I was supposed to be working—or doing the dishes. For that matter, anything else would have sufficed.

But as a writer, even of the uncompensated variety, daydreaming is a prerequisite for rolling the pen on paper.

And on this particular day, the thoughts took on a life of their own.

December 2, 1859. Charles Town, West Virginia. The place was still part of Virginia, whose western cousin didn’t exist yet. That’s when the abolitionist John Brown was hanged for raiding a federal armory in Harpers Ferry. So much for the slave rebellion he was trying to incite.

Wait, whatever happened to Angie Everhart? Remember her—the redhead model who was in that Schwarzenegger movie Last Action Hero (and a ton of other stuff)?

I briefly looked at the blank computer screen and noticed the song playing in the background.

Chrissie Hynde did have a fantastic voice.

That show Providence was pretty good. I wonder what Melina Kanakaredes is up to these days.

I looked back at the still-blank screen.

How cool would it be to win a Pulitzer Prize? Rita Dove won the Pulitzer for Poetry. I think she was the United States Poet Laureate or something.

She must have been like the LeBron James of poetry.

Man, those NBA Finals between LeBron and Steph Curry were so good.

I stared at the computer and noted the music again.

The Black Keys weren’t very good live. I still like them though.

That was nuts in second grade when we all huddled around the TV in the classroom to watch the launch of the Space Shuttle Challenger. And then they just ushered us out of the room without saying a word. Poor Judith Resnik.

James Harrison was undrafted?! He was such a dominant linebacker for the Steelers.

My wife called and asked what I was doing.

“Uh, making money online,” I blurted out, hoping she wouldn’t check the bank account any time soon.

I sat back and wondered.

Had I just had the daydream from hell?

Or was it from Akron, Ohio?*

—

*Everyone mentioned was born in and/or spent spent significant time in Akron.

The post My Daydream From Hell appeared first on ComposeMD.

After all, it was the New York newspaper that incited me to take action.

On May 22, 2026, in between doing nothing, I discovered that the Journal had published a piece called “Dad Books Are a Dying Breed”.

The gist—sales of so-called “serious nonfiction” books, particularly the print versions, are down and out.

To blame is the smorgasbord factor, i.e. the mix of podcasts, Substack newsletters, Netflix documentaries, and so on that sates the desire of men to know boring stuff.

In the mix, of course, is a societal shift away from plain text as a means of consuming information.

And that gets me to the Great Lakes reading list.

What should a text-obsessed middle-aged man confronted with an uncomfortable reality about the future of text do?

Simple—push more text.

If you think that makes me fuddy-duddy, just wait for the books I recommend.

The Death and Life of the Great Lakes by Dan Egan

Bro—as in Egan—can write. In fact, the former reporter for the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel can write so well that he’s been a finalist for a Pulitzer Prize on multiple occasions.

If you only read one book on the Great Lakes, this should be the pick. Meticulously researched and fantastically readable, the blend of science, history, and storytelling amounts to a biography of the lakes, with special attention to how human actions like canal building, shipping, and farming have paved the way for invasive species and toxic algal blooms, thereby threatening one of the world’s most important natural resources.

In the final notes, Egan writes: This book is the sum of more than a decade of reporting…

It shows.

The Living Great Lakes: Searching for the Heart of the Inland Seas by Jerry Dennis

Dennis has made a name for himself as a nature writer, and this is perhaps his magnum opus.

Despite already being a walking encyclopedia regarding the lakes, the Michigan native set out to find an overarching narrative that could tie his knowledge together.

Enter a six-week journey on the Malabar, a schooner that in the spring of 2000 would take Dennis through his beloved inland seas.

The result is a passionate memoir, one peppered with enough historical, scientific, and nautical nuggets to make you an expert of the lacustrine variety.

The Gales of November: The Untold Story of the Edmund Fitzgerald by John U. Bacon

Bacon, another Michigan native, has carved out a career as a sports writer. But in this masterpiece, he stepped out of his comfort zone to take a deep dive into one of the most haunting shipwrecks in American history.

The 1975 sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald on Lake Superior has inspired safety regulations, an iconic song, and a world-class beer, but perhaps its greatest legacy is having spawned this chronicle of human tragedy.

Along the way, Bacon shines a light on the iron ore mining, Great Lakes shipping, and steel production that created some of the most vibrant cities the country has known.

Note: YouTube videos and Instagram Reels are cheaper and less time-consuming.

The post Your Mandatory Great Lakes Reading List appeared first on ComposeMD.

I’ll get there.

First, we have to start with some -isms.

Leading the way is racism.

The concept of race, as viewed from a molecular standpoint, is nonsensical.

Despite the fact that geography and inbreeding have allowed for the development of unique DNA patterns, genetic variation within a socially created group can be greater than that between supposedly disparate groups.

Of course, dismantling a social construct can be met with great resistance, as such an endeavor devalues experience, no matter the flawed basis of that experience.

Racism, as a result, persists in those with insufficient neuronal plasticity and/or oversized egos.

Am I saying it is for the intellectually inferior?

Yes.

Next is sexism.

A double dose of the X chromosome means a female, while an X with a Y equals a male.

Biology, particularly as it pertains to human reproduction, follows suit.

Beyond that, any attempt to categorize can be hazy at best and ignorant at worst.

Of course, this hasn’t stopped many from trying.

Like their racist counterparts, sexists often suffer from cerebral defectivity.

Then there’s ageism.

For one reason or another, despite its detrimental effects on all age groups, some degree of ageism has been deemed socially acceptable.

From forced retirement to the overuse of Boomer to the dismissal of millennials as entitled, this -ism is the least likely to be met with the cancel.

But there is one -ism that is even more acceptable—or outright encouraged.

It’s called cityism.

Ask yourself these questions:

Do you automatically trust a doctor in New York City more than one in Toledo?

Do you value a teacher in Chicago more than one in Omaha?

Do you judge the merit of a place—and its people—based on what you can buy there?

Do you inflate your own self-importance based on where you live?

Do you deflate the importance of others based on where they live?

Congratulations—you just might be a cityist.

The post Sorry, but I Think You’re a Cityist appeared first on ComposeMD.

You might even call it brown privilege.

It started with the parents, loving, stable, and willing to pay for college.

There was, of course, no military service.

Then came the wife, cut from a similar cloth.

By pursuing school excessively, we were able to postpone the real world for years.

Eventually came the two kids, the four-bedroom house, and the playset.

The purpose, of course, was to be able to brag to other brown people, or so I was told.

Unfortunately, by that standard, I was just average.

The house was supposed to be more spacious and the cars more German.

Even worse, the first child—destined for pre-med at an Ivy—ended up chasing music at some anonymous place in the Bible Belt.

But far more revolting than that belt are two others, which combined have condemned me to mahogany mediocrity.

Yet it is in this purgatory that I have realized, yes, I am privileged.

Let me start with a little science, assuming that is still safe.

Open your periodic table and find the atomic number of 26.*

Now subtract 20, and find the atomic number of 6.**

Go ahead and make an alloy.***

When you get a chance, add the elixir of life****, mixing in the atomic number of 8.*****

You’ll find that you’ve made ferric oxide.

Now, if you’ll allow for additional science, let me continue.

Take the elixir of life and spread it out over 7,323 square miles at a maximum depth of 802 feet.

Once done, take a mass of cold air and blow it over the large puddle.

You should find that the air accumulates warmth and moisture.

Allow the air to continue moving past the puddle and come into contact with a cold surface.

Eventually, as the cooling air releases its accumulated moisture, you’ll note that the cold surface changes color.

When it’s all said and done, you’ll have a belt covered in ferric oxide and white privilege.

In other words, you’ll recognize why I, too, consider myself privileged.

Because not just anyone can live in the Rust Belt and Snow Belt.

*Iron

**Carbon

***Steel

****Water

*****Oxygen

The post Yes, I AM Privileged appeared first on ComposeMD.

I stole it from the man who started the trend in the first place.

It was back in the days before TikTok, back when a trend could include just one, which I’m assuming (and frankly hoping) is the case here.

Let’s back up.

This all started with the usual rabbit hole, one I found on the western edge of Lake Erie.

You know it as the place with toxic algal blooms and countless abandoned buildings.

I know it as Toledo.

For some reason, I thought ditching a blissful life as a nephrologist in favor of obsessing about Great Lakes cities no one cares about was a good call. As judged by my Amazon KDP dashboard, I assure you it is not.

But the best part about irrationality is that, as the word suggests, simple logic is no match.

That’s how the other day, rather than pursue anything of monetary value, I landed on the Toledo Wikipedia page.

In the creator economy, anything—even an unequivocal waste of time—can be called research. And when that research leads you to the Pringles can, well, then it’s time to write a non-monetizable blog post.

Anyway, you know how the Wikipedia thing goes.

You start with the brief overview at the top and then move through History, Geography, Demographics, and so on.

Somewhere around there is Education, which when dealing with a grand metropolis like Toledo comes with all sorts of links, including one to the university that takes its name from the city.

On that page is a section called Notable alumni, faculty, and staff, which requires a linked journey to another page entitled List of University of Toledo people.

When I finally reached that destination, the Technology and innovation section immediately caught my attention. One dude was an aircraft developer and another worked on some sort of computer stuff.

But it was the name Frederic J. Baur that is truly responsible for this drivel. Baur, after all, did something most of us can only dream of: bro invented the Pringles can!

It turns out that the legend, born and educated in Toledo, took his talents elsewhere in Ohio—Cincinnati to be exact. There, as an organic chemist and food storage scientist working for Proctor & Gamble, he devised the tubular Pringles container, patented it, and blessed the entire world in the process.

Yes, attempting to extricate the last few chips has been a source of great angst, but that conundrum has simply inspired further ingenuity.

Upon Baur’s death in 2008 at the age of 89, his family honored his request of having some of his cremated remains buried in an Original flavor Pringles container.

So if anyone is reading, when the time comes, to honor my infatuation with the Rust Belt and snack food, go ahead and bury me in a Pringles can.

Sour Cream & Onion flavor, please.

The post Please—Just Bury Me in a Pringles Can 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 was going to start with a huge chunk of land.

There was going to be an ocean—with some beaches and islands.

But it wasn’t going to be that nice.

The land was going to be carved up by turbid rivers and inhospitable swamps.

To make things interesting, I planned to throw in some mountains.

It was going to be hot.

And humid.

The conditions would have been perfect for whacked-out flora—and growing all sorts of stuff.

Animals would run wild, or “swim wild” for the ones in the water.

And the bugs—man, would there be bugs.

Then, with all that in place, I was going to start the human experiment.

Some of the people would live in tribes.

Some would hail from an old monarchy.

To spice things up, I planned to include the Scottish, Irish, French, Spanish, and anyone else from around there.

With the goal of adding more languages and religions, I was going to open it up to Africans and a few Asians.

After that, I was just going to see what happened.

My colleagues warned me it would be a recipe for chaos.

People would kill each other, they said.

Some groups would be oppressed and others eradicated.

Languages would be lost.

And one group—the dominant one—would impose its religion.

When it was all said and done, some would be really rich and others dirt poor.

But I still wanted to do the experiment.

Because I wondered if the same formula that would foment chaos could also incubate beauty.

Just think about the food. It would come from all the flora and fauna, including the stuff from the sea. And the flavors—they would be brand new.

My guess was the drinks would be fantastic, especially those of the adult variety.

The cities would be offbeat and full of contradictions.

The people, if they agreed not to kill each other, would have fun with language.

And then, if thoughts were truly allowed to marinate, would come the art.

I envisioned groundbreaking literature, works that would remind everyone that great stupidity can birth profound insight.

Even the textiles and photographs would make us think.

But greater than all that would be the music. It would actually change the world.

Alas, my plans were derailed when I found out this human experiment has already begun.

If I’m not mistaken, it goes by a simple name: the American South.

The post My Human Experiment appeared first on ComposeMD.

The Premise

The fragile human brain is highly susceptible to an overdramatic worldview. In particular, ten dramatic instincts that are hardwired into our neurons make it difficult for us to maintain a fact-based outlook.

As you will see, following the news—as in American political news—only makes things worse.

The Instincts

These ten flawed ways of thinking mean that you and I (also known as voters), when posed with questions about the world, will probably do worse than a group of chimpanzees guessing at random. (The text in italics is taken directly from Factfulness.)

The Gap Instinct

This instinct refers to that irresistible temptation we have to divide all kinds of things into two distinct and often conflicting groups, with an imagined gap—a huge chasm of injustice—in between. In other words, a binary view of the world is for the intellectually juvenile—um, Democrats and Republicans.

The Negativity Instinct

This instinct revolves around our tendency to notice the bad more than the good, leading us to believe things are getting worse. Your politician—or your politician’s media buddies—may want you to believe this, but their ulterior motives shouldn’t carry more weight than positive data.

The Straight Line Instinct

While data can certainly follow a straight line with a positive slope, the straight line instinct traps us into thinking that the line will continue with the same slope forever. Remember, graphs can have bends and even reverse course. Also, remember that if you zoom in far enough, everything looks like a straight line. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, take an eighth-grade math class instead of watching the news.

The Fear Instinct

This instinct makes sense—our ancestors needed fear to assist with survival. In modern times, there’s far less reason to fear the chubby dude who speaks a different language, regardless of what Fox News might tell you.

The Size Instinct

With regards to the negative or fear-inducing, the size instinct means that you tend to get things out of proportion. To avoid this pitfall, never trust an isolated number, no matter how “impressive” it might seem. Always compare data to prior data, and more importantly, always look at rates (per capita, etc.). The results might seem…boring. Sorry.

The Generalization Instinct

Categorization is critical for allowing us to function. It is also notorious for making us intellectually naïve. There are 335 million Americans, 1.4 billion Indians, 1.9 billion Muslims, and 2.4 billion Christians on Earth. Again, sorry to disappoint, but not everyone within these categories thinks the same way (are you listening, CNN?).

The Destiny Instinct

The destiny instinct is the idea that innate characteristics determine the destinies of people, countries, religions, or cultures. It’s the idea things are as they are for ineluctable, inescapable reasons: they have always been this way and will never change. Dangerous stuff—and exactly what your politician may want you to believe.

The Single Perspective Instinct

The preference for single causes and single solutions is the so-called single perspective instinct. Such simplicity is convenient, but it’s not particularly useful for understanding reality. Stated another way, that political ideology you’re married to is more useful for starting a cult than it is for solving complex problems.

The Blame Instinct

Much like the above, the blame instinct is the burning need to find a clear, simple reason for why something bad has happened. Identifying a single person or group as the sole cause of global inflation is childlike, i.e. perfect for the campaign trail.

The Urgency Instinct

The urgency instinct makes us want to take immediate action in the face of a perceived imminent danger. Unfortunately, running away from a lion is not quite the same as combating climate change or curbing illegal immigration. The latter two require data, logic, and time—not alarmism, otherwise known as your politician’s best friend.

The Take-Home Message of Factfulness

Please keep following the political news.

Just don’t think you’re smart because you do.

The post Factfulness: How Politics Makes You Dumber appeared first on ComposeMD.

I took pictures like this one.

I posted on social media.

I bragged to some friends.

I said, how amazing!

Then I asked myself, what are the northern lights anyway?

Here’s the tiny bit I learned, presented in oversimplified fashion.

The Sun

The sun is an average-sized star, just one among hundreds of billions in the Milky Way, not to mention the Universe. That said, to us, it’s a very important one.

Located about 93 million miles from Earth, the modest star is a large ball of plasma, i.e. a superheated state of matter consisting of positively and negatively charged particles. This plasma is constantly being emitted from the sun’s outermost atmosphere (corona) into the solar system, resulting in the so-called solar wind.

Every 11 years or so, based on a solar cycle, a solar maximum translates into a strong solar wind, allowing relative southerners like me to write about what comes below.

The Earth

Orbiting the aforementioned star is the earth, a random rock, albeit one that holds a special place in our hearts. As metals are among the numerous elements found on Earth, the planet generates its own magnetic field. And surrounding the planet, consisting largely of gases, is a multilayered atmosphere.

So What Are the Northern Lights?

As the solar wind approaches Earth, the planet’s magnetic field directs the charged particles toward the poles. When the charged particles interact with the gases in Earth’s atmosphere, atoms (mostly nitrogen and oxygen) enter a state of excitation. This added energy must then be released in the form of light.

The light show, when seen in regions near the North Pole, is referred to as the northern lights (aurora borealis) and, when seen near the South Pole, the southern lights (aurora australis).

As above, during a solar maximum, the same phenomenon can be appreciated in areas quite distant from the poles. Aside from providing photo-worthy moments, these events can have less marvelous consequences, at times interfering with satellites, communication systems, and power grids. (I briefly lost power the next morning.)

A Couple Songs

After learning the science, I ended the luminous night with something far less cerebrally taxing—a soundtrack.

“Northern Lights” by St. Vincent

If you’re one of those ultra-pensive, indie-rock types who scares your friends with your deep and/or weird thoughts, this track is for you.

“Die A Happy Man” by Thomas Rhett

And if you’re more the whiskey-drinking, have-fun type who occasionally looks at the sky and says something not all that deep, this one’s for you.

The post What Are the Northern Lights? (Plus 2 Bonus Songs) appeared first on ComposeMD.