Craig Tyson Adams

  Okay, so robots are getting smarter, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. My wife read a story this morning on Instagram about a robot that plays Rock, Paper, Scissors. It’s a very popular game that’s played by two people, with their fingers, when they’re bored or have to settle very serious disputes. Kinda like the modern-day equivalent of the old coin flip for the digital age. (See what I did there?) Only nobody carries coins anymore, because, you know, technology. Anyway, the robot programmers main motive with pitting their inventions against humans wasn’t to see if the robot’s onboard computers could be used as entertainment. These robots were using the game to size up and learn from their human counterparts. The programmers were going all Lex Luthor and setting up civilization for total robot nerd domination. They were watching facial features and movements to learn our tells so that they, the robots, could basically become human-whisperers. Studying how our eyes dilated an...

  Some folks, man, they’re like human time capsules for grudges. They get hung up on every little snub, every perceived insult, real or imagined. Nursing the slightest slight like fine wine. Just waiting for the perfect moment to unleash a torrent of pent-up vengeance and exact payback, like a shaken soda can aimed at the unsuspecting world. But let me tell you, this kind of grudge-hoarding is about as healthy as a diet of deep-fried Twinkies. It’s like a toxic sludge that slowly corrodes your soul. You might not see it, but trust me, folks can smell it a mile away. All that stewing and plotting can leave you etched with a permanent scowl or hunched over like Quasimodo from carrying the weight of the world’s injustices on your shoulders. Either way, it ain’t pretty. A memory like a steel trap ain’t a blessing, it’s a curse. Seriously, what’s the point of dwelling on some petty slight from years ago? It’s like trying to remember the name of every mosquito that ever bit you. It’s a w...

  Where the Birds Need Chapstick Hotter Than A Habanero’s Armpit The sun bore down, turning the asphalt into a griddle, the wind a blistering wave and deserted streets into a convection oven set to broil. The air shimmered with heat, as if the entire atmosphere was auditioning for a part in a sci-fi movie about a planet made of lava. Venturing outside was like stepping into a blast furnace; sweat didn’t just drip, it cascaded, stinging eyes and soaking clothes faster than you could say “heatstroke”. It’s so hot outside that even the lizards are wearing oven mitts. Birds panting in the shade of the trees, casting envious glances towards house cats lounging behind cool windows, smugly licking their paws as if to say, “Sucks to be you”. Even the bees, usually buzzing around like tiny drunk pilots, had gone silent, replaced by an eerie stillness that made you think of that creepy moment in a horror movie right before a jump scare. This wasn’t just summer anymore; this was a scene strai...

  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 ...

  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 ...

  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...

  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 z...

  ONCE YOU FACE IT, THEN YOU’LL KNOW IT. It’s all in the genes. It all started with a muffin. There were a couple of pizza boxes and brown paper bags stacked on the kitchen counter. Whenever there is a mess like that, even a structured mess, it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I grabbed it all and threw it out. The muffin was in the bottom of one of the bags. My wife wanted that muffin. I bought it for her that morning. It was when she asked about it, that I started thinking about why I had this unthinking reflex to throw away the clutter. I’m like a shark. It’s like a seek and destroy mission. It dawned on me that something genetically induced the reaction. My father had an infuriating ability to throw away anything he deemed unnecessary that was lying around. That included me. If he caught me lying around, he attempted to throw me. That’s the thing with genetics. As much as we swear to ourselves that we won’t be like other members of our family, we end up doing th...

  MORE HAMS THAN A SUPERMARKET An arrested stage of development One way to get out of your comfort zone is getting up on stage. Go to your local community theatre and risk embarrassing yourself by auditioning. By the time you’re finished, the fear will be gone and relief will replace it. You’ll be relieved because your dentist and the town veterinarian are there as well. It’s amazing to find that everyone where you live thinks they can act. It’s true! Some are born comedians, even though they don’t mean to be. Others are trying to be funny, but play out as dull as standing in line. Everyone has a role! The shows that I have been in have set the theatre back 100 years, in that they would’ve played well a hundred years ago. They were melodramas placed back when the city I lived in, San Juan Capistrano, was a sleepy village established by a catholic mission that had a vineyard to keep the villagers happy. A friend of mine, Leonard Wigmore, wrote and directed the show. Wiggy was the lo...

BIRDS ARE FOWL It’s for the birds There’s a fight going on in Florida about what the official state bird should be. It doesn’t matter what the details are. What matters is the question of why does there have to be a state bird in the first place? State birds don’t bring in revenue. I get that there are people obsessed with birds. They might travel to the state to see the bird. Bird watchers might spend a few bucks on gas and motels. They’ll buy food and maybe some bird seed. But, other than that, the money brought in by state birds is negligible. It’s not like the birds can go out and sell advertising or make contributions to political campaigns. Why make a fuss about state birds? Now I could understand if the state bird was some sort of a dirty bird that had a poor reputation. Crows used to wake me up at daybreak. It was needless and annoying. I’d go out and throw rocks at them until they surmised I couldn’t hit them.  They’d just caw until my shoulder yelled at me more than they ...