was no longer with the company and couldn’t do the feature.

These are only two of several I could put into this blog entry. It’s easy to think that if we do all the “right” things—work hard, stay loyal, buy the house, build the life—that we’re somehow shielded. That the bottom won’t fall out. But these stories, and my own, say otherwise.

I know this because I’ve been through it too. Downsized. Disoriented. Disconnected from the routine that had once defined me. You start questioning everything: your worth, your choices, your faith, and your next move. And then, after the initial shock wears off, comes the sobering realization that you must pick up the pieces and move forward, and it’s not always the direction you think it will be.

But here’s what I’ve noticed. When life strips away your titles, your salary, your comfort zone, it also gives you something: clarity. It may take a long time, longer than you initially thought, to reach this point, but you do. It’s a hard-won, battle-scarred, emotional rollercoaster of clarity, sure, but clarity nonetheless. You begin to see what matters, not just what looks good on LinkedIn or gets Likes on Facebook.

You remember how to live lean and how to walk with humility. You remember that your value isn’t tethered to your job title, your square footage, or what kind of car you drive, and you remember that you’re not the only one going through it. Everyone is carrying pain of one sort or another.

A strange sort of fellowship forms between people who’ve had the rug pulled out from under them. Whether you were let go after 19 years or four or lived modestly or in a larger place, the common thread is the reminder that we’re all vulnerable—and that none of this is permanent.

So what do you do? You reach out. You send the text of support because you understand and have been there. And maybe, just maybe, you take what you’re learning and build something better. Not necessarily bigger. But better. And what do you become, battle scars and all? You become more grounded and more resilient.

Life will flip again and again because it goes in cycles. You will have some great years and some years where you feel you are stuck in the mud or worse, sinking in the mud. But remember that people do care about you, and while they may not always be able to help, they are thinking of you and pulling for you.

May Is The Month That Can’t Make Up Its Mind

As I wrote about last year, living near the Great Lakes brings all sorts of weather, sometimes all four seasons in one day. That said, one of the craziest months is not March, when the weather can be miserable but spring officially arrives; it is May. Living near the Great Lakes in May is like dealing with someone charming, unpredictable, moody, and just a little unstable. One day, it’s 27°C (81°F), the sun’s out, the hornets are hanging around, the birds are singing, and you’re sitting on a patio in shorts, quaffing your beverage of choice and wondering if it’s too early to declare summer is here even though the calendar says later in June, at least officially Then, BANG! The next day, it’s 10°C (50°F), raining sideways, and the wind feels like it has a personal grudge. It says, “Oh, you thought the warm and sunny days were finally here? We’re not done with the crappy weather yet.”

May, especially the first week or even the second and third, is when you can get sunburned on a Tuesday and chilled to the bone by Thursday with a few flurries. On another day, the forecast might say 23°C, but if there’s dampness in the air and a wall of clouds overhead, it somehow feels like 13. The temperature might say one thing, but your body says, “Nope, it is definitely hoodie weather, but it’s okay to wear shorts.” There’s no logic to it; you have to experience it to understand that strange weather phenomenon.

This meteorological moodiness is a well-known reality for anyone living near a Great Lake or two. Try living within a two-hour drive of three of them, like I used to do. I’m down to one now. The sheer size of the lakes creates microclimates and unpredictable shifts. One area gets socked in with fog and drizzle, and 20 minutes down the road, it’s sunny with only a few clouds and 26°C. You often hear, “No, we didn’t get any rain in our area.” Winds off the lake can turn a pleasant afternoon into a jacket-worthy affair in minutes. Cold fronts linger and warm systems fizzle. The only consistent thing about May is its inconsistency.

And still, we fall for it every year. We gamble with gardening too early, put away our heavy jackets too soon, and plan barbecues like the weather owes us something. After all, “It’s May for crying out loud!” We’ll believe summer has arrived because the tulips are up, but then get a frost warning for tonight so we better cover the tomatoes.

May brings shorts and flip-flops, but sometimes fleece. It brings a summery gin and tonic one day on the patio, and a bowl of comforting beef barley soup the next day to warm us up. It brings us sunglasses one day, and maybe even a windshield scraper the next morning. One day you’re on a dock or boating on the lake, and the next you’re lighting the fireplace. And yet, we embrace it because after the long gray stretch of winter and early spring, even May’s unpredictability feels like progress.

It’s not summer. It’s not quite spring. It’s just May; moody, unpredictable, a little ridiculous, and essential after a cold, damp winter and the lead-in to summer, where we’ll probably complain about the heat and humidity for three months like we always do and, despite the beauty surrounding the Great Lakes, declare that we’ve had it with damp winters and unpredictable May, and are moving to the Caribbean. That is, until we realize how much we will miss the change of seasons and maybe even May.