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...

The Messy Art of Embracing Imperfection We used to be tougher. Folks get their panties twisted over nothing these days. People are quicker to take offense than a cheetah on Red Bull, turning molehills into Mount Everest-sized mountains of outrage. A slight inconvenience, a minor slip-up, and suddenly it's DEFCON One. We knew how to roll with the punches. Mistakes happen because nobody’s perfect.  But now, thanks to our fancy technology and need for instant gratification, we want everything to work flawlessly, right here, right now. And when we don't get it? Look out, buddy, you're gonna hear about it. It's like we've forgotten how to deal with even the tiniest bumps in the road. Take customer service, for instance. Remember when you could call up a company and a real, live human being would answer the phone? Now you gotta navigate through a maze of automated menus that seem designed by evil geniuses. And even if you do manage to talk to a person, half the time they...

  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...

  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 cognoscen...

  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...

  LAUNDROMAT LAMENTATIONS A washer and dryer sense of humor The whiff that made the olfactory reflex snap jarringly was emanating from somewhere deep in the recesses of the closet. Namely, my clothes hamper. After the initial shock of the dank mixture that hits your otolaryngological system, (that means your eyes, ears, nose and throat system, I know!, I just learned that too!), there is a prideful reassurance that what you’re smelling belongs to you. It’s almost comforting once you get over the offense of what it is. If you were to walk into someone else's mixture of sweaty cotton blend and whatever else, you’d immediately finger clothespin your nose and spin on your heels to escape and exclaim your displeasure! But, since what is stale and reposing in your laundry basket results from your strenuous physical exertions, a fierce pride foists its way forward because this result is what you were striving for. The stink of your activity is a sure sign of personal victory. You’ve set ...

  Enterprise knows no bounds A flyer on the community mailbox brought up the notion that someone had shaken the visions of what they believed could be possible. As if the boundaries that we perceive to ground us by ponderous gravity release themselves like the tentacles of an imagined giant man-eating octopus that has capitulated and surrendered. The flyer read ‘No Job Too Big Or Too Small’ and listed a phone number. No references or pictures of previous successful projects or even a photo of the person making the proposal. Many people trust themselves to begin an enterprise that will ease the boredom and drudgery of a, for lack of a better phrase, normal occupation. There are heaps of attempts that flounder because of financial concerns or concerns of family members who are concerned that the would be entrepreneurs don’t have what they need to undertake a business concern, as far as that is concerned. The aforementioned flyer on the mailbox refers to a paper flyer that appeared as...

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 ...