Hello everyone!

It’s been a while since my last update.

It’s not as if every week is full of exciting new things. I imagine it's the same for most people - and by the way, I’m certainly not complaining. As I sit and write this today, it's a day of a bit of rest. Yes, there will be some pickleball on the schedule, but not four hours.

Every day has been a bit of a whirlwind, from working a bit in the tennis store to too many games of pickleball. It actually feels good to slow down and take a load off my feet.

We celebrated Ms. Sarah’s university graduation this past week, a moment so proud it almost made me forget the excruciating drive there and back. Seriously, that drive felt longer than a Monday morning meeting, and I won't miss it one bit. She graduated with distinction from the Ivey Business School at the University of Western Ontario in London, which sounds very impressive, though I'm still not entirely sure what "distinction" actually means beyond "she's smarter than I am." The ceremony itself was a two-hour marathon of handshakes and diploma presentations, made even longer by a graduating class so large I'm convinced they had to borrow chairs from the neighbouring provinces. Of course, the million-dollar question after all that pomp and circumstance was, "What's next?"

And here's where things got interesting. Sarah, with the wisdom only a freshly graduated millennial possesses, declared she's not quite ready for the corporate grind. Instead, she and some friends are embarking on an adventure to Australia to "work and have fun." My parental instincts immediately went into overdrive, picturing her wrestling kangaroos for a living and never returning home. Everyone keeps telling me it's fine, that she needs to "do it now before it's too late," which I'm pretty sure is just a polite way of saying, "Let her go, you clingy parent." The conversation about who's footing the bill for this grand escapade was, shall we say, "lively." I may have even suggested that the umbilical cord was due for a dramatic, ceremonial snipping. We shall see, I guess. Perhaps I'll just start charging her rent for the memories.

My pickleball journey continues, a saga filled with both triumphs and comical blunders. I've played in a few tournaments since my last update, and let's just say one went swimmingly, while the other... well, it was less "swimming" and more "flailing desperately in a kiddie pool." When I say "not so well," I'm not just talking about losing (though, yes, we did lose, in spectacular fashion). I mean playing so horribly that I suspect my paddle secretly switched allegiance to the opposing team. I tried to hit every ball like I was auditioning for a spot on a professional baseball team, and I rushed points faster than a teenager trying to beat curfew. Patience, it seems, is a virtue I'm still trying to acquire, like a rare bottle of wine. I felt absolutely dreadful for my partner, who, bless his heart, had agreed to play with me. I was the dead weight, the anchor, the reason we sunk faster than the Titanic. Pickleball, you see, is a different beast from tennis. You have to learn to caress the ball, to hit it softly with purpose, like a gentle whisper of doom. And I'm currently struggling with that, often sending shots into the stratosphere with the force of a rocket launch.

But fear not, for there was a silver lining, a beacon of hope in my otherwise chaotic pickleball adventures! The Hi Sports Tournament in Stouffville was a different story altogether. I teamed up with the "pickleball princess" (her actual title, not just a flattering nickname I bestowed upon her after she saved my dignity countless times), and we played in the Split Age category. We navigated the treacherous waters of the round robin pool, emerging victorious and even winning our first game in the medal round – a truly historic moment, complete with confetti (in my mind, anyway). We eventually succumbed to a superior team in the final, but securing second place felt like winning the lottery. So, while my pickleball journey may be a rollercoaster of emotions and questionable decision-making, at least I can say I'm never boring!

For those of you who have journeyed this far through my musings, perhaps a rumbling stomach has led you to wonder: "Where's the pizza?" Fear not, my friends, for pizza is a constant, a culinary compass guiding my urban explorations. My latest quest for the perfect slice led me on an e-bike adventure to the vibrant College/Spadina area. There, nestled amidst the bustling streets, I discovered Fresca, a true gem for the budget-conscious pizza aficionado. For a mere five dollars, I snagged an oversized slice that was, without a doubt, worth every pedal stroke, every step, or even a dedicated drive. This isn't a place for gourmet toppings or artisanal crusts; it's a nostalgic ode to old-school pizza, delivering pure, unadulterated satisfaction with every bite. The kind of slice that reminds you of childhood, simple yet profoundly satisfying.

But my pizza pilgrimage didn't end there. We recently also made our way to Stella's, a charming local spot conveniently located just a short "stumble" from our humble abode. Stella's holds a special place in my heart, particularly on Tuesday evenings, when they offer a delightful buy-one-get-one-free special for dine-in customers. While it may not grace the pages of any "Top 10 Pizza" lists, I wholeheartedly believe Stella's serves up a remarkably good pie. And, as I mentioned, the unparalleled convenience of a short stumble home after indulging in a delicious meal is an undeniable perk. It's the kind of neighborhood establishment that feels like an extension of your own kitchen, a comforting retreat where good food and good company are always on the menu.

Of course, it’s not all about pickles or pizza.

Beyond the culinary escapades, I've actually dusted off my tennis racket a few times. Getting back on the court after such a long hiatus has been… well, let's just say it's been a humbling experience. I fully expected to waltz back in, unleash my inner Federer, and dominate the courts. Instead, it's been more like Bambi on ice, wielding a weapon that feels suspiciously like a lead pipe. My last game showed a flicker of improvement, like a dying ember trying to reignite, but my serves are still very much a work in progress. I'm optimistic I can master them, eventually, perhaps by the time I'm well past the eligibility for the senior circuit. But my arm strength? Let's just say it's currently on an extended vacation somewhere far, far away. The racket feels heavier than a fully loaded suitcase, and the ball leaves the strings with the velocity of a rogue missile compared to a pickleball. My first shot nearly cleared the fence – I think it's still orbiting somewhere in the stratosphere. Despite my boundless optimism (which, admittedly, is sometimes bordering on delusion), I'm seriously questioning the value of my club membership. It's an expensive commitment, especially when I'm using it as much as a snow shovel in July.

I may write about this in another post, but I've been increasingly curious as to why the world seems to have gone mad. While I generally steer clear of political commentary in my writing, it's becoming impossible to ignore the palpable sense of anger and division that permeates global discourse. From the ongoing conflicts across the globe to unsettling acts of violence fueled by religious and cultural intolerance, and even the bizarre political theatrics unfolding just south of our border, it feels like we are surrounded by an abundance of angry people. It’s obviously naive to think – why can’t we all just get along? – but I'm afraid that ship has well and truly sailed.

It's fascinating how the news cycle operates, a relentless churn that quickly shuffles priorities on the front pages of whatever media outlets you follow. One day it's Ukraine, the next it's Israel and Gaza, then tariffs, China, the ever-evolving political situation south of us, and even our own recent election. All of these topics seem to have their fleeting moment in the sun, dominating headlines and conversations. But just because one issue recedes from the immediate spotlight doesn't mean it has vanished – in fact, these crises often persist, simmering beneath the surface, and you can’t seem to escape them.

What’s particularly striking is how strongly people hold their opinions on various topics, and their absolute lack of hesitation in expressing them – especially on social media. I recently joined a Facebook group dedicated to a specific hotel group in Mexico. We're planning a fall trip, and I thought it would be valuable to gather insights and tips from others who have experienced it firsthand. While much of the information has been genuinely helpful, some of the comments are, to say the least, interesting.

For instance, "newbies" – of which I am one, a member of the clueless club – might innocently inquire about the dress code. And boy, oh boy, do some people go absolutely nuclear! It’s like they've been waiting their whole lives for this moment to unleash their inner fashion police. There are endless complaints about how casually some guests dress, often accompanied by sharp, passive-aggressive remarks that could curdle milk. But then, when someone dares to reply to a post, even with a seemingly innocuous comment or differing perspective, a full-blown war of words can erupt. It's not just polite disagreement; it often escalates to actual insults hurled at each other, despite the near certainty that these individuals have never met in real life and probably wouldn't recognize each other if they tripped over each other’s suitcases in the lobby. I imagine it's largely because people feel a certain anonymity, a sense that they can almost hide behind their words when interacting online, like a keyboard warrior in their pajamas. It’s a stark reminder that, perhaps, we simply can’t always get along, whether on a global scale or within the hilariously dramatic confines of a hotel Facebook group.

It’s not all bad. I recently had the opportunity to see Paul Simon at Massey Hall. Of course, he is a legend in the music world both as a writer and singer, and as one half of Simon and Garfunkel. When tickets went on sale, I eagerly grabbed two. Having been lucky enough to see Art Garfunkel in 2006 at Massey Hall, the circle is now complete. Simon, in his early eighties, was always known as the talented songwriter, and his act included famous oldies like "The Sound of Silence," "The Boxer," "America," "Homeward Bound," "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover," and more. It was a special night, one that critics often laud for its intimate setting and the enduring power of Simon's songwriting. Reviewers frequently praise his continued vocal prowess and ability to connect with an audience, even in his ninth decade. While some may note a slight slowing of tempo or a more reflective tone, the overwhelming consensus is that witnessing Paul Simon perform live is a masterclass in musical storytelling, a testament to a truly iconic career.

I guess that’s about it for now.