On July 26, 2026, relentless Cyber-wandering landed me on a headline: “Colorado River reservoirs hit record lows as Trump administration threatens major cuts.”

I feigned shock—could rapid population growth in a desert have consequences?

Seven states—Colorado, Wyoming, Utah, New Mexico, Nevada, California, and Arizona—depend on the 1,450-mile-long river and its famed reservoirs (Lake Powell and Lake Mead) to quench their thirst.

One—Arizona—deserves special attention.

Located at the end of the line before the river dives into Mexico and empties into the Gulf of California, the state has concocted the following formula:

Keep taxes low.

This will ensure low per-pupil spending, low teacher salaries, and dated facilities.

The result will be the worst public school system in the country.

Allow high-tax states like New York—home to the best public school system in the country—to educate the next generation.

Meanwhile, use the low taxes to steal businesses from other states.

Then, go ahead and steal the young residents that other states paid to educate in order to fill those jobs.

While you’re at it, take some retirees as well so they can spend their life savings in your state as opposed to the ones where they made a living.

All of the above will equal Phoenix, the tenth-largest metro area in the country, home to 500% population growth over the past 50 years and 5.2 million residents—in a desert.

To make the place look nice, build a ton of golf courses and use the Colorado River to water them.

The last step, of course, is to complain that there’s not enough water.

As a final option, consider asking the states from which you stole businesses and residents if you can use their water.*

—

*The Great Lakes Compact, signed into law by President George W. Bush in 2008, is an agreement between the eight Great Lakes states (Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, Minnesota, New York, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Wisconsin), coordinated with two Canadian provinces (Ontario and Quebec), that with very rare exceptions bans the diversion of Great Lakes water outside its natural basin. And, on that note, I’ll have another glass.

The post Why the Colorado River Can Kiss My… appeared first on ComposeMD.

The following thread has been abridged for the sake of brevity.*

Me: Congrats, LeBron, on having chosen Syracuse.

LeBron: Yeah, it’s always great to come back to the Rust Belt.

Me: Rumors were swirling about you going to Golden State, Cleveland, Miami, and Syracuse. What made you finally choose the Salt City?

LeBron: Honestly, man, it came down to ComposeMD and The Essence of Syracuse, New York.

Me: What specifically in that book stood out?

LeBron: I mean, 127 inches of snow a year. All the sunshine in LA can really get to you. And then the empty buildings. I’m a real estate guy, and the decrepit strip malls really spoke to me.

Me: And there’s a great basketball history there.

LeBron: Absolutely. All you gotta say is the 24-second shot clock.

Me: What makes you think Syracuse is ready to help you win that fifth championship?

LeBron: Just look around—the place is loaded with talent. You start with Mike Tirico, then Bob Costas, Marv Albert, Ian Eagle—the list goes on. And anywhere that gave us Post Malone is obviously legit.

Me: A lot of people might particularly be wondering why Syracuse over Miami. What would you say to that?

LeBron: A lot of those people have never tried Wegmans, salt potatoes, or Pastabilities. And if they ever make it to Dinosaur Bar-B-Que, they’ll definitely understand. Plus, I prefer canals to oceans.

Me: What about Syracuse are you most excited about?

LeBron: IKEA.

Me: Where do you see yourself in a few years?

LeBron: Well, let’s hope the highway removal goes as planned, because I’m all about reconnecting neighborhoods. And then I hope to spend a lot of time on the new Micron campus talking chips.

Me: Did you make this move with Bronny in mind?

LeBron: I think anyone who knows me knows I make all my decisions with family in mind. And Bronny, that kid loves sledding. So yeah, because what a thrill it would be for father and son to sled together.

Me: Well, LeBron, I think I speak for everyone in the wasteland that is Upstate New York when I say, Thank you for choosing Syracuse.**

LeBron: You bet.

—

*It’s possible some or all of this conversation with LeBron James was completely fabricated.

**The Syracuse Nationals were founded in 1946, joining the NBA in 1949 and winning the NBA Championship in 1955. In 1963, the franchise moved to Philadelphia and became known as the 76ers.

The post Why LeBron James Chose Syracuse appeared first on ComposeMD.

But I have learned a few things.

When you have a kid who shoots hoops like this, it might be time to look for other talents.

View this post on Instagram

And if you stumble upon this, buy a piano.

View this post on Instagram

Then, rather than harp upon the fact that you ain’t watching varsity sports, embrace the fact that they serve beer at those School of Rock concerts.

We’ll call it Parenting 101.

Yet in the case of the Rust Belt, the parents have been emotionally abusive.

Let’s take a look at Ohio.

From the mid-1900s to 2020, the city of Cleveland lost 542,184 residents.

Over the same time span, Cincinnati went down by 194,681.

Dayton shed 124,688; Toledo bled 112,947; and Akron said bye to 99,882.

Envision that kid playing basketball.

Now envision talking about that shot, over and over.

Call The New York Times and have them write an article on it—followed by another.

Go ahead and make a documentary—followed by another.

Finally, call the kid stupid—again.

To repeat, I’m no expert, but there could be a plan B.

Let’s go back to Ohio.

From 1950 to today, the state’s population has increased from 7.9 million to 11.9 million.

That makes it the nation’s seventh most-populated state (with the seventh-largest state GDP).

The capital, Columbus, has added 562,495 residents over the past 75 years, its metro area growing by 1.7 million.

Picture that piano.

Add some drums and a bass guitar.

Find a School of Rock—ask your wife to drive to the shows.

Have the kid start an Instagram account and dabble in TikTok.

Finally, send him to Tennessee.

Meanwhile, start a blog about this sh*t.

Write a few indie books.

You might still suck at parenting, but at least no one will notice.

The post What Parenting Taught Me About the Rust Belt appeared first on ComposeMD.

This tale goes back a few decades, back to the era when my daily leisure activities were partly dictated by the parents.

One such lovely afternoon—I have no idea exactly when or where—landed me in an IKEA.

And in that place of comfort and joy, I felt something else: misery.

If I recall correctly, there was a winding path through a large showroom, full of furniture and other stuff I didn’t need. Somewhere around there was a restaurant with the (in)famous meatballs. The maze ended in a sort of warehouse, where everything was suddenly in a flat box.

But after that came the worst part of all: going home and assembling the sh*t.

Lack of aptitude coupled with lack of interest, both layered upon mysterious DIY instructions, sealed the deal—I officially hated IKEA.

Over time, of course, the stance softened a bit.

I learned the story—a 17-year-old Swedish kid named Ingvar Kamprad founded the place in 1943, the name being an acronym of his initials, the family farm (Elmtaryd), and his hometown (Agunnaryd).

Its claim to fame, beyond the above, included reasonable pricing and Scandanavian (i.e. minimalist) design.

With something like 500 locations in over 60 countries/territories, the simple beginnings had turned into a global phenomenon.

And I came to realize that anywhere that was anywhere had an IKEA.

That’s when, about 15 years ago, I began pining for one in Upstate New York.

I knew the probability of me ever stepping foot in the store hovered around zero, but I felt an immense desire to brag that Rochester offered spherical animal protein, planar boxes, and the chance to spend hours putting together a desk.

Rumors swirled, but nothing materialized.

In typical Rochester fashion, the ideal spot for an IKEA instead became an orthopedic unit or something of the like.

I waited patiently, finding some solace in the opening of a Whole Foods, which I drove by regularly but never entered.

And then, in 2025, the unthinkable happened.

About 75 miles east, in the metropolis of Syracuse, IKEA opened its first ever Upstate New York location.

Granted, it was a small-format store—not the traditional behemoth—but I knew immediately that the Salt City had an economy, even mentioning the mammoth occurrence in this book.

About eight months later, in equally shocking fashion, I learned that a similar-sized location would be opening in nearby Buffalo.

In other words, despite evidence to the contrary, I mattered.

Thank you, IKEA.

The post I Hate You IKEA—but Thank You appeared first on ComposeMD.

And you know Rochester, NY—that rusty town with a once-famous company that declared bankruptcy.

There’s a connection, and it goes beyond ruins.

Let’s back up.

Christopher Nolan, I’ve been told, is the man. Born in London—as in the UK—in 1970, the dude has turned himself into one of the highest-grossing film directors of all time.

Trust me—you know his stuff. In the mix are The Dark Knight trilogy, Inception, Interstellar, Dunkirk, and Oppenheimer.

And in 2026, added to that collection was The Odyssey, a film adaptation of Homer’s epic poem, the one you supposedly read in high school while studying the ancient Greeks.

The gist of it is that Odysseus, using the Trojan Horse, has just helped capture Troy, and now it’s time to go home. That brief jaunt, however, turns into ten years, rife with mythical monsters, deadly temptations, and so on.

Eventually…well, you’ll just have to read/watch to find out.

Rochester, NY, I’ve been told, is not the man. Incorporated as a city in 1834, the burg once showed immense promise.

Trust me—you know its stuff. In the mix were Xerox, Bausch + Lomb, French’s, Ragu, Western Union, Champion, and even a subway system.

But its best-known product remains Kodak, which, as mentioned, declared bankruptcy in 2012 and is now used by Harvard Business School as an example of what not to do.

Of course, random people have self-published books about how things in Rochester are nowhere near as dire as advertised, but readership has mirrored Kodak’s stock price, just without the rise before the fall.

The question, of course, is why Rochester can’t be innovative like Nolan.

The genius, after all, shot The Odyssey entirely on 70 mm IMAX cameras, something that has never been done before.

If only Kodak could have provided the more than two million feet of 65 mm film used to make that happen.*

Or, at the very least, the floundering company could have provided the print film—35 mm, 70 mm five-perforation, and 70 mm IMAX—shown in theaters.**

Then, perhaps, the stories told about us, like the film format itself, would be more three-dimensional.

—

*It did.

**It did.

The post How The Odyssey Saved Rochester, NY appeared first on ComposeMD.

(Or, if you’re reading this after July 19, 2026, I hope you didn’t succumb to the false advertising.)

Does 60 percent mean anything to you?

This story begins in the 1800s, when the Argentine government actively sought immigrants to populate the country and utilize the abundant agricultural land.

An obvious supply was found in Italy.

Fast forward to the next century, and the wave continued, this time also filling industrial jobs in cities like Buenos Aires.

After WWII, as Europe struggled to regain its footing, a final surge occurred, officially giving the South American country a healthy dose of Italians.

How healthy?

In modern times, as alluded to above, over 60 percent of all Argentines have Italian ancestry.

The marriage, it could be said, has been a happy one.

It has never been a struggle for Italians to learn the closely related Spanish. Along the way, the Spanish spoken in Argentina has been “Italianized”, both in terms of pronunciation and loanwords.

Religion, as you might imagine, has blended just fine, as Roman Catholics tend to have few issues with Roman Catholics.

And the food—has anyone ever complained about pizza, pasta, gelato, and Fernet?

Spain—as in the country that funded Christopher Columbus—of course knows a thing or two about Italy.

And the Spanish know that on the soccer pitch, their Mediterranean neighbor can be found disguised in sky blue and white.

The post Why Spain Is Actually Playing Italy appeared first on ComposeMD.

The addicted, I’ve learned, get fixes everywhere—Wikipedia, Reddit, ChatGPT, even an airline ticket.

Granted, the fix may not come with a dopamine surge—it may just be a solution, or solutions.

That’s the type of fix I sought, courtesy Southwest Airlines, the kind that reverses the maladies of which Rust Belters whine.

It involved 1,036 flying miles, approximately due south, some time after Independence Day in 2026.

And the solutions, they came fast and furious.

First and most obvious was the cloud cover. The low and gray had been exchanged for the blue and high. Somewhere up there was a brilliant star, worthy of sunglasses and a touch of air conditioning.

The narrow made way for the expansive, as in ten lanes instead of two. Lowly pedestrians were nowhere to be found.

Empty buildings were full, teeming with every chain restaurant the country had ever known. Even Hooters made an appearance.

There were no dirty factories, the type that pollute the air and clutter the world. In their place were theme parks—clean, happy, and full of chicken fingers and 1.5 times minimum wage.

The place was a magnet for visitors, unlike the Rust Belt, where people have to be coerced into making an appearance. The tourists filled the theme parks, chain restaurants, and all ten lanes.

New homes were popping up all over the place—because people actually wanted to live there.

And the buildings, the ones I mentioned, were new, too. They were boxy and bland with little attention to detail, but they were spotless and unaged.

It was everything the Rust Belt addict could ask for, leaving next to nothing worthy of a gripe.

But all the fixes came with one glaring problem:

It wasn’t the Rust Belt.

The post Confessions of a Rust Belt Addict appeared first on ComposeMD.

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 know you’re smarter than me.

How do I know?

Because you tell me.

Anyway, I’ve come across a problem I can’t seem to solve. Of course, this roadblock has everything to do with my intellectual inferiority.

It revolves around soccer (your word, not mine).

FIFA—the acronym for Corrupt Monopoly—is based in Zürich, which in turn is based in Switzerland, the watch capital of the world.

In other words, when it comes to keeping time, you, European, know what you’re doing.

I mean Rolex, Patek Philippe, Vacheron Constantin—c’mon now.

As such, the following formula must be rooted in that same precision.

When the game starts, the clock starts.

It counts up.

When the ball goes out of bounds, the clock continues.

When play is stopped for a hydration break, the upward countdown rolls on.

If a player is injured, tick tock, tick tock.

During a video review, it’s more of the same.

But a referee is always keeping absolutely precise time.

All the stoppages are accounted for by one person on an elite European watch that no one else can see.

And that’s where the miracle begins.

Because in each and every game, when the “stoppage time” is added on at the end of a half, it is always miraculously an integer.

One might expect on some occasions that fractions, aka decimals, could enter the mix. But clearly my understanding of time is limited, as without fail, the additional time is a whole number.

And I’m even more embarrassed to admit some degree of perplexity at the fact that when four minutes are added, the teams continue to play for beyond four minutes.

Occasionally, fans express discontent at this phenomenon, but who do they think they are questioning the exactness of time? American?

In any event, I look forward to your intellectually superior response.

Sincerely,

Your pupil

The post Thank You, European, for Being So Damn Smart appeared first on ComposeMD.