By that, I mean it’s a nightmare, something that technically falls under the umbrella term of dream.

But you may want to ask ChatGPT, as I’m not much for terminology.

In any event, back in 2021, I started planning for the day, five years later, when being a writer would pay dividends.

The day would be July 7, 2026, and it would go something like this:

Argentina would be playing Egypt in the World Cup—let’s say at noon.

I would wake up late, smiling at how in my pre-2021 life, I would have been at work for several hours already.

I would revel in the genius of having outsmarted the system, trading the dialysis unit for creative work, living off passive income—the American way.

And then I would meet my British friend at the bar, finally being the person whose income stream no one could understand, nor could anyone deny.

I’d start with something light—like a double IPA (DIPA). I’d tilt my neck upward, take a sip, and focus on the big-screen.

The game would feature some studs, guys like Mohamed Salah and Lionel Messi.

And just for kicks, the underdog Egyptians would net the first goal. Heck, midway through the second half, the African squad would notch another, putting the defending champions on the ropes down 2-0.

But in the 79th minute, Messi would assist on Argentina’s first goal, breathing life into the stretch run.

Then, in the 83rd minute, he would take matters into his own hands (feet), scoring the equalizer and giving the stadium the literal shakes.

Expecting extra time, I would order another DIPA, sipping slowly while waiting for the inevitable.

In stoppage time, however, the inevitable would be avoided, putting Argentina ahead 3-2 and cementing the comeback victory as the best of the tournament.

I would text all my friends, partly from frank bewilderment and partly just to show off my enviable life.

Finally, I would head home, and my wife and children would shower me with compliments regarding the fabulous existence I had gifted them.

That was the dream.

But being a writer, as I mentioned, is not that type of dream.

It’s the kind with visions, ones that come with night sweats.

It’s the kind that makes you see your reflection in the face of the beggar.

In other words, it’s the kind that on July 7, 2026, had me up at 6 am, showered, dressed, and on the way to the dialysis unit.*

—

*Note: I watched highlights of the Argentina-Egypt match at night.

The post How Being a Writer Ruined the World Cup appeared first on ComposeMD.

I’d like to thank my fellow human beings—without you, I would never have known.

It all started with a simple soccer match.

Iran was playing Egypt—in Seattle.

The Pacific Northwest city happened to be celebrating its annual Pride Weekend in support of its LGBTQ+ community.

Iran and Egypt objected. Seeing that the religious nations have a tendency to criminalize same-sex relations, their football federations requested (unsuccessfully) that FIFA prohibit any support of homosexuality in the stadium, including rainbow flags.

That’s the first hint I received regarding my idiocy. My impression had been that human rights should be revered. I learned, instead, that as long as we call discriminatory beliefs religion, they’re perfectly fine. Had I known, I would have started discriminating against God—in the name of religion—years ago.

Then there was the whole war thing, as in the one between Iran and the US. Clearly, the above circumstance would provide an ideal opportunity to display the moral superiority of the US, contrasting our freedom with the repression that defines our mortal enemy.

I flipped to Fox News—nothing. I waited for words of wisdom from the President—silence.

There was only one possible conclusion: I’m an idiot. After all, I had already forgotten that discrimination is kosher in the name of religion—any religion.

But I knew I could look to one final place for what I was seeking—logic.

I’ve been told this holy grail is more likely to be found left of center, usually by those left of center. And this one-of-a-kind occasion would be the perfect chance to back both a cause and a country.

But in my naïveté, I came to understand that some would be supporting Iran as a rebuke against the President. In other words, I came to understand that domestic politics Trump everything.

Consider me educated.

The post I’m Officially an Idiot appeared first on ComposeMD.

Allow me to explain.

Experience, they say, comes in all shapes and sizes—mine just happens to be rotund and extra-large.

The seeds of that expertise were planted in August 1995 in St. Louis, where as a freshman in college I learned firsthand about the Freshman 15. (I also learned there was no need to stop after freshman year or at 15.)

Fast forward to June 2026, the moment when Europeans visiting the US for the World Cup are discovering their own version of personal growth.

It’s called the FIFA 15, as in the 15-pound weight gain that comes with a brief jaunt to the States.

The key ingredients are myriad, including but not limited to:

• Ranch dressing
• The Big Gulp
• Free refills
• Free chips and salsa
• Deep-fried Oreos
• Waffle House
• Buc-ee’s
• A rental car

Blogging, of course, comes with the option to embrace the role of contrarian. And when the blog claims to demystify the Rust Belt, that option becomes a mandate.

So last week, rather than tap the paper airplane on Instagram and share the FIFA 15 meme, I set out to poke holes in the stereotype.

I started an hour west, exploring the culinary traditions a majestic city on Lake Erie had gifted the world.

The first involved thinly-sliced, rare roast beef loaded on a kummelweck roll, itself coated with coarse salt and caraway seeds and dipped in the jus from the roast. The condiment of choice was creamy horseradish sauce.*

I’m no nutritionist, but I had a hunch this delicacy couldn’t be found in the health foods aisle.

To further explore the hypothesis, I moved on to another dish.

Item number two revolved around deep-fried chicken wings tossed in a cayenne pepper hot sauce…and butter. The condiment in this case was blue cheese dressing.**

Dejected, but not defeated, I returned home.

Rochester, after all, had always been the classier city, the one defined by intellect and sophistication. Surely, the FIFA 15 wouldn’t hold up to the gastronomic offerings of the Flower City.

That assumption landed me on this recipe: Two hot dogs (or cheeseburgers), macaroni salad, home fries, and baked beans, all topped with chopped onions, mustard, and spicy meat sauce.***

I stared at my phone and slowly opened Instagram.

I located the heart, comments, repost button, and paper airplane.

And one by one, I pressed them all.

Because while I might have issues with pushing a stereotype, I have no concerns about spreading the truth.

—

*Beef on weck

**Buffalo wings

***The Garbage Plate

The post Why I Love the FIFA 15 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.

How do I know?

C’mon now—Google Analytics and Instagram Insights don’t lie.

But perhaps you’ll listen to LoveEXPLORING, the travel-lifestyle publication owned by a UK-based digital publisher and frequently syndicated on MSN Travel.

In their words:

Cities are often celebrated for their energy and culture, but many are just as visually striking as the world’s most scenic villages and landscapes. With iconic skylines, historic landmarks, and impressive architecture set against dramatic backdrops, these urban destinations offer a different kind of beauty.

[Come] discover the most beautiful cities on Earth…

Their list—68 cities long—represents every continent (minus Antarctica) and does not discriminate by population.

There are the usual suspects—you know, like Rio de Janeiro, Brazil; Sydney, Australia; Prague, Czechia; Paris, France; and Rome, Italy.

And there are several dark horses, like Muscat, Oman; Dubrovnik, Croatia; Khiva, Uzbekistan; Nuuk, Greenland; and Dakar, Senegal.

American burgs, of course, make an appearance among the world’s most beautiful cities—nine of them to be exact.

You’ve heard of New York City, that place with the iconic skyline, Central Park, and so on.

And you’ve heard of San Francisco, home to the Bay, Golden Gate Bridge, and whacked out streets.

New Orleans, with its French Quarter, needs no introduction.

Then there’s Charleston, South Carolina, the town with history, Southern charm, and the Atlantic Ocean.

Speaking of that ocean, there’s also Portland, Maine, whose maritime past is not really past.

If you’re a true history buff, you’ve been to St. Augustine, Florida, the oldest continually inhabited European settlement in the contiguous United States.

If you’ve driven along the California coast, you’ve undoubtedly been to the striking Santa Barbara, where no picture can do justice.

And if you’ve ever done an Alaskan cruise, you’ve stepped foot in Ketchikan, where there’s no shortage of scenery and Indigenous culture.

But let me ask you this question.

Have you ever been to Cleveland?*

—

*According to LoveEXPLORING, the home of rock ’n’ roll is more quaint ’n’ charming, really. Cleveland makes the most of its gorgeous spot on Lake Erie with a picturesque waterfront area, home to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.

The rest of the city is pretty too, with well-maintained historic buildings including the impressive Arcade—an ornate, glass-roofed 1890s shopping center in downtown.

The post This Is One of the World’s Most Beautiful Cities?! appeared first on ComposeMD.

First came the 2003 novel courtesy Lauren Weisberger, inspired by her stint working as a personal assistant to Anna Wintour, the editor of Vogue.

Next came the 2006 film and its all-star cast: Meryl Streep (Miranda Priestly), Anne Hathaway (Andy Sachs), Emily Blunt (Emily Charlton), and Stanley Tucci (Nigel Kipling).

And then, in 2026, appeared the sequel, sporting the same quartet and dominating the box office in the same way.

But what you don’t know is the impact this fiction has had on yours truly.

The story began in March 2020, just as most of the world was dealing with a viral pandemic.

I, on the other hand, was grappling with the decision of a lifetime—should I accept the role as personal assistant to the editor of ComposeMD?

His reputation preceded him, and I don’t mean that in a flattering way. But like Andy Sachs, I viewed the role as a stepping stone to something greater—like, say, a writer for ComposeMD.

Several months and one COVID vaccine later, I took the job.

And that’s when the demands began.

They started with the lunch requests.

Two bean burritos from Taco Bell—and it had to be the one on Jefferson Road in Henrietta.

That, of course, was just the appetizer. From there, I had to drive to Naan-Tastic to secure the all-important samosa chaat.

And then came the miracle—getting it to him still crunchy. I’ll never forget the time the outside of one samosa had lost its crisp. It was back to Jefferson Road for another order, this time with a side of waffle fries from Chick-fil-A just to spite me.

But the food, as you might imagine, paled in comparison to the fashion.

They say The Devil Wears Prada, but I’m pretty sure he wears Old Navy.

It was one thing to have to dress like the man—hoodies, sweatpants, and hideous T-shirts.

But to have to dress the man—that’s when I knew my days were limited.

The sweatshirts, needless to say, always had to be XXL. The pants—I never knew if they should go below the gut, above the gut, or on the gut.

And he always insisted on that dreadful yellow T-shirt, the one with E=MC².

Anyway, along the way, I was asked to accomplish the impossible, like the time he asked for an advance copy of some Rust Belt Employment PDF to read to his kids at bedtime. Or the time he had me cancel an entire school band concert because he wanted to go to happy hour at the Distillery instead.

My thanks for those wins was a trip to Fashion Week in Batavia—he threatened to blacklist me from Batavia Downs if I didn’t attend.

Finally, one morning after months of abuse, when I saw his incoming call, I tossed my phone into the Erie Canal.

When I landed my next gig, my new boss told me that the editor of ComposeMD had said I was the biggest disappointment he ever had—and that my new boss would be an idiot not to order the samosa chaat.

The post The Devil Wears Prada—and Old Navy appeared first on ComposeMD.

And by special, I mean weird.

Hear me out, even though I’m sure you already agree.

There’s this city on a river, across which lies another country.

Census data tells the burg’s story, if you’re willing to listen.

In 1820, there were four figures—1,422 to be exact.

A century later, there were six—993,678.

And thirty years after that, in 1950, there were seven—1,849,568. Only four American cities were more peopled.

That’s when, in the parlance of the medical profession, began the taper.

Every ten years, the dose was decreased by varying proportions.

• 9.7% to start
• Then another 9.5%
• Then a generous 20.4%
• Next a drop of 14.6%
• And finally, a more gentle 7.5%

It was the year 2000, and the figures were back down to six—951,270.

Some yearned for a maintenance dose, a stop-the-bleeding moment if you will.

But the taper continued.

• 25%
• 10.5%

That landed the river city in a year better known for a viral pandemic—by then, the blight was old news, fodder for comedians, bloggers, and bankruptcy lawyers.

The number, at that point, was down to 639,111.

Mercifully, another decade would have to pass to officially know the next dose reduction.

But the hints were screaming—the US Census Bureau calls them population estimates.

2021: 635,046

2022: 634,219

2023: 637,452

Eyebrows were raised.

2024: 644,035

Heads were turned.

2025: 649, 095

Tears were shed.

The city on the river, the one gazing upon another nation, is celebrating Easter.

Because just like Jesus, Detroit is rising once again.

The post This Census Data Will Make You Cry appeared first on ComposeMD.

Was it 1718?

I mean the year you were founded by the French guy with the long name.

Is Mardi Gras even a big deal in France?

And didn’t the US version start in Mobile, Alabama?

Anyway, the French lost the Seven Years’ War to the Brits and handed New Orleans over to…the Spanish?

But then how did the French get it back? Because weren’t they the ones who sold you to Thomas Jefferson and the Americans?

And after the Seven Years’ War, more French speakers came down from the north? Why did you call those Acadians Cajuns by the way?

That reminds me—wasn’t the French Quarter kind of built by the Spanish?

Then you had the West Africans—enslaved and free.

Native Americans were in the mix, of course.

And no doubt you attracted some Caribbeans—just look at the map.

No wonder no one can explain to me what jazz means. Or, for that matter, what Creole means.

The Mississippi River and the Gulf of Mexico (America?) meant a port.

That meant more immigrants—I’m talking about the regular kinds, like Irish, Italians, and Germans.

You were thriving.

But then you shrank. Your metro is smaller than the ones in Omaha and Tulsa—and Rochester (NY)!

Yet you still have the NFL and NBA?

And Super Bowls?!

The tourists keep flowing.

Is it the seediness?

Or the white powder? (And I don’t mean the kind on the beignets.)

In any case, let me get this straight, New Orleans.

You’re that city where the Brits never were—well, aside from that time in the War of 1812 when they tried to invade. (Andrew Jackson had something to say about that, even though the war was already over, I think.) And there was the one Brit I met there the other day—tatted up, sporting a New York Yankees jersey, and asking me if I had any white powder. (He wasn’t hungry.)

You’re diverse as hell.

But everyone speaks English (now).

And you’re racist as hell, I’ve been told. Because that’s not the story my eyes conveyed.

You’re over the top.

And under the sea.

You’re alive.

And dying?

You’re a bounty of riches.

And a magnet for the poor—just look at the streets. (And the po’ boys.)

You’re the place with the artists and writers and dreamers.

Are they still dreaming—or just drinking?

Why is the National WWII Museum in New Orleans?

What’s chicory again?

Did you really invent the Sazerac?

Why the streetcars?

I will say you have charm.

And oil refineries.

And, unless I’m mistaken, prostitutes.

In other words, you have it all, New Orleans.

Or do you?

The post New Orleans Has Me Dazed and Confused appeared first on ComposeMD.

But let me tell you something—aside from my hair, clothes, and mindset, I live on the cutting edge of pop culture.

So when the former editor of Plethora of Pop—Buddy Gott—asked for submissions to his new publication, I viewed it as an opportunity to let my true colors shine.

The publication is called PubBeat, and the challenge was simple: Pick a year that contained a lot of music you love and then write a piece in which you share multiple songs from that year.

Yes, 1971 did give us “Stairway to Heaven” and “What’s Going On.” The year did also capture the sounds of the decade of my birth. But who do you think I am—some sort of Rust Belt nostalgia guy?

Then there’s 1991, which gave us “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and “Losing My Religion.” But the years of teenage angst are long gone. Do I look like the type of dude who would give up his day job to blog or something?

No, the only year that fits, the one that captures the new joyful me, is 2014.

By that year, I was fully entrenched in the culture of suburbia, talking playsets, weed killers, and grill covers. I was…

“Happy” by Pharrell Williams”

Granted, the decision to grow roots in Upstate New York had raised a few eyebrows, particularly among the coastal elites I had left behind. But my wife and I knew that in stumbling upon Rochester, we had found a…

“Dark Horse” by Katy Perry featuring Juicy J

Life was a little slower and a little simpler. It seemed like we were surrounded by people who had collectively decided no more counting dollars, we’ll be…

“Counting Stars” by OneRepublic

Of course, the fact that the only thing outsiders knew about Rochester was lake-effect snow did get irritating at times. Eventually, however, I learned to…

“Shake It Off” by Taylor Swift

Because deep down, I had an inkling the snide comments were coming from the…

“Jealous” by Nick Jonas

And that’s why 2014 is my favorite year in music.

The post My Favorite Year in Music appeared first on ComposeMD.