Because deep down, I didn’t want an answer.

I didn’t need one.

It’s called life experience, the kind that shatters walls, the kind that relegates boxes to the landfill.

The story began some time in the 1970s, up around Lake Michigan.

That’s when a barrier should have been constructed—let’s just say the foundation was flimsy.

I suppose that’s what happens when the parents are from India and the progeny show up in Milwaukee.

The project was doomed before it started.

There was Ganesh versus Jesus—I chose neither.

There was Marathi versus English—I chose Spanish.

I developed two favorite words: ignore and unlearn.

And that landed me on June 17, 2026.

I was still in the US—except on that day.

My son and I stared at CN Tower, uttered a few words about Drake, and then strolled toward the stadium.

The French signs were expected, of course. I put my six years of study to use, cross checking with the English just above.

Then I focused on the Spanish—it was all around us. And the flags were familiar—after all, we had recently been to Panama ourselves.

Beyond textiles and linguistics, I felt an odd connection to the place. You can call it a canal thing, the Erie in my case.

My son’s band had even covered the Van Halen song (which may have had vehicular and not geographic inspiration).

Heck, any country that uses the US dollar is worthy of a look, i.e. my soccer support.

But then I heard English. Or was it Akan?

The sounds of West Africa are always close—they are, after all, a part of us.

Blues.

Jazz.

We all know the grand places music went from there.

Without Ghana and its neighbors, would I still be listening to the concert band garbage?

Would there be no fufu? Or Gullah Geechee?

Out of my thoughts and into the the stadium, I admired the massive flags of both countries displayed on the field.

Then I absorbed the two national anthems.

Who the hell should I root for? I asked again.

I sat back, smiled at my son, and bathed in the human spirit.

And I watched.*

—

*On June 17, 2026, in Toronto, Ghana beat Panama in the group stage of the FIFA World Cup, leaving me elated and heartbroken.

The post Who the Hell Should I Root For?! appeared first on ComposeMD.

Te estoy hablando a ti

Toi, qui penses que nous sommes stupides

Here in North America

Hablamos tres idiomas

Combien de langues parles-tu?

By three I refer to the most common ones

Porque hay muchos más

Comme tu le sais

Anyway, this is about the World Cup

El torneo debería jugarse aqui

C’est logique

Because the world already lives here

Italianos, Alemanes, los de Irlanda

La moitié de l’Asie vit ici

There are way more Chinese restaurants than McDonald’s

Prefiero comer sopa agridulce que una Big Mac

Et n’oublie pas les samoussas

If you think you understand this place based on the news

No tienes ni idea de lo que hablas

C’est la vérité

No one even knows what American means

Aparte de vivir aqui

Et c’est le meilleur aspect

There are no rules

Excepto las que hay que romper

La tradition n’est qu’une façade

Sure we’re full of idiots

¿Pero no es cierto en todas partes?

Je viens de visiter Paris—je sais

Our leader is a lunatic

¿No son todos?

Justin Trudeau et Katy Perry?!

Yeah we eat too much and die young

¿Quien quiere vivir para siempre?

Je vais chez Buc-ee’s

So quit reading the damn headlines

Experimenta el país po ti mismo

Dis-moi ce que tu en penses

If you hate the place

No estarás solo

C’est une passion nationale

Just remember—the US is worldly as hell

Y el mundo es un lugar feo

Oú est-il beau?

English Translation

The US is worldly as hell

I’m talking to you

You, who thinks we’re stupid

Here in North America

We speak three languages

How many languages do you speak?

And by three, I mean the most common ones

Because there are many more

As you know

Anyway, this is about the World Cup

The tournament should be played here

It makes sense

Because the world already lives here

Italians, Germans, the Irish

Half of Asia lives here

There are more Chinese restaurants than McDonald’s

I’d rather eat hot and sour soup than a Big Mac

And don’t forget the samosas

If you think you understand this place based on the news

You have no idea what you’re talking about

That’s the truth

No one even knows what American means

Other than living here

And that’s the best part

There are no rules

Except the ones meant to be broken

Tradition is just a façade

Sure, we’re full of idiots

But isn’t that true everywhere?

I just visited Paris—I know

Our leader is a lunatic

Aren’t they all?

Justin Trudeau and Katy Perry?!

Yeah, we eat too much and die young

Who wants to live forever?

I’m going to Buc-ee’s

So quit reading the damn headlines

Experience the country for yourself

Tell me what you think

If you hate the place

You won’t be alone

It’s a national pastime

Just remember—the US is worldly as hell

And the world is an ugly place

Or is it beautiful?

The post The US Is Worldly As Hell appeared first on ComposeMD.

It’s complicated.

It’s the sport for everyone, except here, where it’s for wealthy suburban kids.

And it’s the global obsession, except here, where it’s a niche curiosity.

There are the Americans who don’t watch, unable to tolerate the dearth of scoring and the mysterious timekeeping.

And there are the ones who do watch, partly as a flex of their worldliness—they usually ride bikes and claim to like jazz music, too.

But the greatest complexity of all, the one that presumably exposes the dumb American (said to live somewhere in the Rust Belt), is what to call the sport in the first place.

Don’t blame us.

Blame the Brits.

Oh, and blame AI for the fact that I know this.

The prompt was rather simple: What is the origin of the term soccer?

The answer, scraped from a delicate blend of Britannica, Time, Wikipedia, Quora, and, of course, Reddit, changed my life.

In 1863, as Americans had taken to killing each other during the Civil War, the English had taken on a more pressing matter—standardizing the rules of their games.

To differentiate what would become two key sports, they established official names:

• Rugby Football
• Association Football

Later in the century, students at the University of Oxford developed their own slang, shortening words and adding the suffix -er.

Rugby football became rugger.

Association football became soccer (in lieu of asser, I believe).

For years, the Brits used soccer and football interchangeably to describe the sport of FIFA. Meanwhile, countries they had spawned—like the US, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Ireland, and South Africa—began developing their own versions of football. To avoid confusion, these countries stuck to soccer when referring to the British export.

(In other words, the dumb American is no dumber than the Canadian or Australian, at least in this regard.)

In the 1980s, realizing that their empire had collapsed and their global significance was dwindling, especially relative to that of the Americans, the Brits began a campaign to bash the American use of the term soccer.

And that got me to the next prompt:

Who’s dumb now?

The post Stop Blaming the Dumb American for “Soccer” appeared first on ComposeMD.

Specifically, I owe an incompetence with gadgets for the life lessons thrust upon me that day.

Were they lessons—or just languages?

It all started back in January 2026 when the wife insisted that my perfectly functional iPhone 8 needed to go.

The result was a sparkling iPhone 17 Pro.

Well, that, and the realization that nothing worked anymore.

I had to deal with the whole Wi-Fi thing, fiddle with some authenticator app, and handle a bunch of other stuff that used to be on autopilot.

So when it came to linking the new phone to my wife’s car, I opted out—no Bluetooth, no Apple CarPlay, no nothing.

The only problem was that on April 22, 2026, the wife’s car was the one I took to Erie. That meant that as I drove from Rochester, New York, to northwest Pennsylvania along the southern rim of two Great Lakes, I went back in time.

The 162-mile trip, by choice, took place without GPS. It was just me, the highway signs, and a few educated guesses.

Then there was the radio.

I had to remind myself about something called FM.

And as I kept driving, I even started to dabble in a touch of AM.

That’s when weird things started to happen.

By random chance, I landed on 860 AM.

BON SOIR, MADELEINE. QUELLE EST VOTRE EXPÉRIENCE?

Those damn Canadians and their weird languages, I thought.

I drove on and flipped over to 100.7 FM.

CHAKKE MEIN CHAKKA CHAKKE PE GAADI.

Jesus. These Indians are everywhere—you can’t get away from them.

The only way out of the conundrum was to keep moving forward. The further I got from Canada—and the closer I got to Erie—the less I would have to deal with all the cultural nonsense.

I knew I could count on Erie—where the Snow Belt meets the Rust Belt meets Appalachia—for some damn English.

And English it was as I approached the small city, noting beat-up properties, severe poverty, lots of cigarettes, and some sort of state park on Lake Erie.

The visit, as you must know by now, was inspired by a desire to continue growing my book series on Great Lakes cities, the one in which I take objectively depressed places and make them seem much better than they are.

But as I was on my own that day, I could fully embrace the fraudulent nature of the activity. As such, when I felt a sudden urge to escape Erie for civilization, I didn’t resist. (You know you’re in trouble when that means Buffalo.)

Such began the reverse trip, again without GPS, and again with a mix of AM and FM.

I managed to stay away from the annoying foreign languages for a while, keeping everything I learned in the only language that anyone actually understands.

But as I got closer to home, I let my guard down and stopped paying attention.

Before I knew what I had done, I was greeted with 97.5 FM.

ROCHESTER! SÚBELE! SÚBELE! 

Freaking Spanish, I thought.

Estos puertorriqueños deben regresar a su pais. N’est-ce pas? Haan bilkul.

The post Everything I Learned on the Way to Erie, PA appeared first on ComposeMD.

It’s part pep talk, part disbelief.

He never used to travel international, but after absolutely dominating his trip to the Bahamas, he got cocky.

“Book me that sh*t with the Frenchies,” he had said to his niece.

To be safe, he had checked in with his doctor ahead of time. According to the quack, he still didn’t qualify for oxygen. And in terms of the scooter, his knees apparently weren’t bad enough yet.

He waddled out of the office angry that day, reminding the yuppie doctor to at least refill his inhaler. (He would take care of the Colace himself.)

The next thing he knew, it was him, his little blue booklet, and the Winstons, off to the place with the weird hats.

He gets off the plane, and he feels the anger spike again.

Why don’t these people just speak English?

When he finally makes it out of the baggage claim, he finds some French dude holding a sign with his name.

Outside, he chokes down a Winston and plops himself in the car.

At least these clowns drive on the right side of the road, he thinks.

But then the road signs start to piss him off. How does anyone around here know where the heck they’re going?

His niece had mentioned using the metro system instead, but they weren’t sure if he would fit through the standard gates. That, and the pickpockets, though he could barely get stuff in and out of his pockets himself. Anyway, they decided on the car.

Once at the hotel, he eats a few Twinkies that he had packed, has a smoke, and calls it a day.

The next morning, he lumbers around looking for breakfast. The car is picking him up early, but he has time for some eats.

Boulangerie. What the hell is that?

He sees a bunch of bread and gets the idea.

“Two slices of Wonder White.”

After a blank look and a pause, he walks out empty-handed.

What’s wrong with these folks?

He goes next door to the cheese place.

Fromage? I thought it was queso.

“You guys got any American?”

“Je suis désolée.”

Desperate, he’s left with only one choice.

A couple Egg McMuffins and a cigarette later, he’s on his way to the Eiffel Tower.

Jesus. This place looks like a goddamn fire escape.

Unimpressed, he asks to be taken to the next stop.

But he needs a quick snack on the way.

Pâtisserie. That’s a dumb name.

Noticing a bunch of desserts, the light bulb goes off.

“Gimme a Pop-Tart.”

Once again, he leaves disappointed.

Starving, he eventually makes it to the Louvre.

The place is packed, and he starts muttering to himself.

Ain’t no way I’m waitin’ in line with these foreigners to see some stupid painting.

As he walks away, he notices the pyramid, which reminds him of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland.

I’d rather be there any day.

He tells the driver to hit the next destination.

Notre Dame? Like the football team?!

Disappointed to see a lame cathedral, he looks around for the bulletin board.

I wonder if this church has bingo night.

He finds nothing, and he knows it’s time to go.

Not even a potluck dinner. This place sucks.

Back outside, he glances at the river.

Looks like the mighty Genesee to me. Speaking of which, it’s time to get wasted.

For some reason, on the way to a restaurant, the driver thinks Rust Belt Man will be interested in the Champs-Élysées.

All these skinny losers. Even their pathetic pancakes are way too skinny.

Finally, he ends up at a dinner spot and orders four bottles of beer.

“How many glasses will you be needing, sir?”

“Zero. And bring me some of that beef burgy-whatever.”

By the time the first bottle is done, Rust Belt Man starts to feel relaxed.

And when the meal shows up, he smiles even more.

Meat and potatoes. At least they can do one thing right.

He downs the other three bottles with three Colace and waves down the check.

This country would be a lot better if it just used dollars.

Irritated once more, he steps out into the fresh French air and whips out the Winstons.

I guess there is one other good thing about this ugly city, he admits.

Everyone smokes.

The post Rust Belt Man Goes to Paris appeared first on ComposeMD.

But five years into a blogging journey, such minor realizations, which some insist on calling the truth, are hardly enough to change behavior.

Based on years of market research, I’ve learned that you—the reader—have been dying for a Rust Belt mnemonic, also known as a memory device to help you remember the rustiest of the states.

These are the states that no one will deny are composed of ferric oxide. Those that weren’t as involved in heavy industry themselves were absolutely involved in the extraction of materials (iron ore and coal) that were integral to that industry.

My apologies to places like Iowa, New Jersey, and Maryland—they showed potential but didn’t quite make the cut.

Anyway, here’s the mnemonic you’ve been waiting for:

My

Wife

Is

Pissed

Off

Knowing

My

Mistakes

Include

Not

Working

Obviously, this will help you remember the following:

Minnesota

Wisconsin

Illinois

Pennsylvania

Ohio

Kentucky

Michigan

Missouri

Indiana

New York

West Virginia

As an added memory tool, think of the men who would have previously been doing factory work but are now sitting idle.

Or, better yet, think of a male doctor who accidentally gave up a handsome income to blog about the Rust Belt.

You’re welcome.

The post The Rust Belt Mnemonic You Totally Needed appeared first on ComposeMD.

The mere occurrence of this question within my cerebral wiring quite obviously suggests pathology.

Or does it?

Does Western New York, aka the Eastern Rust Belt, have some sort of connection to the Caribbean island that gave us the most streamed artist on the planet?

Um…yeah.

Let’s rewind the clock to 1901, when nearby Buffalo was hosting the Pan-American Exposition.

There, tragically, William McKinley would become the third American president to be assassinated. This was the same man, of course, who in 1898 oversaw the American victory over Spain in the Spanish-American War. As a result, the US got some new territory.

Puerto Rico, anybody?

Over the ensuing decades, Puerto Ricans would populate cities on the American mainland.

They preferred some spots over others, clearly choosing wisely.

As per the 2020 Census, among American cities with over 200,000 residents, a certain city on Lake Ontario has the highest percentage of Puerto Ricans relative to the total population (15.3%).

Yeah, it’s Rochester. (Number five on that list, at 10%, is Buffalo.)

What does this mean?

If you want to be able to choose among a long list of Puerto Rican restaurants, come to the Flower City. Seriously.

In the summer, check out the Rochester Puerto Rican Festival, around since 1969.

If you’re in the mood for reggaetón on the beach, head to the aforementioned lake.

Should you overdo it and end up in the hospital, there’s a strong possibility your nurse will be Puerto Rican. Sometimes, they hand out souvenirs to their coworkers.

And if you want to listen to some Bad Bunny, make your way to the laser light show featuring his music at the planetarium. (I’m not making this up.)

Speaking of Bad Bunny, the dude has to be singing about Western New York. (I might be making this up.)

—

“Debí Tirar Más Fotos”

Debí tirar más fotos.

I should have taken more photos.

C’mon now—is this not a shout out to Kodak?

—

“Dakiti”

¿Y de nosotros quién va a hablar? Si no nos dejamos ver.

And who is going to talk about us? If we don’t let ourselves be seen.

Clearly, this advice is geared towards Rust Belt bloggers.

—

“Tití Me Preguntó”

Vo’a romperte el corazón. No te enamores de mí.

I’m going to break your heart. Don’t fall in love with me.

This is an obvious warning to Bills fans.

—

So the next time someone claims that we in the Rust Belt are still listening to John Mellencamp, go ahead and tell them that around these parts, it’s all about Latin Trap baby.

Entiendes?

The post What Do Rochester (NY) and Bad Bunny Have in Common? appeared first on ComposeMD.

I was, we can say, not correct.

It all started innocently enough.

You know, the roommate with the ponytail who smokes too much weed and insists all must watch The Wizard of Oz—while listening to Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon, of course.

(If my parents and/or kids are reading this, I did not partake.)

Anyway, 1997 is the same year I met the to-be wife and—as she’ll reluctantly corroborate—also the point when I embarked on a lifelong journey of maturity. In other words, there was little time for children’s books or their film adaptations.

The knot was formally tied in 2004, and we landed in New York City, where I initially sought to prove to the spouse that she had made an applaudable matrimonial decision. (As she’ll willingly corroborate, such efforts have since diminished dramatically.)

In any event, part of living in the Big Apple involves feigning importance by embracing groupthink. As such, I bought two tickets to Wicked, the stage adaptation of a 1995 novel that expounds on Oz‘s all-important witches.

I don’t recall much about the performance aside from some green lady and a sense of freedom when the thing was over.

And that’s when, again, I thought I was done with The Wizard of Oz.

But the plan really began to derail in 2010 when, about two centuries too late, I searched for opportunity on the Erie Canal. Along with this questionable decision came a questionable obsession, at least as judged by future book sales.

But I’m jumping ahead.

As part of this Upstate New York obsession, I learned that L. Frank Baum was from Chittenango, just east of Syracuse. He’s the dude who wrote The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, first published in 1900 and later turned into the 1939 flick with the slightly shorter name.

That piece of trivia led me to Matilda Joslyn Gage, Baum’s mother-in-law. Gage spent much of her life in nearby Fayetteville, influencing the likes of Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony and blossoming into a veritable social justice warrior. Women’s rights, Indigenous rights, and abolitionism—she took on all of them.

Along the way, she encouraged her son-in-law’s writing career and plausibly inspired his tendency to create strong female characters.

She herself was known to write a thing or two, including Woman as an Inventor, in which she detailed the pervasive bias against and dismissal of female inventors.

Over a hundred years later, historian Margaret W. Rossiter applied the same concept to scientific research, describing a systematic failure to acknowledge the contributions of women scientists, which she termed the Matilda Effect.

Without realizing it at first, I had officially fallen deep into a rabbit hole.

And by 2025, there was absolutely no end in sight.

There was the teenage daughter, as in the one with a penchant for dance and live theater. Her ballet recital that year told the story of a place called Oz, choreographed to a certain album by Pink Floyd. Can’t-say-no parenting meant season tickets at the Auditorium Theatre in Rochester to see Hamilton, & Juliet, and…Wicked. (This was all, needless to say, well after a visit to the Susan B. Anthony House.)

Then there was a football Sunday spent watching Wicked: Part I, a cinematic take on the musical. That project was simply to prepare for part two, aka Wicked: For Good.

I learned that the name Elphaba, that of the wicked witch of the west, came from the initials of L. Frank Baum.

No longer capable of fighting gravity, I decided to buy a paperback copy of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.

In the back, I learned that Baum had actually written a total of 14 books in the series, the one I bought being just the first.

After his death, his publisher commissioned another author, Ruth Plumly Thompson, to write 19 more.

Other authors added another seven, amounting to the “Famous Forty.”

Then came even more, including, um, Wicked.

Finally understanding the extent of my screwdom, I took to writing a blog post.

Notes:

(a) If anyone is available, in 2026, I plan on visiting the All Things Oz Museum in Chittenango. That day trip will be coordinated with an annual festival called Oz-Stravaganza. On the way back, I’ll stop by a house turned museum in Fayetteville—a Gage and a Baum used to live there.

(b) I believe screwdom is a made-up word.

The post How The Wizard of Oz Ruined My Life appeared first on ComposeMD.

It’s my turn, b*itches.

***

Ecclesiastes 1:2 (NIV)

“Meaningless! Meaningless!” says the Teacher. “Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless.”

***

My favorite Bible verse is true for several reasons, above and beyond the fact that God inspired it. Here’s proof.

“In the End” by Linkin Park

In this song, lead singer Chester Bennington—who tragically took his own life—states:

I tried so hard and got so far

But in the end, it doesn’t even matter

“Paranoid Android” by Radiohead

In this classic, frontman Thom Yorke provides a pleasant reminder:

With your opinion which is of no consequence at all

“Todo Inventamos” by Julieta Venegas

Confirming that the verse of interest crosses linguistic barriers, Venegas says:

Dicen que de nada servimos (They say we are useless)

Y que todo es lo mismo (And that everything is the same)

Pronto polvo seremos (Soon we will be dust)

El resto lo inventamos (We invented the rest)

“Dust in the Wind” by Kansas

Kansas, based on simple geography, knew about wind, showing here what they learned:

Same old song

Just a drop of water in an endless sea

All we do

Crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see

Dust in the wind

All we are is dust in the wind

“Hurt” by Johnny Cash

In covering a Nine Inch Nails tune, Cash shares some hard-earned wisdom:

Everyone I know goes away

In the end

“Fourth of July” by Sufjan Stevens

Finally, there’s Stevens, who eschews the subtle and leaves little doubt about the facts:

We’re all gonna die

We’re all gonna die

We’re all gonna die

We’re all gonna die

We’re all gonna die

We’re all gonna die

We’re all gonna die

Note:

Given its obvious truth, this verse shall henceforth be used for the purposes of early-childhood education, discrimination, and legislation.

The post My Favorite Bible Verse appeared first on ComposeMD.