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.

Was Dr. Seuss predicting my life?

Thirty-six years after the master’s last book was published, that is the only possible explanation for what I’ve seen—and what’s left to be seen.

You’re off to Great Places!

The Rust Belt—need I say more?

It’s opener there in the wide open air.

Farm country, as you may or may not know, is walking distance.

You’ll be on your way up!

You’ll be seeing great sights!

The reference, of course, is to Cobbs Hill Park in Rochester (NY), 633 feet above sea level and pictured here.

…Bang-ups

and Hang-ups

can happen to you.

Undoubtedly, Dr. Seuss knew I would have to make it through dark times, otherwise known as stints in Boston and New York City.

You’ll find the bright places

where Boom Bands are playing.

Yes, I have been to many a middle-school band concert.

I’m afraid that some times

you’ll play lonely games too.

Games you can’t win

’cause you’ll play against you.

One word: Blogging.

But on you will go

though the weather be foul.

How the legend knew I would live in the Snow Belt I’ll never know.

And will you succeed?

Yes! You will, indeed!

(98 and ¾ percent guaranteed.)

In other words, there’s only a 1 and ¼ percent chance of being like me!

So…get on your way!

The itinerary, I’ll have you know, includes the following:

Akron, Ohio

Binghamton, New York

Charleston, West Virginia

Dayton, Ohio

Erie, Pennsylvania

Evansville, Indiana

Flint, Michigan

Gary, Indiana

Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania

Youngstown, Ohio

OH! THE PLACES YOU’LL GO!

The post Oh, the Places You’ll Go! 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.

But were you actually listening?

Once more, I’ll remind you of a few facts.

Western New York is separated from Canada—Ontario to be exact—by a measly river.

Sure, the Niagara River does have some impressive waterfalls, but at some points along its 36-mile course, it looks like a mere stream.

And when it comes to stanching the flow of people, ideas, and…love, that little stream doesn’t stand a chance.

Again, you’ve heard this in the past, but I do enjoy repeating myself.

Buffalo and Toronto share a public media network—Buffalo Toronto Public Media—that serves both Southern Ontario and Western New York.

Western New Yorkers are far more likely to get their morning cup of joe from Tim Hortons than from Dunkin’.

Labatt Blue, the most Canadian of beers, is brewed in part at the Genesee Brewery—in Rochester, New York.

Similarly, The Tragically Hip, the most Canadian of bands, has a popular tribute band—in Buffalo.

The Triple-A affiliate of the Toronto Blue Jays plays in Buffalo. During COVID, the actual Toronto Blue Jays played in Buffalo.

Approximately 21 percent of Canada’s population lies within the 75-mile radius considered by the NFL to be the Buffalo Bills’ home market, explaining this map.

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But as this article so eloquently points out, all of the above is thin culture.

How about thick culture?

What is life truly like on the international border?

I asked if you were listening for a reason—because that’s where the answer lies.

The Buffalo Sabres of the NHL play both the Canadian and American national anthems before every game, even if that game is between two American teams.

On April 28, 2026, before a playoff matchup with the Boston Bruins, the microphone malfunctioned during the Canadian national anthem.

And here’s what 19,070 (mostly) Americans had to say about the situation.

Because that’s how we roll on an international border.

The post That’s How We Roll on an International Border! appeared first on ComposeMD.

Or, better yet, I could drive ten minutes down the road.

Because as William Faulkner said: The past is never dead. It’s not even past.

In the Rust Belt, history is learned on the way to Walmart.

Past, present, and future—the lines are blurred.

Is that a factory, a startup, or just abandoned?

The hope is for the first two, but we have expertise in the third.

—

When do abandoned buildings become ruins?

Twenty years?

A half century?

A full one?

As a pragmatist, I try not to partake in such esoteric debates—I leave that to the bloggers.

On the other hand, I am interested in why such debates exist in the first place, as in why the abandoned structures are left to stand.

Imagine a strip of abandoned homes. It’s perfect for the homeless, drug-addicted, and criminally-predisposed.

A city knows the neighborhood is unlikely to become a tourist attraction.

And there starts the merriment.

Who owns the home(s)?

Can they be contacted?

Can they be pressured (via fines) into maintenance?

Or selling?

Would there even be a buyer?

If taxes are delinquent, can the city or an associated land bank seize the property?

If so, after clean up, can the property be handed over to a developer?

Does the local economy make such a project appealing to developers anyway?

Are the developers reliable?

Or is demolition the only option?

Should the cleared space become a park?

Or a public art display?

With an eroded tax base, where does the money for all this come from?

The county?

The state?

The feds?

How long will the entire process take?

Even if it ultimately comes together, what if the new incarnation is still appealing to the homeless, drug-addicted, and criminally-predisposed?

—

When do abandoned buildings become ruins?

Twenty years?

A half century?

A full one?

The post The Only Ruins I Actually Care About appeared first on ComposeMD.

The narrative, worthy of a finger down the throat, goes something like this: Demographic shifts, particularly those bloating population figures down South, are rooted in the air temperature. That chill, which can come with the added feature of sunless days, has pushed people away.

As history has shown, enough repetition can yield reality.

But when that reality is simply perceived, there’s a better word—mythology.

Boring as it may be, the truth can be found in numbers.

Start with Boston, whose metro population has grown by 13 percent since 2000.

Take I-90 across the country to Seattle, whose metro has blossomed by 36 percent over the same time span.

Along the way, take a slight detour to Minneapolis, up 23 percent during that stretch.

Or skip all the driving and just cross the lake to Toronto, up 34 percent since the turn of the century.

The same truth can be found in apparently mundane metros.

• Omaha: up 30 percent since 2000
• Columbus (OH): 31 percent
• Madison (WI): 32 percent
• Indianapolis: 40 percent
• Des Moines: 51 percent!

And then there’s the metro that drives a stake through the heart of the weather obsessed.

It goes by the name of Grand Rapids, Michigan.

Like Upstate New York, it’s on the wrong side of a Great Lake, otherwise known as cloudy as hell. And as is true in Upstate New York, the clouds like to share, in this case 75 inches of mostly lake-effect snow per year.

Yet the place has grown by 26 percent in the past quarter century.

So if a region smack dab in the middle of the Snow Belt is thriving, what is the actual reality?

It’s you, Upstate New Yorker, the one with no vision.

It’s you, the one whose incessant whining has kept young entrepreneurs away.

And it’s you, Upstate New York politician, the one who insists that despite living in one of the most tax-heavy states, the solution to all our problems is to raise taxes.

It’s you, the one who tortures the few entrepreneurs who do show up for business.

By all means, go ahead and blame Mother Nature all you want.

Just remember that the numbers show where the real answer lies—the mirror.

The post Upstate NY, You’re Wrong—It Ain’t the Weather appeared first on ComposeMD.

On that particular afternoon, I found myself in the Queen City, a fancy nickname for the Rust Belt town of Buffalo.

The primary purpose of the visit was for a dance competition, and, no, not because I’m sophisticated—because I’m a father.

And at this point in my dance dad progression, I don’t have to pretend I care about watching the other competitors anymore.

I’m there to prove to the world—aka my family—how great of a father I am.

But in between events, now that’s where things get interesting.

That’s when I do pretend to be something—cultured.

In 2025, stranded alone at a dance workshop in Sandusky, Ohio, I ventured to nearby Toledo and its art museum, even taking this picture to prove it.

So to keep tradition alive, on April 18, 2026, I made the bold move to visit the Buffalo AKG Art Museum.

That museum, as you know, has one of the most significant collections of modern and contemporary art in the world.

I even mentioned that here.

In full disclosure, I didn’t really know that—I took the line from another book, 100 Things To Do in Buffalo Before You Die (giving full credit, of course).

Upon arrival to the gallery, I wondered if the one in Toledo was a better product—and by better, I mean cheaper. While parking and admission in the Glass City were free, Buffalo set me back $34—$12 to ditch the car and $22 to enter.

I’ll just skip the café, I thought.

Once inside, I started the aimless stroll, feigning interest and, more importantly, expertise. To play the part, I had abandoned the sweatshirt in favor of a collar, throwing in the occasional head nod sprinkled with a few hmm‘s.

I saw a couple names I recognized—guys like Jackson Pollock and Andy Warhol.

But there was one room that stood out because, well, it seemed like the museum wanted it to stand out.

The space was dedicated to the work of one Clyfford Still.

And that left me with a burning question:

Who the heck is Clyfford Still?!

I read the placard quickly, knowing those are typically written to violate all rules of writing I’ve learned—you know, use a lot of words that no one understands and find the most circuitous route to saying nothing.

Then I turned to my companion, AI.

Clyfford Still (1904-1980) was a leading American Abstract Expressionist painter.

Not exactly knowing what that meant, I discovered some other key figures in the movement:

• Jackson Pollock (see above)
• Mark Rothko (the name reminded me of the guy who plays the Hulk)
• Willem de Kooning (the name seemed familiar, but I might have been confusing it with Kaiser Wilhelm II)

Still was apparently a bit grumpy, rejecting commercial art markets in favor of reclusion, ensuring that people like me would have to resort to AI to figure out who he was.

The dude loved jagged shapes, the kind in this picture I nabbed (no flash obviously).

And for some reason, he took to the people of Buffalo—their museum would boast the largest collection of his work until the 2011 opening of the Clyfford Still Museum in Denver.

To fund that project in the Mile High City, Still’s estate sold a few paintings, with one going for $61.7 million!

As I made my way back to the dance competition, I noted smugly that thanks to Clyfford Still, I had become officially important.

The post Who the Heck Is Clyfford Still?! appeared first on ComposeMD.

Thanks to GPS—and a still-functioning brain—I knew the answer in a spatial sense.

The question I was posing, you could say, was of the rhetorical variety.

The striking Olmsted park—that I had known about.

But I was stunned by the neoclassical, modern, and contemporary architecture.

And inside—that’s where the jaw hit the floor.

It started with Jackson Pollock’s Convergence, drip technique and all.

Next came Andy Warhol. Who can’t get behind Campbell’s Condensed Beef Noodle Soup?

As I roamed around, I stumbled upon some sculptures, one by Edgar Degas and another by Auguste Rodin.

Then came more paintings—and more artists.

Pierre-Auguste Renoir.

Camille Pissarro.

Some guy named Claude Monet.

The dude with the ear, aka Vincent van Gogh.

Paul Gauguin.

Paul Cézanne.

The man obsessed with Cubism—Pablo Picasso.

A lady named Georgia O’Keeffe.

Another lady named Frida Kahlo.

Henri Matisse.

And Salvador Dalí.

Still shaking my head, I walked outside and found the pedestrian bridge.

There was another neoclassical gem to see, one built to resemble the Parthenon.

It was on a lake, and if I was being honest, that was the real draw.

Because next to the lake was the Japanese Garden, inspired by a relationship with Kanazawa, Japan.

And in the garden were cherry blossoms—they happened to be in full bloom.

Where am I? I asked myself again.

Time, as always, was short, and after a couple pictures, I headed to the hotel.

There, in the lobby, I marveled at the light rail, visible just outside the oversized windows.

As I kept looking, I noticed a few rain drops, followed by a few more.

Soon, it was an outright downpour.

Then, I felt a drop—and another.

I looked at my feet and noted a developing puddle.

April showers, needless to say, were not particularly noteworthy.

The only surprise was experiencing them indoors.

Where am I? I asked myself one final time.

The answer, of course, was the Rust Belt.*

—

*Thank you, Buffalo, for being a majestic cultural powerhouse—and not totally put together.

The post Where Am I?! 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.