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...

It is irrefutable that within the borders of our great country, we face complex and ongoing problems in need of a uniquely innovative solution. These issues have persisted for decades, reaching a stalemate whenever they fall under the purview of our domestic federal leadership. The individual states may have their own proposed answers, but they cannot seem to find any common ground. Each one has its own agenda, resulting in a disorganized and ineffective approach towards solving these pressing matters. At the forefront of national discussion are two highly contentious topics. What to do with a fetus and how to regulate gun ownership. At first glance, these seem as related as pineapples and plaid shirts. However, to effectively address them, we must adopt a new perspective and step outside the conventional lines of thinking. There is a belief among some individuals that a fetus is a person deserving of all the rights and protections granted by our United States Constitution. Similarly, ...

  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...

  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...

  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...

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 ...

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...

  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 ...