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 ...

  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 ch...

  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...

  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 ...