Life is noisy. I get that. I mean, the tinnitus I’ve been blessed with is constant. I blame my brother. While listening to a Top-40 AM radio station in 1975, he burst into my room like a man on a mission. “Why the hell are you listening to that crap?” he said while lunging for my cheap third-hand radio.He clicked it over to FM and dialed in a rock and roll station. The music that played wasn’t called “classic rock” yet. It was only “rock” at that time. That same bunch of s**t is still being played today, fifty years later.  Something happened years ago that killed that genre of music. Rock and Roll was moving along selling discs and concert tickets. Making tons of money until Woodstock ‘99. Korn and Limp Bizkit turned that place into something out of Lord Of The Flies and scared the s**t out of show business. The once brave and rebellious program directors gave in to the terrified squealing of the lawyers and marketing executives at MTV. Radio stations changed overnight. Now we’re left with the compromised and neutered version. No fun aloud.Seems like everything in America has its own goddamn soundtrack. Can’t get into a car without setting off bells and buzzers reminding me to lock this and buckle that. The computer that runs the production thinks people are too stupid to know that opening the door and falling out on the freeway is a bad move. And if anybody does do that then they should get what’s coming to them. Hell, it would most likely get caught on a dashcam and make whomever owns it a million-click influencer millionaire.Get on a screen to watch something and get inundated with commercials on a platform we pay a subscription to watch. What the hell is the deal with that? We’re paying to get sold to. Only in America!The aforesaid commercials are twenty decibels louder than whatever show we’re attempting to watch. I gotta sit there with the remote to either toggle the volume to make it level or mute it altogether. They are visual atrocities designed to be so aggressive that they burrow directly into the reptilian core of your brain, overriding your higher purpose in an attempt to sap and impurify all of our precious bodily fluids.Call them what they are. Federally-mandated thought-crimes that have been rebranded as “disruptive marketing,” selling us some plastic-coated, digitized interface we don’t need, like so-called smart toasters. I refuse to buy whatever it is advertised in those damn commercials, even if whatever they’re selling is in my best interest. That’ll teach those marketing a******s.And then there’s cell phones. We no longer have a “silent majority” in this country. We have a “beeping majority” that reflexively reaches for their pocket like they’re being frisked by a TSA agent with a groping fetish every time the phone vibrates and chirps.There is the noise our brains constantly burp when we try to mediate and shut it all out. You want some peace and quiet, but your thoughts keep regurgitating the last thing you’ve heard. It’s like your brain is hosting a one-man, 24-hour cable opinion show. The noise in your head is the subliminal amplified drone of Congress, a body of people whose only discernible purpose is to make noise to distract you so that you don’t notice them taking away all your cash or some b******t like that.There’s no getting away from it. You try to take a vacation and the noise seems to double because money talks! Between the planes or cars and hotels, you can’t relax for a minute because all you can think about is how goddamn expensive everything is.Don’t tell me “It’s not about the money.” It’s always about the money. Everything we do is all about the money. If you don’t have any money, you are plotting how to get money, and if you have the money, you’re always thinking about how someone is going to screw you out of the money.It’s the perpetual, high-frequency whine of the system itself. The electronic clatter of algorithms trading billions of dollars, the perpetual scream from an adviser trying to upsell you on an adjustable-rate mortgage, or the hollow clang of your retirement fund losing half its value because some Wall Street jackass invented a derivative backed by another jackass that only makes money by managing more money.I know it’s a losing battle when the quietest place on Earth is so silent you can hear yourself blinking. The place was built by Microsoft, of course, because if something that drives people nuts it has to be built by a multi-national behemoth. That way their other subsidiaries can provide a solution to a problem they created.So, f**k it. Silencers on guns don’t really silence them. Noise cancelling headphones don’t really cancel all the noise. Put on some classic rock and roll and crank it up to eleven. Play it so loud that your now much older brother will show up and yell at you to “Turn that crap down!”Hey! You’ve made it to the end. Thanks for that!Check out my detective novel, The Lying Spiral See what else I’m doing. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit craigtysonadams.substack.com

Life is short. Live in the present. They say that’s what you should always think about. Don’t let your mind drift dwelling in the past. You can’t change it.Oh, you can pretend it never happened. But, it’s not advisable to live in denial. We’re supposed to confront the past. Learn from it and move on. We’re also told to forget about whatever happened. How are we supposed to not think about something and also confront it?It’s also said that we can’t know what the future is gonna bring. Anything could happen. That’s why Big Pharma is doing trillions in business developing anxiety pills. Everything in the media is designed to twist our anger to ignite the fight or flight reflex. Get us all worked up about stuff that may or, most likely, may not happen.That said, we should only fixate on the present. It’s all we really can control.What pulls us away from focusing are things that distract us from the thought that all is well in the present. If you’re reading this, you have food, shelter, have access to drinkable water and a computer. Life is good, right?Wrong! We still have f*****g distractions.Tangled cords. Lost car keys. Doors that open the wrong way. F*****g engine check lights. A whole host of b******t that takes us out of enjoying the present moment.Therefore, since we can blow through trillions of dollars and have nothing to show for it, I propose the following.We get together a coalition of behavioral scientists, lifestyle experts, friction evaluators, annoyance consultants and general knit-pickers. Then they come with a chart, as they do. A federally paid for data-drenched, pie-charted, multi-colored monstrosity.We’ll say that the average American wasted something like 38 hours a year to annoyances. It could be classified as not only just time theft, but an esteem-sucking distraction. Doubt is an inconvenience. Nothing makes you less confident than losing s**t.The Office of Inconvenience Elimination is what the name will be. High priced perception consultants will swiftly rebrand it as the Department of Acceptable Outcomes.The first target will be computer passwords. They’ll be replaced by Intent Recognition, where your device reads your history of likes and follows like a nosey librarian. You get one password to use on all sites. If someone hacks your password, they get kicked off the internet and have to use a breathalyzer to get back on. They get the annoyance, not you.Instead of a Two-Step Verification, banks will use Single-Feeling Verification. If you feel strongly about the money, it’s yours. Attitude becomes currency. But, you gotta keep your credit rating up. Since we Americans blow through cash and credit anyway, money should be easily accessible. If you can’t pay it back, no more money unless you pass a breathalyzer. Note: buy stock in breathalyzer companies.Doors default to being open, especially those that don’t clearly show which direction to open them. I’m tired of pulling when they need to be pushed and vice-versa.Also those that have a sign saying “Use other door”, if it’s a door it should be fully functional. If someone constantly needs their door to be closed they will be subject to invasive surveillance. I would say something about passing a breathalyzer but that joke is just about played out. I reserve the right to use it later if it’s applicable.Real towels in restrooms will make a comeback. Those noisy hand dryers are a nuisance. They never dry your hands right. I still wipe my hands on my pants after using them. Same thing with paper towels as the overflowing trashcans are a mess. If somebody is gonna empty the trash cans, they might as well just bring in fresh towels. I bet billionaire bathrooms get fresh towels.Small talk is a chronic irritant. Replaced with Pre-Approved Conversational Modules like Weather Affirmation or Shared Mild Complaint, turning dinner parties into a symphony of synced, efficient nodding. If that doesn’t work, get rid of small talk altogether. People that enjoy small talk are f*****g sadists.Moving sidewalks replace their concrete counterparts. Walking would hit unprecedented efficiency, and stopping to chat would become a fond memory. A downside to getting off the conveyor belt would be emergency rooms overflowing, but that would spawn Mandatory Momentum Awareness Seminars that would create jobs.Birthdays would be recalibrated to fit a Moderate Pleasantness Index. Enthusiasm will be regulated and the birthday person’s reaction will be downgraded to a pleasant nod. If someone doesn’t want to participate in the birthday ritual they will not be socially penalized. As a matter of fact they will be considered rugged individualist heroes.I could say something here about regulating marriage with Harmonized Partnership Protocols but my experience is it could never be agreed to.In six months minor inconveniences could be extinct. No tangled cords, no waiting, no unmanaged results.Of course, because we’re Americans, there will be resistance.My guess is people will manufacture inconvenience recreationally. Puzzles will be broken into and a piece removed, group uphill jogs on uneven pavement, and black-market manual can openers.Unscheduled Nostalgia will surge, manifesting as intentional manual drain clogging and listening to the same song twice without justification. Unauthorized laughter and applause breaching decibel limits. Mayhem!These are only suggestions and it will work if we can get a little cooperation. If there is some type of defiance, breathalyzers and cavity searches for everyone!Hey! You’ve read until the end. Thanks for that!Check out my detective novel. The Lying Spiral This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit craigtysonadams.substack.com

America does not have an immigration crisis. America has a show business problem. What would we expect from a place that put a well known former television game show host in charge of the operation?The plot is always the same. Every year, we spend staggering sums staging a lavish outdoor production in which ICE and the Border Patrol chase migrants across deserts, rivers, and Home Depot parking lots.Migrants risk dehydration, heatstroke, drowning, and Texas. Enforcement agencies deploy drones, walls, sensors, and tactical camouflage cargo pants.And the corporations, whose payrolls act as the real welcome mat, remain untouched, unsullied, and mysteriously shocked that undocumented workers keep appearing in their places of business. The members of management sit comfortably in air-conditioned boardrooms asking if anyone would like another olive in their martini before a round of golf.We taxpayers pay for all of it.Here’s an idea. If employers who knowingly hire undocumented workers were fined hard enough to induce actual pain, the rest of the system would collapse faster than a college kid’s tech startup built on loans from middle class parents.No jobs, no magnet. No magnet, no stampede. No stampede, no need for a trillion-dollar enforcement cosplay theatre operation around the country. .But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. That would require punishing the people that should be punished.Take a typical American multi-national corporation. Call it Ameri-Mart.Ameri-Mart employs tens of thousands of undocumented workers across warehouses, farms, kitchens, and factories.These workers receive part-time low wages, no benefits, and the invaluable perk of living in constant fear.Ameri-Mart, meanwhile, enjoys soaring profits, glowing investor calls, and a CEO who insists he “supports immigration reform” while cashing a bonus large enough to fund nationwide elementary school breakfast.When ICE eventually raids one of Ameri-Mart’s facilities, the executive response is pure silent movie theater.Eyes widen. Hands fly to chests. “Undocumented workers? Here? I’m shocked! Shocked I say. We had no idea.” says the VP of Human Resources who acts like they have no access to Google.E-Verify, it turns out, is something they assumed Legal was handling, and Legal assumed someone had handled it.The penalties? A fine so small it barely interrupts lunch. A cost of doing business. A corporate tip jar contribution. The equivalent of fining the CEO for parking in a handicap spot.Now imagine a different universe.One where fines run into the hundreds of thousands per illegal hire. One where executives lose bonuses, stock options, yachts, and perhaps access to Napa Valley vineyards. One where the phrase “we didn’t know” is met with public ridicule, subpoenas, and develops a sudden f*****g interest in corporate accountability.In that universe, the jobs dry up overnight. And without jobs, migrants stop coming. Not because of walls, drones, or men on horseback, but because the economic incentive evaporates. Borders enforced by math instead of muscle.Naturally, this universe is unacceptable. It’s un-American, as in bad for business.Instead, we maintain the enforcement circus.Border Patrol agents patrol fencing with the effectiveness of the cops from those Police Academy movies. Billions are poured into fences that power saws and ten-foot ladders could breach, sensors that humans learned to spot and avoid, and vehicles that consume lots of fuel because they’re sponsored by Exxon.ICE has expanded into a big government theme park, where enforcement becomes open-ended and cruelty is the mission statement.Families are separated. Communities disrupted. Everyone involved assures us this is regrettable but necessary. Necessary, that is, for preserving a system where corporations keep their labor cheap and their hands clean.Meanwhile, those same corporations lobby aggressively for “temporary worker programs,” which are temporary in the same way tax cuts for the wealthy are temporary.The arrangement is perfect. Big Business gets low-wage labor. Big Government gets ever-expanding budgets. Politicians get talking points. Taxpayers get fleeced. Migrants get blamed. Wash, rinse, repeat.Fine the employers properly and the whole thing falls apart.Companies would be forced to raise wages, train workers, innovate jobs, or experience the previously theoretical concept of consequences.Executives might even have to cancel a yacht upgrade or not buy a fourth vacation house.Just picture it. CEOs in orange jumpsuits discovering the color clashes horribly with spray tans. Boardrooms filled with the anguished cry of “But my shareholders!”ICE offices converted into affordable housing. Border agents are reassigned to jobs that involve protecting actual borders instead of roaming the country hundreds or thousands of miles from the border.This has never been about security. It’s about preserving a lucrative ecosystem of exploitation where desperation is punished and profit is protected. The truth would finally be impossible to ignore.But let us continue, by all means, to chase migrants forever while ignoring the help-wanted signs that summon them. Let’s fund the theater and save the sponsors. Let’s pretend all this is complicated.Or, here’s a radical thought.Slap the hand that feeds the problem and watch the rest of the machine evaporate.But what do I know? I’m not a CEO with a lobbyist or a congressman supplying me with f*****g plausible deniability.Any resemblance to real corporations is purely intentional.Hey! You’ve read to the end. Thanks for that. Check out my detective novel and audiobook. The Lying Spiral This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit craigtysonadams.substack.com

Dear Mom,How’s things back at home where the fences are for keeping the dogs in and the greatest danger is passing out when you see the grocery bill?Me? I’m out here in my new job. Remember when I told you I was applying for a government job and you told me the only one I might qualify for was the post office?Well, surprise! I joined ICE. The immigration custom enforcement. If we can’t find something to enforce, we’ll customize it. Something like that. I think that’s what it means.No place I’ve ever worked has treated me better. Not the janitor job. Not the busting rocks at the quarry or the tank cleaner at the septic company. And it’s the most I’ve ever been paid. Sixty thou a year will buy a lotta beer!I’ve only been here for about a month. The people in charge told me I’m a genuine hero now, Mom! Shielding America from the terrifying hoard of immigrants who fled hellholes thinking they want a shot at a good life. Ain’t like that is our fault, right? We didn’t force ‘em to come here.That woman that wears a cowboy hat was on the Zoom and said we were all patriots. Someone said she shoots herself in the foot so much you’d think she was wearing hush puppies and that got a couple laughs. I don’t get it.Nobody said this job was gonna be easy. Someone’s gotta be the hero so that the rest of us can all sleep soundly behind our locked doors, fully stocked gun safes, guard dogs and motion sensor security cameras.I thought I’d share with you what my life is like as a valued member of my crew.Getting up at the crack of dawn, I make my way to the breakfast area of the motel we’re holed up in. The rest of us are there slugging down waffles and coffee that tastes like burnt watered down ashtray. Once we get that out of the way we set out for another round of protecting our glorious homeland. It’s like that movie Police Academy come to life!Today, we nailed it first thing this morning. Spotted a van driven by a menace named Maria. A 42-year-old monster with three kids in the back.She said she’d lived here forever, but didn’t have any paperwork showing that she has.But who cares about details when there is a three thousand arrests per week quota to be hit.We all swooped in like the professionals we are. Busted the windows and cut the seatbelts. Pried those brats from her arms quicker than you can say “family dispersal”. Shuttled the little ones off to one of those five-star child-care camps they say we have.From what I hear those places are a paradise, Mom. They get those shiny mylar blankets, lukewarm juice boxes and a lesson that America ain’t for poor losers.No forms to fill out. Appeals disappear into thin air. Justice? That’s for suckers who believe in fairy tales like “equal protection under the law.”Heroic stuff, right? Stomping hearts and families to keep the dream only for us taxpayers. What a rush!Here’s an example.Last week, I got a guy shipped back to wherever because of a form with a smudged signature that looked too “foreign.”Or an epic bust of a birthday bash. We stormed in and rounded up the parents that didn’t run. While we were hauling them out a couple fellas shot up the pinata. Free candy! Ain’t that hilarious?We’ve got the cool toys to make it all hum, too. Drones hovering like nosy neighbors. Facial recognition that tags grandma as a gangster. Databases stuffed fuller than your Thanksgiving turkey.Privacy? That’s for people who ain’t got nothing to hide. Due process? Optional, like having desert if you deserve it.There are a couple rules.The one that works best is pick ‘em up for no papers and then also bust ‘em for faking papers. There ain’t no way out of that loop. It’s a masterpiece of central planning. Bureaucratic brilliance. All that time we were told big government was the problem. Now it’s the answer. Government. The cause of and the answer to all life’s problems.We’ll all have more jobs for actual Americans. The companies, that never get penalized and keep hiring immigrants so that there is always a steady supply of low-wage workers, will now employ our countrymen and women. Countrypeople?And thanks to the Miller guy that put this all in place. He kinda looks like a dweeb from junior high we used to beat up and take his lunch money. Small world ain’t it?Anyway, Mom, duty calls. Another tour turning sinister scamming into handcuffs.Tell Dad I said hi and keep calling your congressman to keep this high priced show funded.Love you, and may “live free or die” morph into “submit or die”.Your Patriotic Enforcer Son,CleetusHey! You made it until the end. Thanks for that. Check out my detective novel. Also available on audiobook. The Lying SpiralFollow me over her. Craig Tyson Adams This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit craigtysonadams.substack.com

The morning of the Nobel Peace Prize announcement, the President of the United States woke up surrounded by gold-plated everything at the White House. He excitedly kicked off his covers and checked his phone.An icy chill ran through him when he read the text. Some unassuming diplomat from a country most people had forgotten about had been awarded the Peace Prize by the Nobel Committee. Not to him, the leader of the free world, whose many posts about how he deserved the prize resulted in a nasty case of strained thumbs.“Outrageous!” He said to his gold-framed mirror.The mirror, being a mirror, said nothing back. But the President told himself that it agreed. How could it not?He summoned his advisors. Generals with stars on their lapels, lawyers carrying briefcases full of loopholes, and a few trusted reality television producers among them quickly stampeded into the Oval Office.“Listen to me. Norway has offended me and therefore us. Someone else received the award. That’s like slapping America in the face with a pickled herring.”One advisor, the one the president calls “the egghead with glasses,” raised a hand. “Sir, although it is given in Oslo, Norway, it’s not like they owe it to you.”“Owe it? I deserve it! I’ve made big deals. Massive deals. Peaceful deals. I’ve stopped many, many wars. Stuff nobody thought could happen until I did it. And what do I get? Nada. Zip. Absolutely nothing. We’re going to war.” the President snarled.The generals were gleefully startled. War meant unlimited budgets and expense accounts. More money for Cohibas, boner pills and Pappy Van Winkle.“But sir, all Norway has is fjords and oil and those goofy sweaters.” the egghead pleaded.“You’re not listening! I didn’t get the goddamned prize! We’re gonna invade and make them give it to me! Oh, and you’re fired! Your parents are getting audited!” the President yelled.A few minutes later the President stood on the White House picnic grounds, formerly the Rose Garden, to make a quickly arranged declaration of war. A breeze blew his hair, straining the hairpins. Reporters wrote and cameras flashed.“My fellow Americans, by not recognizing my intense peacefulness, Norway has committed an act of aggression. So, as of now, we are at war. Our brave and unmatched military will free the Nobel from those Scandinavian communists. They’ll never know what hit ‘em!” He yelled.The reaction from around the world was immediate and overwhelming. Russia toasted and laughed. China manufactured and sold cheap popcorn. The UN called an emergency meeting, but everyone was too busy trying to figure out how they could profit from the war to vote.Meanwhile, in Norway, the Prime Minister sipped coffee in a cozy cabin. “War? Over a prize? That’s weird.”The Norwegians remained typically passive. They emailed a polite message.“Dear Mr. President, we sincerely apologize for causing you to feel this way. Have you thought about starting therapy? P.S. Our military is mostly suited for skiing competitions. Best wishes always”Unswayed, the President ordered the Navy to go into action. Loaded with planes, bombs and various brands of fast food, aircraft carriers steamed toward the North Sea.The strategy was easy. Blockade Oslo, send in Navy Seals to liberate the prize, then organize a big production to declare victory on prime time television.But predictably, things went wrong midway over the Atlantic. A submarine hit a global warming sabotaging iceberg. A squadron of fighter jets got lost in fog and ended up in Sweden where the Swedes offered the pilots meatballs. The troops, expecting action, found themselves seasick and started doing the math to figure out when their enlistment was up.Anti-war protests broke out at home. Signs read: “No War for Awards!” and “We’re Against Whatever This Is!”The stock market fell, then rose, because war is good for corporations and Wall Street speculators.On his app, the President posted: “Winning bigly against Norway! Fake news says otherwise. #NobelMine.”In the end, no bombs were dropped. A diplomatic agreement was struck. Norway sent a replica prize, inscribed with “World’s Best President.” The President accepted it on live television, declaring that he restored peace.“See? I won the war without firing a shot. That’s why I deserved the prize. They should rename it after me. What’s a Nobel, anyway?”The Nobel Committee continued giving prizes to people who actually earned them. And the President? He wore his fake medal for a few days and quickly tired of it. He ended up hanging it on the gold plated tin crown he got from South Korea.Hey! You’ve read until the end. Thanks for that. Check out my detective novel!The Lying Spiral Follow me over here!Craig Tyson Adams - Links This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit craigtysonadams.substack.com

Gather ‘round, kids. I’m gonna dispense some perspective.You see, back in the 20th century, the New York Yankees dominated ‌MLB in every decade. The Yankees were the Evil Empire. The money they had at their disposal was almost criminal.This was before the player draft, so the Yankees built a scouting machine that could comb the bushes for the best players and pay the biggest bonuses so the player would sign with them.They also created the best minor league system. If another team had a player the Yankees wanted, they had the top prospects to entice a team to trade their star to the Yankees.In MLB, there has always been one bully on the block. The Big Cheese that all the smaller market team’s fans could despise.Now, there is a new behemoth in the MLB universe.The Dodgers signed free agent Kyle Tucker to a four year $240 million contract. That’s $60 million a year for a player that is good, but not a world beater even though he’s getting paid like one. Tucker is even getting a $64 million signing bonus. For that much a small market team could buy an entire bullpen.Tucker’s contract also includes opt-outs after the second and third years. Why commit to the entire contract if you can renegotiate? And for the luxury tax aficionados, Tucker’s deal will levy the Dodgers with about $120 million worth of penalties in 2026. They’ll pay more in fines than the Pirates pay their starting nine. That tells you all you need about competitive balance like nothing else.That sets fans of the other teams off.“Unfair! The Dodgers are buying the championship! Destroying the game I grew up with! Think of the children!”MLB designed exactly this dystopian future over decades. The union blessed the CBA. Owners all ratified. Everyone signed the permission slip.They got rid of parity with the elimination of the reserve clause. Luxury tax was invented to dissuade teams from over paying but then the deep pocket owners pretended it wasn’t there. Poorer teams welcome revenue-sharing prizes as though they were Monopoly cash and don’t use it to improve their teams and cry for parity like they think that might work someday. Those owners would rather buy a fourth vacation house and a second yacht with their rewards of losing.You can’t be mad at the Dodgers.They are using the system as it has been designed. Mark Walter, owner of the Dodgers, views nine-figure checks as though he is pinching it out of his business’s petty cash.The Los Angeles television broadcast contract spews funds like an open hydrant, and the Dodgers put into the team.Luxury tax is not a deterrent either. It’s the cover charge to get into the game. The Dodgers pay the 110% overage rate the way most of us pay sales tax, annoyingly, except competitive billionaires don’t blink.Tucker, meanwhile, turns down longer, shinier offers from the Mets and Jays to take the short, fat, opt-out-loaded bag in L.A.He joins the murderer’s row that already features Ohtani performing miracles at DH, Betts redefining shortstop like it’s his personal proving grounds, Freeman could hit .300 while half-asleep, Will Smith (not that one) running the pitching staff and bashing clutch homers.Do not despise Kyle Tucker. Like an offer he couldn’t refuse, the guy is only depositing the check that was lying on the table in front of him.Do not despise the Dodgers. They are only the ones who examined the fine print, and said, “If you’re not gonna stop us, hell yeah.” Openly despise the agreement that keeps delivering gift cards to the poorer clubs while they scream about financial responsibility.I’ll be watching as the greatest show in sports rolls on.The Dodgers run the circus, Tucker’s the new headliner, and the other 29 teams are stuck outside in the parking lot, wondering why the big top never pitches its tent in their zip code. Fire up the three-peat parade. The rest of the league is stuck in traffic following the procession.Hey! You’ve read to the end. Thanks for that!Check out my detective novel! The Lying Spiral This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit craigtysonadams.substack.com

Sitting on a balcony high above the 405 when something clicked. I was at that hotel off Sunset that looks like a grain elevator with windows. Used to be an old Holiday Inn. Now it’s $450 a night for a view of brake lights.Anyway, what clicked was, while I was watching traffic, I thought about all the people travelling on the freeway. Thousands of metal death machines hurtling along at ridiculous speeds.Everyone driving had their own agenda. Some were focused on what they were doing, obviously. Others were totally distracted. They had to be. Most of us are.Knowing humans the way I do, you’d think it’d be a war zone. Maniacs on all sides doing 80. Cars should be skidding and swerving. Crossing lanes and running into walls. Drivers would race each other and knock those in the way off the road. People screaming, fire everywhere. Picture Mad Max with better air conditioning.How are we not all dead?I mean, come on. These are the same people who lose their minds if you take too long at the ATM. They’ll scream at a McDonalds employee because they get shorted one f*****g chicken nugget. They’ll fight over a parking spot like it’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic.But put them on the freeway? Suddenly we’re all in a harmonious flow. Like synchronized swimmers in bumper-to-bumper hell. There was something orderly.We, collectively, can go on autopilot. You get in the car, you zone out, you arrive at your destination, and you have a zero recollection of the journey.You can listen to a podcast and not remember most of it. Take a phone call? Can’t recall what you talked about. If you have a passenger you both could have a conversation and arrive at your destination before you know it. It’s like time travel.What is this sorcery? We’re in this trance. One collective trance. That’s what it is. We’re all plugged into the same current. You slow down; I slow down. You speed up; I speed up.And the second we exit? Boom. Trance shattered. The guy who politely merged? Now he’s yelling at no one in particular because a parking spot is too far from the entrance. The lady who pumped the brakes to keep one car length separation for twenty miles? She’s now in line at Whole Foods arguing that her kale hasn’t been artisanally sprayed enough.We can cooperate at death-defying speeds, but we can’t share an elevator without someone pressing every button just to be a jerk.I’m sitting there on the balcony, staring at this miracle of human behavior, and all I can think is this is the only place left where society still works. The freeway. Up on the 8th floor it’s almost peaceful. Down there? It’s a potential rolling disaster accompanied by radio stations.The freeway keeps us moving just long enough to go back to hating each other properly. What a system. What a beautiful, catatonic system.I go inside, slam the sliding door. The hum fades. And just like that, I’m annoyed at the f*****g world again.Pretty neat trick, huh? We’re all just travelling along mostly smoothly. How is that? We’re at each other’s throats usually. But, on the freeway, we’re all like one energy. The energetic highway. Like your chakra system with GPS.Hey! You read until the end. Thanks for that. Check out my detective novel The Lying Spiral And follow me here! Various Social Media Stuff This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit craigtysonadams.substack.com

I’ve practiced a lot of religions over the years and out of all of them, my favorite is still The Order of Perpetual Yuletide. It was a fairly small group I helped put together in ’86 just outside of Skeetersville, South Dakota on a patch of dirt so flat you could see a dog running away for three days straight. It was just me and a few dozen people who were tired of waiting three hundred and sixty-four days for it to be culturally acceptable to eat a turkey leg.The core philosophy was that, for us, Christmas was every single day.No exceptions. We’d roll out of our bunks at 6:00 AM sharp, screaming “Merry Christmas!” at the top of our lungs until all the local crows took off.Every morning was a blizzard of wrapping paper and scotch tape. Then we’d all sit around and have a delicious group lunch. At night, we’d have Christmas Eve dinner with goose, stuffing and enough eggnog to float a battleship. Then we’d stumble off to bed, hearts full of joy and arteries full of gravy, waiting for the whole thing to happen all over all over again the next day.To keep my fellow congregants entertained I came up with this creation story about Santa being a rugged survivalist that arose from a warlike Elven tribe deep within the polar ice caps. These weren’t your “cookie-baking” elves. These were hard-bitten, spear-toting elves who hunted polar bears and carved toys out of frozen whale bone.People really seemed to dig it.We got about thirty or forty followers before we got shut down by the State of South Dakota because “Perpetual Yuletide” is not a legal defense for grand larceny. Apparently, people were doing a lot of stealing to keep the religion going financially. To keep the miracle alive, the boys started “liberating” merchandise from every Sears and Roebuck within a fifty-mile radius.They took our tree, they took our goose, and they took Jeff. I still say we were onto something, though. If the world could just learn to live every day like it’s December 25th, we’d all be much fucklng happier.Hey! You’ve read to the end. Thanks for that!Read my Novel! The Lying Spiral Follow me! Craig Tyson Adams - Linktree This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit craigtysonadams.substack.com

As a guy who attempts to be logical, I gotta get this off my chest. We get around this time every year and this has always bugged me. I’ve been staring at the calendar for my whole life and it’s time I addressed it. What is the deal with these month names?December. The twelfth month. Twelve.But the name is December. That’s supposed to be the tenth month, right?Like decimal, decathlon. Ten. TEN.But no, it’s the twelfth month.What?And September. Sept means seven, septuplets, septuagenarian. Everybody knows that. Seven! But it’s the ninth month?October. Octo, octopus, octave, octomom. Eight. But it’s the tenth?November. Nine. Novena. Nonuplets. Eleventh month?And then December, ten, but it’s December, the end of the year!Meanwhile, the calendar shrugs and says, “Yeah, that’s correct.”It’s not correct.It’s a godam chronological felony.How did this mess happen?Why? Of course, the Romans are to blame.Because originally, the Roman calendar had ten months.March kicked it off. First month. Made sense. Everything popping, spring. Then December was number ten. No sweat there. Logical.But then they tacked on January and February at the beginning. All right. Year’s longer than they figured. Need twelve months. Whatever.But did they renumber everything? Nah.They just left September through December with the old numbers even though now they were the ninth, tenth, eleventh, and twelfth months.All because of those damn emperors Julius Caesar and Caesar Augustus.They’re lounging around, eating enough to keep the attendants at the vomitorium on their toes. Watching some gladiator get eviscerated. Perfect day, right? Someone looks at the calendar, and they see those energy filled summer months.Then Julius points at the calendar and goes, “Hey, I think I deserve a nice month.”Augustus nodded like an idiot.“Hell yes! Me too. Let’s get a warm one. Call ’em July and August. The sun, the heat, women needing less clothing! That’ll be awesome!”So, these two egomaniacs boot poor old Quintilis and Sextilis right out of the rotation, Perfectly respectable, numerically accurate months.They just shoved their names in there, rebranded them as July and August. Because nothing screams “legacy” like hijacking prime weather.It’s always some stupid reason. Some inane, self-aggrandizing reason by someone with absolute power that screws up everything for everyone else.Meanwhile, we have to put up with winter months that are stuck with these old numbers that don’t even match anymore.It’s like getting an egg salad sandwich that’s been sitting out for three hours. It’s just off. It’s a calendar that makes my eyes twitch every time I think about it.We need to fix this! We need to knock off July and August! Then rename the last two months. Eleventh-ber and Twelfth-ber or something. If some buffoon can just rename the Gulf of Mexico, we can change the calendar.It’s a calendar system built on vanity and inaccuracy. And I’m the only one who seems to give a s**t. Infuriating, I tells ya!Hey! You’ve made it to the end. Thanks for that.Check out my detective novel! The Lying SpiralFollow me here!CTA LinkTree This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit craigtysonadams.substack.com

My wife and I were talking this morning. We now have this thing where we don’t touch our computers for the first hour of the day. We live in a place where we can see the sunrise. As it’s coming up we talk about whatever also comes up.This morning she asked “Why can’t I write what my thoughts are? I can think of them but it doesn’t transfer to the page.” Something like that. I paraphrase because I can never remember what’s said verbatim. But, you get it, right?What I said was when we were young we didn’t aspire to be seen or thought of as being out of the group. An outcast. Most of us anyway. Some people like to be the ones outside watching all the campfires. But I digress.When you’re a kid in, say, the first grade, the worst thing you could be told by one of your classmates is that you’re weird. Especially if the one saying it is a cute girl. It makes you think and reassess what made them say that. You internally review all of your processes. What you think. What you say, wear and have for breakfast.Sure, you can tell them to bugger off but then that just brings in more negativity that you have to deal with. Next thing you know you’re eating lunch with the other weird kids. This is how stand-up comedians and serial killers are born.So we teach ourselves to filter what we’re thinking before we write or express what we’re thinking. It creates a blockage, a resistance that we have to overcome to get the thoughts out.My wife said that it seemed like I didn’t have that problem because I write and post stuff even if it’s weird. It took me a long time to overcome that. I realized that movie makers and musicians do it all the time. Sometimes it works and sometimes not. Nobody knows until it’s finished. The trick is to not let it stop you. Whatever is in your head, write it out. Paint it. Chip away at it. Create something.Then my wife brought up that it’s a waste of time arguing. The person who judges you and says you’re weird, forgive them. Handle arguments spiritually. Send them positive thoughts. Because you’re also sending yourself positive thoughts.We’re all going through something. Everyone gets scared by life. We’re born into pain and try our best not to go through that again subconsciously. The world is chaotic. Try to be f*****g kind.Hey! You made it to the end. Thanks for that!The Lying Spiral Follow me! This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit craigtysonadams.substack.com