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.

There’s something about maps that opens the mind, and I kept staring at one.

Daydreams can be nightmares—or just reality.

The whole thing began, as you might recall, on July 25, 2025, when I landed at the Indigenous Music & Arts Festival in Victor, New York.

From there came a book, and not one for shelf decoration.

This one I actually read. There was, of course, my natural tendency to dive deep, but this exercise was also driven by guilt.

In my new book series, I take pride in condensing or distilling or performing whatever action results in concision.

But had I gone too far?

In The Essence of Rochester, New York, I had devoted just three lines:

Let’s start from the beginning—well, maybe not all the way back to the Big Bang. We’ll start with Native Americans. Next came the new arrivals, first New Englanders and then immigrants from other European countries.

In The Essence of Buffalo, New York, I tossed in another two:

The land we now refer to as Buffalo, located at the Eastern tip of Lake Erie, was inhabited for centuries by various native groups. After the American Revolution, the native groups—which had sided with the British—lost their land to those of European origin.

The visit to the festival forced me to start reading between the lines, my own lines.

In modern times, such insight is delivered by Google, large language models (LLMs), or both.

And from there came the map.

As I stared, it was not about blame.

Nor was it about the juvenile and rudimentary right versus left.

There was no desire to recreate history in reverse or to hold descendants of wrongdoers accountable.

There was, simply, the recognition of loss.

I thought about our upcoming trip, flipping languages from Mohawk to Oneida to Dakota to Cherokee.

Instead, we would speak just one, and it was none of the above.

And I asked myself once again, What have we done?

The post What Have We Done? appeared first on ComposeMD.

Indigenous Music & Arts Festival.

I thought this might interest you, added the spirits specialist. Reading in between the lines, I sensed less of an invitation and more just simple information.

My interest had, in fact, been piqued, and I glanced around the room looking for an unsuspecting victim.

My daughter knew instinctively to stare at her phone—she’s learned that eye contact should be reserved for special moments, usually involving a ride and/or funding.

The son opted for another tactic—make eye contact but don’t actually listen. At the tender age of 17, he’s proven himself rather precocious in this regard.

That left just one, and with a facial expression completely devoid of any sort of joy, my wife agreed to a date.

Up near Lake Ontario, only a handful of days per year are uncomfortably hot. It just so happened that the Indigenous Music & Arts Festival was on one of them.

Never one to compromise my comfort in the name of education, I convinced my wife to start in the indoor facility, the one with Willis Carrier’s Western New York invention—air conditioning.

To make amends for lost intellectual opportunity, I started by buying a book designed for young people (though quite suitable, I learned, for immature middle-aged readers as well).

Then, hoping to further delay direct interaction with the sun, I struck up a conversation with Yvonne.

She told me about the region’s Haudenosaunee Confederacy, also known as the Six Nations of the Iroquois Confederacy (Seneca, Cayuga, Onondaga, Oneida, Mohawk, and Tuscarora). Her grandchildren were growing up on a Mohawk reservation a few hours away, where they were achieving fluency in the endangered Mohawk language.

Where exactly is that? I asked.

The answer, I found out, was complicated. The land was in New York State (US), Quebec (Canada), and Ontario (Canada)—the top of this map shows where the three converge. In other words, the arbitrary line drawn between the US and Canada had completely ignored what was otherwise a single Mohawk unit.

And that got me thinking—what if the arbitrary line didn’t exist?

I didn’t mean it in a Trumpian way—if I understood trade, tariffs, and the global economy, I sure as hell wouldn’t be a blogger. I meant it with regards to culture, as in the stuff that has little patience for borders anyway.

The answer, of course, was obvious. Lake Ontario, the smallest of the Great Lakes by surface area, would be considered one of the greatest puddles music has ever known.

As shown here, the roots of its top 10 tunes would surround the entire lake.

On the southern side would be:

Oswego, New York, birthplace of Joey Belladonna, better known as the voice of Anthrax.

Rochester, New York, home of Lou Gramm—the frontman of Foreigner—and the late Chuck Mangione.

Buffalo, New York, home and resting place of Rick James. (The city of Buffalo is on Lake Erie but the metro area is very much on Lake Ontario, too.)

On the northern side would be:

Hamilton, Ontario, childhood home of David Byrne from Talking Heads (and birthplace of Tim Hortons!).

Toronto, Ontario, incubator of all sorts of legends like Rush, Neil Young, and Drake (sorry).

Kingston, Ontario, birthplace of the Tragically Hip—aka Canada’s band—and Bryan Adams.

I took a deep breath, thanked Yvonne, and promised myself not to blog about this.

Clearly, what began as one kind of experience had morphed into something else altogether.

That said, I did learn a few things, like how Indigenous culture is on life support and why Willis Carrier is my hero.

But mostly, I learned to always trust the whiskey guy.

The post Lake Ontario: It Will Crush You! (Musically) appeared first on ComposeMD.

The whole thing began as I strolled the mean streets of Rochester, New York. The occasion was one of the country’s largest jazz festivals, a nine-day extravaganza spread out over 18 venues. I happened to be at my favorite—the free stage just in front of the world-renowned Eastman School of Music.

How better to exhibit the musical prowess of a musical town? I asked myself.

Minutes later, I got the answer. On stage that night was the Rochester Metro Jazz Orchestra, and they were playing one of the most popular instrumental songs in recent memory.

That song had been the brainchild of Rochester’s own Chuck Mangione, an Eastman School of Music alum and former member of Art Blakey’s Jazz Messengers. In 1978, he introduced the world to his flugelhorn, which anchored his hit “Feels So Good.”

The track miraculously reached number four on the Billboard Hot 100, an oddity for anything from the jazz space, particularly that of the instrumental variety.

And that got me back to my original question: Why are instrumental songs so rarely popular?

There must be a reason, I thought. The poetic lyrics of popular songs must speak to people.

To verify this theory, I pulled up the current Billboard Hot 100 and sampled some of the most eloquent words from the top ten.

“Manchild” by Sabrina Carpenter

F*ck my life

“What I Want” by Morgan Wallen featuring Tate McRae

That’s what I want, that’s what I want

That’s what I want, that’s what I want, that’s what I want

What I want

“Just in Case” by Morgan Wallen

I ain’t sayin’ that I ain’t met no one else

“Luther” by Kendrick Lamar & SZA

She a fan, he a flop, they just wanna kumbaya, nah

“A Bar Song (Tipsy)” by Shaboozey

Woke up drunk at 10 a.m., we gon’ do this sh*t again

And that’s how I came up with the title of this piece.

All lyrics courtesy azlyrics.com

The post Bring Back the Instrumental Songs! appeared first on ComposeMD.