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.

The first apology, of course, goes to mom.

J.D. Salinger, in The Catcher in the Rye, said it best:

She looked like she might have a pretty damn good idea what a bastard she was the mother of. But you can’t always tell—with somebody’s mother, I mean. Mothers are all slightly insane.

At this point though, I’m pretty sure she knows.

There was the first book about Rochester, which was actually the second one.

Then came Buffalo.

Syracuse was next.

And now it’s Toledo.

Freaking Toledo.

At each point, she has felt obligated to buy a few copies, secretly hoping—I’m sure—there would be no sequel.

There comes a point, after all, when the garbage starts to cut into the retirement fund.

For that, I’m sorry.

The next apology, as you might imagine, goes to the wife.

Little did she know how much she would rue the day in October 1997 when she said hello.

Not accustomed to so much attention from the opposite sex, I’ve hung on to that hello like my life depended on it, turning it into 22 years of marriage.

Initially, things looked okay—you know, a doctor in New York City.

But when that turned into a blogger in Upstate New York, things took an indisputable turn for the worse.

To add insult to injury, the wife has to proofread, along the way pretending she gives a crap about yet another book on yet another crappy city.

One word: Sorry.

The final apology, undoubtedly, must go to the kids.

It’s a fact of life—all dads are screwed up.

It could be yelling at the kids when no one’s watching.

Maybe it’s sneaking whiskey in the basement.

Or perhaps it’s just staring off into space, ignoring that which the family says.

The point, however, is to feign normality and save the bizarreness for behind the scenes.

But to air one’s dirty laundry—aka an unhealthy Rust Belt obsession—publicly, now that’s just wrong.

Sorry.

With all that said, and despite the crippling guilt, another book it is.

If you liked the first few, you might like this one as well.

If you didn’t, you won’t.

And if you haven’t read any of them, trust me, you’re not alone.

The post Sorry, I Accidentally Wrote Another Book appeared first on ComposeMD.

His dad—well let’s just say he’s not the most refined guy around.

And Rust Belt Man’s son just saw a few pics of the old man in Paris, courtesy his cousin, aka the old man’s niece.

No wonder he hasn’t spoken to the dude in a couple years.

What’s there to say to an obese, smoking, drinking, and gambling crank?

Can a man not pick just one vice?

Anyway, Rust Belt Man’s son is on his way to the capital of the United Kingdom.

Unlike the older generation, he’s worldly, and he’s out to prove it.

He grabs his luggage and steps into the cool London air.

No evidence of sunshine—I like this place already.

He glances around for the yellow taxis, finding nothing of the sort.

Black cabs?

Stepping around to the passenger side, Rust Belt Man’s son sees a steering wheel and freezes. He gets in the back, pretending that was the plan all along.

The driver tells him about the Knowledge, some prolonged test required to become a taxi driver in London. The Brit throws in something about having an enlarged hippocampus, as in a natural GPS.

“Interesting!” says the American enthusiastically.

At the hotel, he tosses his stuff in the room and takes a deep breath.

It’s time to dominate this place.

He starts with Big Ben and Parliament, the Pink Floyd song “Time” reverberating in his head.

Of course, he stops at Westminster Abbey.

He eyes the River Thames, then hits 10 Downing Street, Trafalgar Square, and the National Gallery.

The destinations are irrelevant, but boxes must be checked.

Piccadilly Circus.

Tea at Fortnum & Mason.

Buckingham Palace.

His sister had told him to find Carnaby Street, and he obliges.

He jumps on a double-decker bus just because, followed by the Tube to the Tower of London and Tower Bridge.

But then, without any warning whatsoever, it happens.

The hangry.

Look at all these sheep just putzing around staring at this garbage.

What a waste.

Get the hell out of my way.

He stumbles upon a pub and waits for a waiter, eventually realizing he has to order at the bar.

Stupid system.

When his steak and ale pie arrives, his heart sinks.

Did I accidentally order an appetizer?

He sees people in the corner huddled around a small TV.

0-0. Wtf.

He fondly recalls the Bills’ 41-40 victory over the Ravens in the season opener.

So much better.

Tired, and still relatively hangry, he decides to Uber it back to the hotel.

But with a six-hour time difference, he knows sleep won’t be an option.

So he pulls out his laptop and finds the game.

Yankees vs. Marlins.

Three hours later, he strolls outside looking for a light snack.

Cheeseburger, fries, four nuggets, and a shake. Six bucks. Clutch.

A homeless guy asks him for a Big Mac, but he declines.

He realizes that with the conversion, the meal is actually eight bucks.

BS.

Just like the left-side-of-the-road nonsense. And those damn phone booths.

Suddenly, he can’t wait to fly back home.

Monday is the college basketball final.

And these people can barely speak proper English.

The post Rust Belt Man’s Son Goes to London 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 I’ll let you decide.

After all, who am I to partake in such matters of vocabulary?

My job is to present the facts.

Thanks to Dos Equis, you are familiar with The Most Interesting Man in the World.

And thanks to me, you will now be familiar with The Quirkiest Man in Upstate New York.

I found this gentleman by chance on Instagram.

Or was it at the doctor’s office he works in—as a doctor?

Regardless, you may know that those of us who don’t live in the grand metropolises of this country take our gas stations seriously.

Buc-ee’s anyone?

But we don’t have those up North.

That’s why The Quirkiest Man in Upstate New York has opted to spend his free time at Speedway.

A quick look suggests the fellow is Indian, perhaps having grown up on the subcontinent.

But his alimentary pursuits have clearly introduced him to the joys of packaged American food—and gas-station beverages.

I once received a DM from the dude admonishing me for not having downloaded the Speedway app. That endeavor, apparently, would have earned me a free six pack of Heineken 0.0.

But I digress—this isn’t about me.

The Indian man, upon inspection of his Instagram account, has taken to posting frequent pictures of himself at Speedway.

The first was on March 9, 2026. There he stood, smiling, in a suit, holding a mug presumably full of gas-station coffee, as suggested by the soundtrack of “Coffee Time” by Natalie Cole.

Whether due to fatigue or genuine love, he appeared to be leaning on a rack of coffee-related paraphernalia.

Behind him were beer, Doritos, and Trolli gummies.

Clearly in his element, he—or his social media manager—wrote in a cursive-like script: @Speedway..Penfield, NY.

View this post on Instagram

The next day, in a similar pose in essentially the same spot, he took to highlighting the $1 ANY Size Hot Refill sign, a reference again to his cup of joe.

Of course, as New York State requires a cut, that translated to $1.08 (including sales tax), indicated in the cursive-like text. But the key element here was the number 108, a multiple of that price, noted at the top.

The Quirkiest Man in Upstate New York went on to list several references to this number, some in sacred Hindu texts, others in Buddhism, and even a couple in the Milky Way. All this was to a soundtrack entitled “Om Chanting 108 Times.”

View this post on Instagram

In a Taylor Swift-like move, no overt mention was made of what was to come, but fans—in a frenzy of anticipation—knew something big was on the horizon.

Lo and behold, the next day came the much-anticipated answer—a series!

108…Part 2 was shot from a similar location and presented equally interesting 108-based facts, the soundtrack being a possible shout out to Angkor Wat.

View this post on Instagram

Many expected that after Part 2 would come Part 3, but The Quirkiest Man in Upstate New York opted to jump straight to Part 4, where he reminded fellow Speedway enthusiasts that 108 is an emergency telephone number in India.

View this post on Instagram

Next came not Part 5 but Part 6, notable for a 108-centric Irish reference in honor of St. Patrick’s Day, an Irish tune, and a different location within the Speedway (or was it another Speedway altogether?).

View this post on Instagram

The narrative, by this point, should be starting to approximate clarity.

Not one for spoilers, I’ll allow you to explore the rest of the series at your leisure, the actual posts (and tunes) doing far more justice than these CliffsNotes-inspired summaries.

As of this writing, we’re on Part 12.

Will there be a Part 13?

Will there be a part 108?!

Only the Quirkiest Man in Upstate New York knows.

Just please don’t expect to find Part 8.

The post The Quirkiest Man in Upstate New York appeared first on ComposeMD.

It’s only fitting, as the game was part of the quintessential American event—gambling on kids playing basketball.

You know it as March Madness.

The participants, of course, were the University of Iowa and the University of Nebraska.

But this isn’t a sports site—if you want to read about Iowa’s Ben McCollum and his inspiring ascension from coaching Division II or football-crazed Nebraska and its belated ascension from shooting hoops like it was in Division II, check out The Athletic.

This is a Rust Belt site, where stereotypes are shattered by giving little guys a voice.

And while Iowa and Nebraska are not exactly in the Rust Belt, they are undoubtedly victims of misrepresentation, in that flyover sort of way.

So rather than listen to coastal journalists ramble on about cornfields, farm boys, and xenophobia, I figured I’d do something boring—tell the truth.

The University of Iowa is located in Iowa City.

As of the 2020 Census, the town was 7.3% Asian, 6.7% from two or more races, and 3.0% from other races. Nationally, those numbers were 5.92%, 4.09%, and 0.51%, respectively. (The concept of race is garbage, but allow me to play the game.)

Looking to sample Indian, Mexican, Salvadoran, or Japanese fare? How about French, Korean, Thai, Middle Eastern, or West African? Try Iowa City.

The University of Iowa Hospitals & Clinics (UIHC) is among the best centers in the country.

The university is also known for the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, which between alumni and faculty boasts over 40 Pulitzer Prize winners.

You can thank the same school for Tom Brokaw, Ashton Kutcher, and Caitlin Clark.

As a final point, ACT, Inc., the developer of the standardized test for college readiness, is headquartered in town.

The University of Nebraska is located in Lincoln.

In 2025, Lincoln was recognized by the national nonprofit Welcoming America with a four-star designation for openly embracing newcomers, the only other such city being San Mateo, California.

The entire state of Nebraska, in fact, tops all US states in terms of refugee arrivals per capita.

It follows then that Lincoln is home to Ethiopian, Nepali, and Afghani cuisine, among many others.

The university, a major research institution, has students from something like 127 countries.

You can also thank the school for Johnny Carson, Warren Buffett, and Evan Williams (the co-founder of Twitter).

Finally, my best friend from high school—CliffsNotes—is a Lincoln export.

So was the most Midwestern game of all time actually intellectual?

Or, even worse, was it…international?!

(Note: Iowa won.)

The post The Most Midwestern Game of All Time appeared first on ComposeMD.

WAB, you may or may not know, refers to Wins Above Bubble, a metric used by the NCAA to help decide which “bubble teams” participate in its end-of-the-season college basketball tournament and which stay home.

This was the brainchild of one Seth Burn, a self-professed math geek who likes to gamble on sports and blog about them.

On February 1, 2015, he first posted about WAB, the statistic he made up.

The point was that in a sport where teams play disparate schedules, sometimes the only way to measure relative performance is with numbers.

Make that good numbers.

WAB measures a team’s number of wins compared to how many wins the average bubble team would have been expected to have against the same schedule.

More specifically, and without getting into the heavy math I won’t pretend to understand, each game a team plays is assigned a win probability equal to a theoretical bubble team’s chance of winning that game. This number accounts for the opponent’s strength and the game’s location. If the win probability is 95 percent (0.95), such a win amounts to a WAB of 1 minus 0.95, or 0.05. A loss would equal 0 minus 0.95, or a WAB of -0.95. Alternatively, if the win probability is 0.15, the WAB for a victory would be 1 minus 0.15, or a more meaningful 0.85. A loss in this case would translate into a WAB of -0.15.

In other words, the more positive the WAB, the better. Obviously, a negative WAB is bad.

Fast forward 11 years, and what started as an obscure blog post now contains a number that is highly correlated with not only team selection but also team seeding.

But let’s pause for a moment.

This feel-good blogger story, even with its wildly successful outcome, is at best fringe.

In a world with war, disease, and natural disasters, obsessing about the fate of 18-year-old kids who play a game that a few people in one country care about is esoteric.

Even worse is when such pursuits consume one’s day, generating little to no revenue.

There’s an expression for that: waste of time.

I’m assuming that Seth Burn has a real job, the kind that pays the bills.

But as far as I can tell, he also continues to prioritize wasting his time.

And thanks to people like him, I’m inclined to keep wasting mine.

Acknowledgement: Belmont University student Sohan Shrikhande contributed to this article. He claims he was in class at the time.

The post How WAB Saved My Blog appeared first on ComposeMD.

As a reminder, I grew up in Connecticut, where the dearth of professional sports teams left little choice but to obsess over kids throwing a ball in a bucket.

Later in life, I moved to the Great Lakes region, where the abundance of abandoned steel mills left little choice but to obsess over that thing known as rust.

So without further ado, here’s the first annual Rust Belt Guide to March Madness.

The First Four

To whittle a field of 68 teams down to 64, we need the so-called First Four, or four games to find four losers.

And what better place to lose than Dayton, Ohio? The annual host of the First Four has lost nearly 50 percent of its population since 1960.

First and Second Rounds

Among the eight sites hosting these games, three have varying degrees of Rust Belt credibility.

The first, Buffalo, is a charter member. For Michigan fans, the NCAA’s desire to keep teams close to home means while they might have dreamed of games in San Diego or Tampa, they got stuck with B-Lo. (By cutting through Canada along the northern shore of Lake Erie, the driving time from Ann Arbor (MI) to Buffalo is less than five hours.)

The second, St. Louis, may raise a few eyebrows given its non-Great-Lakes location. But I went to college there—trust me, it’s the Rust Belt.

Finally, there’s Philadelphia, which is probably too far east and slightly too nice to qualify, but population loss, extremely angry sports fans, and violent crime keep it in the discussion.

The Regionals (Sweet Sixteen and Elite Eight)

Among the four sites hosting these games, one warrants a closer look, even though such a look is typically met with incredulity.

Chicago‘s immense wealth and economic productivity mask a few red flags—Lake Michigan, shuttered steel mills, population loss, and a proclivity toward homicides.

Let’s just say the rust-dar has been triggered.

The Final Four

This year’s host, Indianapolis, is an outlier.

It’s in a Rust Belt state, though the city itself has never truly lost population. In fact, it’s growing at a healthy clip.

That said, no one brags about living in Indianapolis, so it gets an honorary rust-orate.

The Teams

Using the Rust Belt mnemonic My Wife Is Pissed Off Knowing My Mistakes Include Not Working, these are the teams—by state—that have applied rust remover and gone dancing.

Minnesota

None

Wisconsin

University of Wisconsin

Illinois

University of Illinois

Pennsylvania

Lehigh University

University of Pennsylvania

Villanova University

Ohio

Miami University (Miami of Ohio)

Ohio State University

University of Akron

Wright State University

Kentucky

University of Kentucky

University of Louisville

Michigan

Michigan State University

University of Michigan

Missouri

Saint Louis University

University of Missouri

Indiana

Purdue University

New York

Hofstra University*

Long Island University*

St. John’s University*

Siena University

(*From Downstate New York, making the appearance on this list rather fraudulent)

West Virginia

None

To all the cities and teams representing the Rust Belt, remember, we’ve lost enough already.

Addendum on April 6, 2026: Thank you to the University of Michigan for not losing, aka winning it all!

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