Life In The Facebook Group: The “Anywhere in the GTA” Travel Question

Travel Facebook groups can be incredibly helpful. People share great restaurants, hidden attractions, scenic drives, and places most visitors would never discover on their own.

But every now and then a question appears that is so broad it becomes unintentionally hilarious.

It usually goes something like this: “Looking for a good hotel in the GTA.” That’s the entire statement. No neighborhood. No price range. No reason for the visit. Just the GTA.

For anyone unfamiliar with southern Ontario geography, the Greater Toronto Area is not a small place.

It stretches across several major cities, dozens of towns, and roughly seven million people across 7,125 square kilometers (2,750 square miles). There are hundreds of hotels and motels of every kind, from ultra-luxurious to the Marriott and Hilton chains to budget hotels and motels that have seen much better days. 

And yet the question hangs there in the Facebook group like a mystery. “Looking for a good hotel in the GTA.”

Within minutes, the suggestions begin. Someone recommends a hotel near Pearson Airport. Another suggests a boutique hotel downtown.

Someone else recommends a place in Markham (to the northeast), some 20 miles from downtown. Then someone from Mississauga in the west end weighs in. And before long, the list includes places that are an hour or more apart, depending on traffic. Which, in Toronto, given the regular slew of traffic accidents and never-ending construction, could mean three hours apart.

Eventually, someone asks the obvious question. “Where in the GTA?”

But by then, the comment thread has already taken on a life of its own. Twenty suggestions. Thirty suggestions. A handful of disagreements. And someone is inevitably recommending a place that closed last year. 

Meanwhile, the original poster quietly disappears. Perhaps overwhelmed by the sudden list of hotels stretching from Oshawa to Oakville.

Or perhaps realizing that the GTA may be just slightly too large to summarize in a single question.

The Bartender Wasn’t the Problem

I was at my usual hangout with friends yesterday, settling in to watch England take on Norway in the World Cup – which England won. We had arrived early enough to grab good seats at the bar, order some food, and enjoy the pre-match conversation that always seems to happen before a big game. 

There was one empty seat beside me.

A man walked in, sat down, and immediately asked, no, he told me, “I hope you’re cheering for England.”

“I am,” I replied. “Although I have a feeling Norway will win.”

That was apparently all the invitation he needed.

For the next couple of minutes, I received an unsolicited lecture on England’s versus Norway’s lineups, why the English would prevail, and, somehow, before I knew it, a rudimentary history lesson that stretched from modern football all the way back to the British Empire and the Middle Ages.

I nodded politely. Internally, I was thinking, Thank you for the history lesson; I’m well-acquainted with British and European history, having read at least a dozen books on the subjects. 

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of it; even though I reiterated twice that I didn’t want Norway to win, I simply had a feeling they would. 

The volume kept increasing, and yes, you could safely call it belligerence. Every few seconds came another booming “Go England!” that echoed through the room – despite the already talkative crowd and despite kickoff still being an hour away. It became obvious that he wasn’t simply enthusiastic. He had already done quite a bit of celebrating before arriving.

When he tried to order a drink, the bartender refused – offering him water instead. Then another bartender refused.

Predictably, he became upset and told everyone within earshot what happened. Not one person was empathetic or sympathetic. He argued. He raised his voice. He made a scene before finally leaving. Only afterward did I learn it wasn’t the first time. Apparently, it was the third occasion he had arrived already intoxicated and had been refused service, not to mention annoying other customers and being almost confrontational. 

As I watched him storm out, I knew the bartenders weren’t the problem. Both of them have been bartenders for at least a decade each and have seen just about everything. 

The customer was the problem. 

One of the easiest things we do as people is confuse consequences with unfairness.

We make a decision. The decision produces an entirely predictable outcome. Then we become angry at the person who applies the consequence.

But the consequence didn’t arise on its own.

He wasn’t refused because the bartenders disliked him. He wasn’t refused because they wanted to spoil his evening or because they were Norway supporters.

He was refused because they were doing exactly what they’re legally and ethically expected to do. Responsible alcohol service isn’t optional. It’s part of the job and the law. 

The decision that determined the outcome happened long before he walked through the door. Someone had several drinks before arriving and decided that wasn’t enough. Someone decided another drink or three at the bar would surely be fine and that the establishment would naturally oblige. 

By the time he reached the bar, the difficult decision belonged to someone else, and they did the right thing – refusing him service. 

What struck me most that afternoon wasn’t even the refusal itself. It was the professionalism of the staff. They stayed calm but firm. They didn’t match his volume. They didn’t insult him. They simply stood their ground and applied the same standard they would apply to anyone else.

That’s often the least appreciated part of customer service. People remember the person who shouted. They rarely remember the employee who quietly prevented a situation from becoming much worse.

By the time kickoff arrived, the atmosphere had returned to normal. Friends were talking football again. Food was arriving. The match became the focus, exactly as it should have been. Yeah, it was noisy in the place, but it was a noise you’d expect from cheering fans and not at all chaotic or vulgar. It was a respectful noise. 

The loudest person in the room had gone home convinced he’d been treated unfairly.

From where I was sitting, I saw something completely different. I saw someone experiencing the entirely predictable result of choices he had already made. Sometimes the easiest thing in the world is to blame the bartender rather than look in the mirror at the real problem. 

Some Places Should Stay Dog-Free

I like dogs.

In fact, I’ve had a dog and understand why so many people consider them part of the family. They’re loyal companions, they get us outside, and for many people, a vacation isn’t complete if they have to leave them behind.

We took our dog (Shepherd/Lab mix) on camping trips, to the cottage, and on hikes – but we were always careful to keep him leashed when others approached. He loved everyone but was also well-trained – never jumping on people, never barking unless it was that happy yelp when he knew he was going for a walk, and he never, ever, came even close to biting someone. 

But I also think there are places where dogs simply don’t belong.

A recent incident at my local hangout reinforced that opinion.

The restaurant owners had what seemed like a reasonable compromise. Rather than allowing dogs throughout the patio, they designated a small corner – just a few tables – as dog-friendly. It gave pet owners a place to enjoy a meal with their dogs while allowing everyone else to sit elsewhere.

A lady with a dog moved to another table in the non-dog section to join a friend – something that was clearly not permitted, but she decided the rules don’t apply to her. Then her dog jumped up and bit another customer who was walking by. I saw the whole thing. 

Thankfully, the person appeared to be okay, but the dog had reportedly been growling at others earlier. The restaurant staff and owners acted quickly, and the owner and dog were told to leave.

As I watched everything unfold, one thought kept coming back to me. This is exactly why I don’t think dogs belong on restaurant patios. Before anyone starts typing an angry comment, let me be clear: I’m not blaming all dogs or all dog owners. The overwhelming majority are perfectly well-behaved.

The problem is that restaurants aren’t controlled environments. Servers are rushing by carrying carefully balanced trays of beverages and armfuls of hot food. Children are walking around. Other dogs may be on the patio. Chairs scrape, dishes crash, people speak loudly, and strangers are constantly moving through the space. Even a calm dog can become anxious or overstimulated.

And if something does happen, who’s responsible? The restaurant.

It isn’t hard to imagine the legal consequences if someone suffers a serious bite or injury. The dog’s owner may be liable, but the restaurant could also face insurance claims or lawsuits simply for allowing the dog onto the premises.

That’s a lot of risk for what is ultimately a convenience.

I know the argument.

“Dogs are family.”

I understand that completely. But families also recognize that not every member goes everywhere. We don’t bring toddlers to late-night movies. We don’t bring parrots to grocery stores. We don’t bring dogs or cats to church services. Every place has boundaries because every place serves a different purpose.

Restaurants are places where people eat. Some diners have allergies. Others are afraid of dogs. Some simply don’t want an unfamiliar animal sitting a few feet away while they’re trying to enjoy lunch. That doesn’t make them anti-dog. It just means they have different expectations for a restaurant.

Sometimes I wonder where this trend ends. If restaurant patios become the norm, do we eventually argue that dogs should be inside the restaurant too? What about sports stadiums? Grocery and drug stores? Art galleries and museums? Church services? Libraries? The list could go on.

Service dogs are an entirely different discussion. They perform essential tasks for people with disabilities and deserve every accommodation the law provides.

Pets are different. Loving your dog doesn’t automatically mean every public place should be expected to welcome it. And let’s face it, no one but the owner knows whether it is aggressive. The person at the next table doesn’t. 

I still like dogs. I just think a restaurant patio is one place where dogs shouldn’t be.

Your Lack of Planning Isn’t the Restaurant’s Problem 

I’ll say one thing about the local hangout (and being by water): it inspires a lot of slice-of-life blog posts and provides a seemingly bottomless pit of ideas – most of which come by sheer observation or letting my mind wander. 

Anyway, less than half an hour before Canada’s World Cup match against Morocco this past Saturday, the local hangout is almost full. Reserved signs are sitting on the few empty tables both inside and outside, and people who made those reservations are still arriving. 

Then come the inevitable walk-ins.

“Table for four.”

“Table for eight.”

“Table for ten; we’d like to watch the game. No, we don’t have a reservation.” Yup, table for ten, seven minutes before the game. No reservation.

The answer is the same every time.

“Sorry, we’re fully booked – including the spots at the bar.”

And just as predictable (sadly) as the question is the reaction of some.

A few people roll their eyes, get annoyed, mutter under their breath – one even slammed his fist on the host station –  and storm back out the door as though the restaurant has somehow wronged them.

Really?

Canada defeated South Africa six days before playing Morocco, and the excitement around this match had been building all week. Everyone in Canada and around the world knew when it was being played. Everyone knew this was the only place in town where you could reliably watch the game on huge TVs and with a crowd. Buckhorn is a small town – more like a hamlet, actually. 

My friends and I knew that too, so we made a reservation for Saturday as soon as the South Africa-Canada game was over. Problem solved. 

What really struck me is that this wasn’t even the first time I’d seen it.

The exact same thing happened before Canada’s match against South Africa. Five minutes before kickoff, parties of six and eight walked through the door asking for a table or a place at the bar so they could watch the game. By then, the restaurant was already packed with customers who had reserved their spots well in advance.

The answer was no.

Yet some people still looked genuinely surprised, as if the staff should somehow find another table hiding in the back room and violate fire code regulations. Others walked out frustrated, directing that frustration at the restaurant instead of asking themselves the obvious question: “Why didn’t we reserve?”

When you know one of the biggest sporting events of the year is about to start, waiting until the last few minutes isn’t taking a chance. It’s practically guaranteeing disappointment.

What puzzles me is the mindset that somehow the restaurant should magically have room because someone decided to show up at the last minute. It’s as if planning ahead is optional, but accommodating poor planning is mandatory.

It doesn’t work that way.

Restaurants have only so many tables. Once they’re spoken for, they’re spoken for. The staff can’t invent another dining room or squeeze ten people around a table built for four simply because someone is upset.

The people who reserved their tables shouldn’t lose them because someone else didn’t bother to make a phone call a few days earlier.

In fact, those reservations represent customers who planned well and respected the business enough to let them know they were coming.

Why should they be penalized?

This isn’t unique to restaurants, either. We see it everywhere. Flights fill up. Hotels reach capacity. Campgrounds and resorts are booked months in advance. Yet every so often someone acts genuinely shocked that they can’t get in simply because they showed up.

Then comes the frustration, directed at the business instead of the person who actually created the problem. Themselves.

I actually felt bad for the host, who had to endure snarky behavior from a few who thought they deserved a seat or four, and from some who tried to sneak in (they were caught). The staff wasn’t doing anything wrong. They weren’t playing favorites or holding tables just to be difficult. They were simply honoring the reservations customers had already made.

That’s called good customer service. The people who walked away disappointed weren’t victims of bad service. They were victims of bad planning.

You know as well as I do the old saying that poor planning on your part doesn’t constitute an emergency on mine. It fits perfectly here.

The World Cup comes around every four years. If you know a big match is coming and you want one of the best seats in town, make a reservation.

It’s free and takes about two minutes. 

And unlike entitlement, it actually guarantees you a table.

When the Band Changes And Somehow Stays the Same

If you follow a band long enough, you eventually realize something uncomfortable: the band you fell in love with doesn’t quite exist anymore.

And yet… it does.

That tension between continuity and change is what has kept classic rock bands alive for decades. Perhaps no band illustrates that better than The Rolling Stones.

When people talk about “the Stones,” they often mean a feeling more than a lineup. But the lineup has changed more than fans sometimes like to admit.

The early core – Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Brian Jones, Bill Wyman, and Charlie Watts – defined the band’s original chemistry. It was loose, raw, dangerous, and unpredictable. You got the sense it could fall apart at any moment – but never did.

Then came the Mick Taylor era. Technically brilliant, more fluid, more melodic. Many say that was the best era of the band – but we’re not here to debate that at this time. The band tightened up musically, even as the lifestyle around it became more chaotic. Some fans love that period for its musicianship; others missed the scrappier edge.

When Ronnie Wood joined, something shifted again. Wood wasn’t just a guitarist – he was a personality that fit. The interplay between him and Richards brought back some of that weaving, conversational feel. Less precision than Taylor, perhaps, but more of that “band in a room” energy.

Then, quietly, more changes. Side musician Chuck Leavell increasingly higher in the mix onstage and termed “Musical Director” (ugh), those annoying backup singers, and Darryl Jones steps in on bass after Wyman left. A pro’s pro, incredibly solid – but not an original member. You feel the difference, even if the notes are right.

And more recently, Steve Jordan took over after Charlie Watts passed away. That one hits differently. Watts wasn’t just a drummer; he was the feel. Keith Richards once said, “Charlie Watts is the Rolling Stones.” Jordan brings power and drive, but longtime fans are still adjusting. It’s not resistance; it’s recognition. It still seems odd seeing him back there. Something fundamental has changed.

This isn’t unique to the Stones.

The Doobie Brothers transformed when Michael McDonald took over the sound. Grittier guitar-driven rock gave way to smooth, soulful, keyboard-led arrangements. Same band name, but a very different feel.

Chicago shifted from horn-heavy jazz rock to polished power ballads. REO Speedwagon moved from bar-band grit to radio dominance.

In every case, the band didn’t just evolve; they adapted to survive.

That’s the reality: bands that stay exactly the same often disappear. The ones that last are the ones willing or forced to change.

But there’s a tradeoff. What you gain: longevity, consistency, broader appeal. What you risk losing: edge, unpredictability, that fragile chemistry that made the band feel alive. Fans feel this instinctively. That’s why someone can say, “They’re still great,” and in the same breath, “But it’s not quite the same.” “I like their early stuff better” – which, again, is another topic. 

And they’re right on both counts. A band isn’t just a collection of songs. It’s a specific mix of people, at a specific time, under specific conditions. Change any one of those, and the chemistry shifts. The remarkable thing about bands like the Stones isn’t that they changed. It’s that, somehow, through all those changes, you can still hear enough of the original spirit to recognize them.

That’s not something you can engineer. It’s something you either have or you don’t.

Thanks, Captain Obvious – We’re Watching the Game Too

There is a sports fan who does not watch a World Cup game so much as narrate it for everyone within earshot. I’m not talking about analyzing it or providing an interesting observation. I’m talking narrating it. 

“Two minutes left in the first half!”

Thank you. We noticed the clock on the screen and even caught glimpses of the massive LED one in the stadium when the camera angle was right. 

“Corner kick!”

Yes, that would explain why the player is standing by the corner flag with the ball.

“Yellow card!”

Good catch. For a second there, I thought FIFA had introduced purple cards for warnings just for this World Cup, and yellow stood for signaling the concession stand that you need a beer. 

I was watching the Canada-Morocco World Cup game with friends at our hangout when a nearby patron – not part of our group – slipped into that role. The self-appointed play-by-play announcer. Every obvious thing on the screen needed to be announced out loud, as if the rest of us had suddenly lost the ability to see. I mean, there are four big-screen TVs at least 72 inches across each in the place, with one on each side. 

Then Morocco scored.

“The goalie just missed that by a few inches.”

Really? We somehow missed that during the live play, the slow-motion replay from behind the net, the replay from midfield, the up-close replay, the reverse angle, the overhead camera, and the close-up of the goalkeeper watching it go in and hit the mesh. 

A little later – near the end of the game, with Morocco up 2-0 – the fourth official held up the electronic board.

“Eight minutes of stoppage time!”

Thank you again. The entire bar restaurant failed to notice the giant illuminated number being held over his head while the television graphic displayed “8:00” and the commentators discussed why there would be eight minutes.

It reminded me of the person who stands in a rainstorm and says, “It’s really coming down.” Yes. We’re all standing in the same rain. Or the person in a restaurant who watches the servers for three minutes and suddenly appoints himself floor manager. “They should open another section.” Hmm, maybe that section is closed because a party of 10 reserved it and will be here shortly. 

Sports simply has its own version.

There is nothing wrong with talking during a game. That’s part of the fun. Half the reason to watch at a restaurant rather than at home is the shared experience. The cheers, the groans, the nervous laughter, and the collective gasp when a dangerous cross flies into the penalty area. Complete strangers become teammates for ninety minutes.

That part is wonderful. What is not wonderful is providing a running narration of things every person in the room has already seen.

A player lines up for a free kick.

“Free kick!”

A goalkeeper catches the ball.

“Keeper’s got it!”

A substitute stands beside the fourth official.

“They’re making a change!”

At some point you want to ask, “Are you looking for some kind of validation from us to confirm what we can all see?”

Now, if someone wants to explain why a team keeps getting caught offside, why the midfield is losing possession, or why the coach should make a tactical substitution, I’m all ears. That’s conversation that adds something

Simply announcing what just happened two seconds after everyone watched it happen isn’t commentary. It’s closed captioning with a pulse.

The funny thing is, I’m sure people who do this don’t even realize they’re doing it. They’re excited. They’re caught up in the match. Sports has a way of turning perfectly normal adults into living remote controls.

“Shoot!”

“Pass it!”

“Get it out!”

As though the players, thousands of miles away, have been waiting all tournament for strategic advice from a restaurant in Buckhorn.

And yes, I’ve probably done some version of it myself over the years. We all blurt things out during big moments.

But there’s a difference between reacting and narrating. Reacting is natural. Narrating every obvious development is like Captain Obvious grabbing the microphone and refusing to give it back.

By the end of the match, I was almost waiting for the grand finale.

“The referee blew the whistle! The game is over.”

Really? I thought they were going to play until Thursday.

The best sports conversations happen in the spaces between the obvious. The “why” instead of the “what.” Why was that defender out of position? Why didn’t Canada attack down the wings more often? Why did the coach wait so long to make a substitution?

That’s the interesting stuff.

But “corner kick”?

“Eight minutes of stoppage time”?

“The goalie almost had it”?

We know. We’re watching too.

The Facebook Help Desk

Local Facebook groups were originally created so neighbors could share useful information. However, many of these groups have quietly evolved into what might best be described as an unofficial customer service department for the entire town.

Instead of contacting the place that actually has the answer, people often ask the Facebook group. And the questions can be quite specific.

“Does anyone know how to do a global money transfer from TD Bank to ANZ Bank in Australia, and how long it will take until he gets it? My cousin’s birthday is next week and I want to send him some money.”

You read a question like that and wonder if the person has considered the radical possibility of asking the bank. The bank, after all, is the organization that specializes in transferring money internationally and they do it hundreds of times a day.

But no. The investigation has been brought to the community. Within minutes, the replies begin.

“Maybe try PayPal or Revolut. I’ve used them a few times.”

“What’s Revolut?” This is usually asked by someone other than the original poster.

“My cousin sent money overseas once.”

Someone else suggests going to the branch, calling them, or checking the website. Which is exactly what most people would have done in the first place.

Another favorite category involves retail questions.

“Does the local Home Hardware carry coffeemakers?”

This question appears in a Facebook group that contains hundreds of residents, none of whom actually work at the store. But the question is asked anyway. And once again, the community responds.

“I think I saw one there.” “Maybe.” “They carry small appliances sometimes.” “Try Canadian Tire.”

Eventually, someone posts the revolutionary suggestion. “You could call them or check their website.”

Which seems like a reasonable idea, although it arrives several comments into the discussion.

Then there are the government service questions.

“What do I need to get a passport?”

This one appears frequently. You might assume that passports are handled by a government agency with an official website containing detailed instructions. And you would be correct. But why go to the source when the neighborhood Facebook group is available?

The responses pour in.

“You need a birth certificate.” “And photos.” “I think you need two references.” “My daughter got one last year but I forgot what she needed.”

Someone eventually posts a link to the official government website, which contains the exact information that could have been found in about six seconds with a search engine. But by that point, the thread already has fifteen comments.

What makes these posts so fascinating is not the lack of available information. It’s the instinct to ask the crowd first. Rather than contacting the bank, the store, or the government office that actually knows the answer, the question is directed to several hundred neighbors who may or may not have any relevant knowledge.

In a strange way, it’s a modern version of asking the town square.

Years ago, someone might have walked down the street and asked their neighbor if they knew where to buy a good coffeemaker.

Today, the same impulse appears online. The difference is that instead of asking one person, you’re asking three hundred. And many of them are guessing. Still, there’s something slightly charming about it. It shows that people still think of their community as a place where questions can be asked, and help might appear from unexpected places.

Even if the most accurate answer is usually the same one that was available all along.

Call the store. Ask the bank. Or visit the website that explains exactly how to get a passport.

But then again, if everyone did that, the local Facebook group would be a much quieter place. And we’d lose one of the most entertaining features of modern community life.

The Post That Turns the Entire Facebook Group Into an Argument

Every local Facebook group has a certain type of post that reliably produces the same result. It starts calmly enough when someone asks a simple question: “Can anyone recommend a good electrical contractor?” Or maybe: “Does anyone know a reliable mechanic in town?”

Within minutes, the first helpful replies appear. “Try Mike’s Auto.” “Try the Canadian Tire.” “John at Reliable Electric did our place.” So far, everything is normal.

Then someone enters the conversation with a very different experience. “Stay away from Mike’s Auto. Worst service I’ve ever had.” Now the thread begins to wobble slightly. Another person jumps in. “That’s strange. They’ve always been great for me.” Someone else adds: “They overcharged my sister and did unauthorized work.” Another voice appears. “I’ve used them for 15 years. Never had a problem.”

And just like that, the calm recommendation thread begins to turn into a debate. Within a few more comments, the situation escalates.

“People need to stop bashing small businesses.” “I’m not bashing anyone. I’m telling the truth.” “Well, that’s not MY experience.” “I know three people who had problems with them.” “Maybe YOU were the problem.”

At this point, the original poster – the person who simply wanted a mechanic – has quietly disappeared. The thread now belongs to the combatants. Soon, someone enters with a completely different angle.

“You should support local businesses instead of big chains like Canadian Tire.” Another person disagrees. “Local businesses rip people off sometimes, too.”

And just like that, the conversation has expanded from mechanics to the philosophy of small-business economics. Meanwhile, someone who has not read the previous thirty comments posts again: “Try Mike’s Auto.”

Which re-ignites the argument. Eventually, a moderator steps in with the digital equivalent of a whistle. “Comments are getting out of hand. Please keep it civil or you will be removed from this group.”

For a few minutes, things calm down until someone adds one final comment.

“Well, if people don’t want honest opinions, don’t ask for recommendations.”

At which point the moderator quietly locks the thread while the mystery of the best mechanic in town remains unsolved.

The funniest part is what happens afterward. A few hours later, the original poster reappears. “Thanks, everyone. I found someone.” They never say who and wisely avoid restarting the debate.

Some Months You Don’t Win. You Just Get Through Them

June 2026 actually started off pretty good.

Work was going well. My body and mind were crackling with energy and enthusiasm. It felt like I was finally getting into an even stronger groove after a long, cold, snowy winter and a cool spring. Then, somewhere around the middle of the month, it was like someone flipped a switch.

The weather turned into this never-ending stretch of gray skies. The kind where you keep thinking, “Okay, tomorrow has to be sunny, right?”

But nope. Just more clouds. The weather was warm enough, but the incessant gray was starting to put me in a bad mood. Then all the little stuff started piling up.

The water pump needed replacing, which somehow turned a normal morning into a weird back-to-150-years-ago camping situation. Old family stuff popped back up out of nowhere, bringing along feelings I really didn’t feel like dealing with again. I had an ear infection.

There were days when my brain just felt… off. I still got my work done, but it took way more effort than usual. By the afternoon, I was wiped. I also ended up eating out way more than I wanted to because, honestly, I just didn’t have the energy to make anything at home. Which, in the long run, makes things worse especially when the credit card bill arrives in your inbox. I also engaged in my killer: night and emotional eating. 

None of these things was a huge deal on their own. But one right after the other? 

Yeah, they added up. I think that’s how a lot of tough months go. It’s usually not one big disaster. It’s more like a bunch of small things slowly wearing you down.

Then one day near the end of the month, you wake up and realize you’re carrying around this weight that wasn’t there before.

And you’re like, “Wait… what happened?”

Something I’ve learned over time but still have trouble fully applying: When a month like that hits, don’t try to fix everything all at once.

Don’t turn July 1 into the day you suddenly become a marathon runner, lose twenty pounds, reorganize your whole house, read for an hour every morning, and cook every meal from scratch. That usually doesn’t end well.

Recovery isn’t some big, dramatic thing. It’s actually pretty simple. Go to bed earlier and don’t spend the evening scrolling when you could and should be sleeping. And you know what? Sleep in on a Saturday or Sunday morning despite the so-called experts saying you should get up at the same time every day – even weekends – because sometimes that is what your body and especially your mind is desperate for. Believe me, many, many times I’ve ignored the “expert” advice, woken up at 10 a.m. on a weekend morning, and felt like a new man. The other day, I went to bed at 8 p.m. and woke up at 7 a.m., sleeping right through. The experts say that I had too much sleep but I felt so much better. I did that Saturday night too, and lo and behold, as I write this on Sunday, I feel better. It was a lesson I should have applied long ago – go to bed earlier, you are not a kid anymore. 

Drink plenty of water. Cook one decent and healthy meal. Don’t eat too much. Take a nice walk on a trail or, if no trails are nearby, on the sidewalk. Read something uplifting – not a whole book, just a chapter. 

If you’re lucky enough to live beside water as I do, just sit and watch it for 30 minutes (no scrolling or checking emails) without trying to solve everything in your head.

None of that will magically erase a rough month. But it helps little by little. 

I also think we don’t give enough credit to emotional fatigue. If someone spent ten hours digging a ditch, nobody would expect them to jump out of bed the next day, excited to do it again.

But emotionally, we kind of expect that from ourselves. And sometimes… we just can’t.

Sometimes your brain just needs quiet. A few days where little or nothing is happening.

I’ve also learned that beating yourself up doesn’t help. Trust me, I’ve beaten myself up more times than I can count because, although it is much better than it used to be, I tend to think in black and white. 

“I should’ve eaten better.”

“I should’ve worked out more.”

“I should’ve handled that differently.”

Maybe. But going over that stuff again and again doesn’t give you more energy. It just drains what little you’ve got left. As one professional golfer told me during my interview with him: “Regrets are a waste of time.”

Funny enough, creativity works the same way. Some weeks, ideas come faster than I can write them down. Other weeks, I’m just staring at a blank page, wondering if I’ve run out of things to say (even though I know I haven’t). 

Then out of nowhere, an idea shows up while I’m walking, sitting by the lake, or just watching people go about their day. It turns out the well wasn’t empty; it was just refilling and I have to let it happen. 

Maybe we’re like that, too. Sometimes the most productive thing we can do is just recover.

Maybe that’s what the second half of June was trying to teach me: Not every month (or half of a month) is meant to be a big win. I love to use the golf illustrations: one week, a player will win the tournament by five strokes; the next two weeks, he finishes T23 and T9. Decent finishes, but not exactly highlight reel finishes. 

Old and painful memories fade again and the sun eventually comes back out. As I write this on a Sunday morning (June 28), the temperature is already over 80 degrees and there is not a cloud in the sky for the second day in a row. 

And one morning you wake up, pour yourself a coffee, and realize something you didn’t notice before. “I think I’m starting to feel like myself again.”

The Four Layers of Noise

I like small restaurants. Not so much the fancy ones with linen napkins and quiet lighting. I mean the little neighborhood places – the ones with eight tables and a bar that might seat four people if nobody breathes too deeply.

You go there because it’s familiar and comfortable. A place to sit down, eat something decent, and have a conversation. Or at least that’s the idea. However, every now and then, you walk into a place that feels less like a restaurant and more like the inside of a malfunctioning jukebox.

Let me explain. First, there’s the death metal. Yes, death metal. Blasting out of the kitchen. The door is wide open, so the sound pours into the dining room like a freight train made entirely of screaming guitars and drums that sound like someone attacking a pile of sheet metal with a hammer or using a chainsaw. Now here’s the thing: the clientele in this restaurant is older than I am by a good margin. Most of the people here likely remember when Frank Sinatra was still releasing new music. Death metal is not exactly their demographic.

You look around and see people chewing their sandwiches while a vocalist in the background sounds like he’s being eaten alive by wolves.

But wait. That’s just Layer One. Layer Two arrives from the restaurant speakers. The place has piped-in music, which is perfectly normal because many restaurants do. Except now we have two competing soundtracks, both on high volume: death metal roaring and grinding out of the kitchen, and loud country music drifting through the wall speakers in the dining area.

But we’re not done. Layer Three: the television mounted on the wall. It’s the news channel with the volume turned up so everyone can hear it (yes, it’s ironic, isn’t it?). Turn up the TV volume so it can be heard over the loud death metal and country music. It’s the news channel looping endlessly. This is the 28th time this hour we’ve heard about the government’s budget shortfall this year. The same headlines are repeating every few minutes like some kind of informational Groundhog Day.

Now the room has three different audio tracks competing for dominance: Death metal. Restaurant background music. Television news.

Oh, we’re not done yet. Somehow – incredibly – this still isn’t the loudest thing in the room. Because we have Layer Four. 

The owner. This owner provides a running commentary on everything she does, at a volume that suggests she believes the restaurant is roughly the size of an airport terminal.

“I’M JUST GOING TO PUT THESE PLATES HERE!”

“OH – I NEED TO GRAB THE SALT!”

“I’LL BE RIGHT BACK!”

“NICE TO SEE YOU FRANK AND CHLOE, YOU CAN SIT ANYWHERE, I WILL BE RIGHT THERE!”

You don’t need to hear it, but you hear it anyway. You hear it because it is not spoken, it’s announced. She doesn’t talk to customers as she says her hellos. She yells at them even though she is four feet from them. 

So now the dining experience sounds like this: Death metal from the kitchen. Restaurant music from the wall speakers. Television news from the wall. And a live play-by-play commentary from the owner describing the thrilling task of carrying condiments.

All inside a room the size of a modest living room. The amazing thing is that people keep eating here and coming back time after time. 

They lean closer across the table to talk. They nod politely, pretending they heard because they don’t want to say, “Can you repeat that?” for the fourth time. They chew their sandwiches while a man in the kitchen appears to be screaming about the apocalypse. And you sit there thinking something very simple.

Restaurants used to understand one basic rule: People come here to eat and talk.

That’s it. Not to attend a multi-channel audio experiment. Not to watch cable news while death metal provides percussion. And have a conversation without needing to shout over four different soundtracks.

Apparently, that memo got lost. Probably drowned out by the music.