Craig Tyson Adams

  The icy stare of cold indifference …Photo by  Wei Fukuyama  on  Unsplash   Thursday is a lawn mowing day around these parts. It’s the day before trash pickup, and I wanted to get the fresh cut grass taken care of, so that I won’t have to smell hot clippings in the can all week. The sun was out amid patchy clouds and a cool breeze is ruffling the palm leaves. That morning was perfect for landscaping. It felt like a scene from a Hollywood production about the best attributes of owning a lawnmower . That’s when it happened. I was just getting the weed wacker battery out of the charger; it was now up to full power and awaiting the assault on the wild and unruly grass. Trimming the yard was the first step. Once I finished trimming the yard, I got the abdominal punishing push mower out of the garage to finish the job. It meticulously caps off the blades, resulting in an even trim that appears good until I get in the pool and look at it from ground level. Then I see all the spots I’ve misse

  You can’t spell funeral without fun! A friend of mine suggested a side gig after a roommate came up short on rent. I had an idea to get something fun to do instead of the usual soul crushing low-pay bore fest that permeates the current want ads. Something where I could be entertained as well as compensated. The previously stated friend had watched the fine movie Wedding Crashers . After looking into if there were such jobs as a professional wedding crasher (there weren’t), he noticed a posting for paid funeral attendees. When a funeral service has little to no attendance, a service can provide paid mourners to go to a funeral, speak well of the deceased to friends or family and to be respectful at the service. Going to funerals wasn’t something that I ever did. If someone that I knew died, I’d usually say I was going, but then back out just before. When a pet died, I wouldn’t even go to that. I’d usually just get buzzed and avoid the whole thing. But the allure of getting paid change

  I KNEW THAT! It’s a cinch when you find a niche. There was a notice in the mail about the circus coming to town. Circuses aren’t what they used to be. They don’t have animal acts anymore. I’m still traumatized by a camel spitting in my eye when I was about ten years old. Mistreating animals isn’t optimal, and something had to be done. But, that takes away from young families not having the experience of something exotic for the kids. The dads still have exotic mammals to marvel at, but that’s a whole other story. Without the lions, tigers and bears, circuses now have to depend on human expositions. Acrobats, gymnasts, dancers and clowns are the attraction now. Leaping and jumping around in synchronicity and discipline is impressive, but cannot replace the uneasiness that happens when watching a trainer do the deadly dance with a wild beast. That’s one reason the traveling circus has become a relic of the past. Oh, there are still a few of them operating. A few strictly sideshow only

  OVERHEAD OPTICS? Or innocuous floating flimflammery There I was, standing on the beach in San Clemente , thinking that if the Earth was indeed flat, I’d be able to see Japan, when a binoculars-wearing local tourist exclaimed with an expletive that something aloft was amiss. Turning to decipher what he was declaring, “Balloon! It’s one of those #!&$% balloons that steals what’s ours only! With all we spend on the government, you’d think they could do something about them!” As I squinted into the vast wide open wild blue yonder, I couldn’t see anything. After letting the aforementioned sky sentry know my eyes were lacking the wherewithal to make out any strange, out of the ordinary shapes, spherical or otherwise, he let me know his opinion by questioning my ability to see. “Here, take these things,” he said, handing me the binoculars. “Now look up over there about where my finger is.” I took the field glasses and looked in the direction he was pointing. After a moment of visual adj

  Or how the FBI helped clean the house There I was, standing in my front yard, minding my own business and wondering what the neighbors were up to. When suddenly a black sedan followed by a phalanx of black SUVs squealed around the corner and pulled up in front of residences on my block and stopped. The doors of the darkly colored caravan flung open and various aviator sunglasses wearing authority looking types disembarked and gathered in a group in the middle of the street. Like a team, they huddled as they gathered instructions on how to proceed in the pre-planned and rehearsed maneuvers that were, from the looks of things, to begin imminently. Once they broke, they fanned out over the neighborhood, scooting up walkways, trampling flower beds and divoting lawns. The concerted knocking on doors and ringing of doorbells began in what sounded like a cacophony of chaotic symphonic hullabaloo. Bewildered denizens answered some doors and well-dressed fanatics forcibly opened others zealo

  HOW TO BEST MANEUVER A HOOVER When a clean room looms When it comes right down to it, the instrument of debris consumption has never improved. Oh sure, a cyclone of suction that draws the material particulates into a canister has replaced the bags of yore. No longer does the operator of the machine for floor-sweeping have to deal with the potential of explosive dusty mayhem when removing the itchy eyeball producing pouch of corralled crud. A plume of various wastrel detritus would erupt into the face of the vacuum user and the surrounding local areas. The effect would render the face of the bag extractor to be covered in airborne sandy lint. Previously pleasant facial features were now reduced to scowling, frowning, and evermore increasing creases. It might even elicit a cough or sneeze or two. It was with this in mind that I began thinking of the one time, the tale of a supernatural traveling Hoover sales agent. A legend that was born amongst the smoking area cognoscenti elite of my

  He’d call it before you saw it Tim McCarver was a baseball savant. Whether you liked the way he called a game, or didn’t, he knew his shit. There was no better proof than what happened during the 2001 World Series. McCarver’s analysis when he described what might happen actually did seconds later. Tim McCarver was a baseball lifer. He had seen everything that could happen on a diamond. McCarver was the catcher on the Stl Cardinals when Bob Gibson had his best years. Gibson arguably had the best season a pitcher could have in 1967. 22 wins and a 1.12 ERA with 268 strikeouts. He won the NL Cy Young award for best pitcher and the NL MVP. Pitchers rarely win both. Tim McCarver was his personal catcher, calling all the pitches. McCarver caught Gibson’s Game One start of the 1968 World Series when Bullet Bob struck out 17 on the way to a victory. McCarver had a way with pitchers that had a mean streak. Gibson was as mercurial as a bad tempered thoroughbred horse. He also knew Steve Carlton

An oval novelty The old Roman Colosseum had chariot races and now this newer coliseum will have our version. The Los Angeles Coliseum has been around for almost one hundred years. They have staged many events there. Spectacles of all sorts, including the spectators making spectacles of themselves spectacularly. The Rams once were primary residents. The Raiders planted their flag on its field. Their fans have rumbled there. USC football calls it home. There have been 2 Olympics put on. The Los Angeles Dodgers called it home before they built their stadium in Chavez Ravine. It has hosted concerts and events of all types over the years. But the idea of stock cars roaring around a small oval track is a real head scratcher. How fast are they going to go? Faster than on the 405, that’s for sure, but for racing fans, it might seem like a lazy Sunday drive with the family. Bootleggers found NASCAR after prohibition. Junior Johnson tearing up the woods of Carolina, this ain’t. It’ll be like war

 How unbeknownst to the family, a distant relative with OCD became a legend. While having a rare dinner with family members recently, we began talking about our maternal great-grandmother. She was quite opinionated and, with a fair amount of prodding, could get hysterically funny. She would verbally lambaste us whenever she felt we were being rude or overtly obnoxious. It was all in jest and when the good natured ribbing finished, we’d all be in maniacal fits of laughter. Granny was also the family historian. She had tales that were passed down through generations and we were all amazed by her almost total recall. Her memory was astounding as she could remember small and even trivial details. One cousin of mine wrote down Granny’s stories and, if there was enough detail, she could confirm many of them.  For instance, an uncle of ours knew the Wright Brothers. Another cousin served as a messenger under General Pershing in WWI. One family member attended one of Buddy Holly’s last concert

  IN 1914, A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE TOOK PLACE A story about how the spirit of fellowship could momentarily disrupt the cause that soldiers swear an oath to uphold A British soldier peeked up over the trench at the German trench opposite him and saw a string of lights. He asked another soldier what it was about. As they looked closer, they saw they strung the lights through Christmas trees the German soldiers put up along the trench line. The Germans began singing Christmas songs and, after a few, the British also started singing, but not as well, the Brit noted, as the Germans. Soon, the soldiers waved white flags, emerged from their posts, and walked out into no-man’s-land to greet them. This was the first Christmas of the brutal war. It littered the area between the two armies with the dead. It was the bloodiest fighting of the young war and had reached a stalemate. The soldiers had dug in. What had begun with a feeling of hope and confidence had given way to disillusionment and despair.

Pursuing the life of a pug. A boxer. The smell of sweat and deprivation matched the humidity and heat from the lights. There had to be a better way of making a living. That time has passed. Once the taste was acquired, it was all over. I could smell the leather before it hit me. The twist of the hide tore at the flesh, leaving it raw only to be hit again. My arms ache after weeks of repetition and work. The effort that lasted until there was nothing left, only to push it further. The dull feeling of energy quickly dissipating made the body wish it had not consumed so much fast food hidden against orders. The time that should’ve been used to do more roadwork, as the endurance and lung capacity are now being felt at maximum capacity.  A flash of bright light makes me realize I need to bob and weave and move my head as another flash, while I think, tells me to hurry. My calves scream, but my thighs and back are moving perfectly in unison.  A spray of blood surprises me but then makes me

A few days ago, I was on Facebook, and someone posted a photograph of their family. The picture was of their grandparents and their children before they left for California during the Great Depression. The kids were grinning and having a good time posing for the picture. The adults looked weathered and grim-faced. They were obviously apprehensive about the journey. The family’s move to California was arduous, but turned out well. They grew and thrived. Living through those times made people stronger. It gave them a sense of character and responsibility, mostly. Being forward-thinking helped make society improve. For the last 90 years, our civilization has progressed at a rate unseen in human history. We have gone from a millennium where horses were the primary source of power to where we are today with a multitude of power sources. What seemed unfathomable to the family in the photograph is now commonplace. For example, we have taken it for granted that we now have medicines that can w

EMBRACE THE STRUGGLE Focus on motivation While scrolling through YouTube videos, I ran across a snippet of Richard Nixon answering a question during an interview and it reminded me of Tyson Fury. It sounds a bit convoluted but stay with me here. The former president was talking about how life needs a purpose. All the people that he knew from swanky parts of the world spent their time drinking too much, talking too much, and thinking too little. People that were millionaires and spent their time hunting or fishing or golfing or traveling didn’t know life. What makes life worth living is purpose. A goal, a fight, the battle, even if you don’t win. Tyson Fury needs the fight. He needs to train. Tyson Fury needs the distraction because left to his own devices, he spins into the darkness of depression. As the undefeated heavyweight champion of the world, Fury has scaled the heights of his chosen profession. He worked his way up from being an Irish Traveler repaving streets with his father,

  It was early morning when the janitor crew made it to the snowbank from Moose Creek, where they had to clean up after the previous nights festivities. “This is the dumbest place to have a pole dancing festival thing. Whoever thought of this has a screw loose.” the head of the crew said.  The idea came from 22-year-old Roman Bombardo of Fairfield, New Jersey. One night, Roman and a couple of his friends were in a local strip club when he had an idea. “I was thinking ‘Where would be the place that would have the best place to have a pole dancing bar?’ The most unique location possible. They already have them on islands and in cities and stuff. Where would be a place we could promote? My buddy Pate said Poland. I thought, nah, that’s too big. Then it hit me. The North Pole! I bet nobody thought of that before!” That set the wheels in motion. The plan to fund his new project was simple. Roman had just gotten a multi-million dollar inheritance coupled with a settlement from an insurance c