Blogs for Frank Scoblete | Frank Scoblete

A Husband and Wife Talk Craps

They have totally different views about gambling. She doesn’t love it but she plays a little; he loves it and he plays a lot! His game is craps.

HIM: I make no bones about it. I love playing craps and we both go to the casino once a week.

HER: I do play the slots for one hundred dollars and no more. He plays craps all day. If I lose that hundred, I am done. That’s my limit. I play the nickel machines and keep the amount I bet very low on each decision so I can last.

HIM: We get everything for free. A great suite; free gourmet meals. My play is rewarded by the house.

HER: His play is rewarded, if you call losing a lot of money over the fifteen years we have been playing. I have lost. I admit that. I’ve lost a little. You really can’t beat the slot machines but his craps play is off the wall.

HIM: I am what they call an “action” player.

HER: That’s one way to say it.

HIM: I like to really get into a game. I will bet the Pass Line but I enjoy my other bets much more. I place the six and eight for one-hundred fifty dollars each and I usually go with the five and nine for one-hundred twenty-five dollars each. I buy the four and ten for one hundred each. I don’t necessarily go up on all of them at once but if I take a few wins, then I go for it big time. I am in the game to make the most money I can and the only way to do that is to bet big and go with the flow. I do believe there is a flow to the game.

HER: Oh, yeah, the flow is usually his money going across the table to the casino’s tray.

HIM: Hey, I’ve had some big wins!

HER: He’s not telling it all. Action player means he makes some of the stupidest bets at the game. Come on tell them…honey.

HIM: Okay, okay, she is right. I love to bet the Hardways and occasionally I will throw out the two or twelve, but only for ten dollars each. I go twenty-five bucks on the Hardways. They have good payouts and if you get hot on them, you can really bring in a lot of cash.

HER: I know the percentages of these bets because I did research on them. The Pass Line is good, maybe too the placing of the six and eight, but those others? Phew!

HIM: Those others are where the big payouts are. You hit a two or twelve and you get paid a lot.

HER: He works twelve-hour days and he is very successful in his business. He would never approach business the way he approaches gambling. He is very conservative with his money but in the casinos he lets it all hang out, in the worst way.

HIM: I play to have fun. I don’t consider this a business. I’m letting off steam; once a week is my steam-letting-off time.

HER: Steam? I think it is fun to have a decent chance of winning. What steam is let off by losing? He rarely wins, and when he gets those big wins he wants, they aren’t anywhere near enough to be ahead or even close enough to being even in his playing career. How is that a loser of steam? I would think the steam builds up even more. If he just played the Pass Line and maybe a Come bet or two, he’d have a better chance of coming home with some money much more frequently.

HIM: She doesn’t understand the craps player’s mentality. The game is fast and the players are really into it. Most of the players are rooting for the shooter to hit numbers and to make his point – the players who aren’t rooting for the shooter are pains in the you-know-what if you ask me – and when the shooter gets hot, there’s nothing like it. It is like a jolt of lightning going through your body. I mean you really feel it. I used to play blackjack but in that game there is no electricity shared by all the players.

HER: I think if electricity like that happened the players would be electrocuted. They are kind of electrocuted during the game if you ask me.

HIM: I look at it this way too. She is right that I work hard and earn good money but I also want the chance to spend that money as I see fit. If I played craps the way she suggests it wouldn’t be as much fun. That I can tell you for real; the game wouldn’t be much fun to me. I don’t tell her how to play those slot machines.

HER: I have very strong money management tools. That means I use a little amount to play with and I stretch that money out over time. Most of the time I do not lose much money at the machines based on the way I play.

HIM: Her way would kill me. I play it safe in real life but at the craps table? Come on. The casino is telling you to come and get it – and I am coming and trying to get it! I recognize that I play a high risk way –

HER: Of course, he’s an action player after all.

HIM: But the reward of that risk is that I am having fun. What’s so wrong with having fun? She wants me to have fun her way. I want to have fun my way.

FRANK’S VIEW: In my opinion the wife has the better gambling strategy. Yes, the husband can play anyway he chooses with his money but his choice of bets is lacking an understanding of how fast and how much money he will lose even over a relatively short period of time.

Frank Scoblete’s latest books are I Am a Dice Controller: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Craps, Confessions of a Wayward Catholic and I Am a Card Counter: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Blackjack. Available from Amazon.com, Kindle, Barnes and Noble, and at bookstores.

Killing Whales

On our recent trip to Torshavn in the Faroe Islands, my wife the Beautiful AP and I visited the National Museum that has artifacts of early sailors, Vikings and whale hunters—particularly whale hunters.

I must tell you that seeing the small size and limited power of the boats that the whale hunters used has put me off becoming a whale hunter in the 1600s. Sorry, that’s not for me. Actually that, added to the killing of those magnificent animals, probably won’t make me a whale hunter in any era.

Among its outstanding artifacts, this museum had an excellent film about the killing of the whales circa 1920. Picture a Sunday with women and children dressed in their Sunday finest, many having come directly from praying and praising their eternal loving God at church.

These well-dressed folks—men in suits, women in their Sunday best, children miniature versions of them – stood on the docks talking and laughing and looking out to the harbor; parents holding their children’s hands, other children skipping and playing. A true family day; a true town day; a truly wonderful day for all concerned.

Then they appeared; dozens upon dozens of pilot whales being herded by the whale hunters to the small harbor where the Sunday-go-to-meeting folks were now cheering. Kids were jumping up and down and clapping. The adults’ faces showed glee; a truly wonderful day for all concerned.

And the slaughter began.

The whale hunters started hacking away at the whales, the people cheering wildly as the blood splashed onto the docks, splattering many onlookers. The kids skipped happily as the blood washed over the land and over their little well-dressed bodies.

The water of the harbor turned red. It was reminiscent of one of the plagues Yahweh sent to destroy the Egyptians – only now it was the whales, thrashing and dying ignoble deaths in the shallows of the harbor.

Oh, how the boys and girls, the fathers, mothers, grandparents, the newly married and the single people looking for love cheered the blood and guts slaughter of these sentient creatures. There would be meat tonight and every night, and whale blubber for myriad uses.

I admit, the video engaged me, enraged me and fascinated me; it sickened me too, but it also made me realize that mankind must eat and we have the ability to turn just about everything into food and resources that we need. Our ways are at times grisly, yes; but nature—our human nature—is drenched in blood. It always has been so and perhaps it always will be so. Humankind dances our dance on the death docks even if we are vegetarians killing plants and vegetables with no blood to be seen. To live, the other living often must die.

I highly recommend visiting the museum should you be sailing the North Atlantic. I do not recommend killing the whales, if you can avoid it.

[Frank Scoblete’s latest books are I Am a Dice Controller: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Craps, Confessions of a Wayward Catholic and I Am a Card Counter: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Blackjack. Available from Amazon.com, Kindle, Barnes and Noble, and at bookstores.]

How Conor McGregor Will Defeat Floyd Mayweather

The sports writers have written off Conor McGregor as a serious opponent for Floyd Mayweather. I haven’t.

The mistake most writers are making is a simple one; they think Conor McGregor is going to box Mayweather since this is billed as a boxing match. Nothing could be further from the truth – especially if McGregor follows a few simple principles that I am laying out.

This is not a boxing match. It is a mini-MMA match. That’s correct; McGregor is not going to try and outbox the 40-year old Mayweather; no one has been able to do that. Instead, the 29-year old McGregor is going to use the tools available in his MMA arsenal to subdue Mayweather and perhaps even stop him.

Again, remember Floyd Mayweather is 40 years old and hasn’t fought in two years. Most comebacks by fighters at this age end in failure (George Foreman being one of the exceptions).

Here’s how McGregor’s victory will work:

Whenever they clinch, McGregor will not break the clinch; instead he will twist and turn Mayweather’s arms, perhaps push up into Mayweather’s armpits. He can also put his head low and push it up Mayweather’s chin. Or McGregor can push hard and have both of them fall down, with McGregor on top landing a blow with foot or fist. McGregor can even apologize for such roughness but continue to do it anyway.

As they fall into a corner McGregor will lift his knee (just a bit) and give Mayweather kicks to his legs. Such kicks will slow Mayweather down. These kicks will not be noticeable to the ref who will be watching their arms.

Whenever Mayweather hides behind his left shoulder (a tactic he has perfected to avoid right hands), whether on the ropes or in the corner, McGregor will shoot a right hand, purposely miss, and quickly follow up with an elbow to Mayweather’s face as he brings back his right hand. Such elbows will cut Mayweather.

Only if Mayweather can actually hurt McGregor does he have a chance. I think McGregor can handle Mayweather’s punches. If he can, being a rough-tough son-of-a-bitch will give Conor McGregor the victory.

If he just tries to box, McGregor will lose. But if he uses mini-MMA tactics as shown above, he can knock Mayweather out!

The Pursuit of the Puffin

On a recent cruise in the North Atlantic (https://frankscoblete.com/my-70th-birthday-cruise/) my wife the Beautiful AP and I wanted to see the huge puffin colony on the Faroe Islands. Supposedly there are millions of puffin nests scattered throughout the islands on the sides of the monstrous mountains jutting out over the sea.

These little birds are beautiful with comical characteristics, including large, colorful beaks. Puffins are generally monogamous birds and build their nests on the sides of the giant mountains.

Puffins make up some of the diet of the Faroe Islanders and Icelanders. I wonder if they taste as good as they look?

“Oh, you probably won’t see many puffins today,” said the receptionist at the hotel where we were meeting our driver and tour guide Thordeval. “The weather is really bad and you are getting a somewhat late start. It is a long drive to that side of the island. You might not see a single one.”

“I thought there were millions of these birds on these islands,” I said.

“Yes, but this weather is not conducive to flying about.” She probably saw the defeated look on my face. “But you might see some, maybe, you know, you might see some.”

The word puffin means “little brother” as some religious folks saw the bird’s black and white colors as similar to monastic robes. Of course, that didn’t stop the islanders from eating these pretty little birds.

Thordeval came by in his taxi and we introduced ourselves. The day before this puffin adventure, the Beautiful AP and I had decided to forgo the bus trips that the cruise line sets up in favor of hiring our own guide. These bus trips had been harrowing, but most were also dull, so we jettisoned them. We wanted to see what we wanted to see in the time we had to see them.

Thordeval shook his head as the wind and rain pelted us as we entered his car. “Not the best weather,” he said. “Those birds may be hiding in their nests.”

“Well,” said AP. “Let’s give it a try.”

It was an hour’s drive to the side of the island inhabited by the puffins; a drive often through long tunnels in the mountains. The drive was beautiful and Thordeval explained how the sheep and fishing industries worked. The mountain sides were littered with sheep.

“Who owns these sheep?” asked AP. “There don’t seem to be any farmhouses nearby.”

“All different farmers own them,” said Thordeval. “They bring the sheep to these grazing areas and they are all mixed together.”

“But when winter comes, how do farmers know which sheep are theirs?” I asked.

“They are branded on the ears just in case the dogs usher the sheep to the wrong farmer,” said Thordeval. “Each farmer’s dogs know their sheep and they herd them in winter to that farmer.”

Keep in mind that winter can be dark up to 24 hours a day. Right now we were in July and it was light except for two hours of “dusk.” I couldn’t see spending almost an entire day in darkness. (See the great horror movie 30 Days of Night.)

Thordeval also explained that there was no crime on the island; at the worst, the police have to occasionally deal with fights between lads who have drunk too much in the pubs. “There aren’t many fights either.”

The Faroe Islands have no squirrels either. Or snakes. My backyard seems to have more dangerous animals than exist on these islands.

Thordeval, like many other islanders, loves where he lives. At one point, he tried living in Denmark, but lasted only six months and then returned home. Many of his schoolmates had the same experience.

At times the rain and wind were ferocious on the coastline. The only birds we saw were numerous varieties of gulls flying and soaring about. The scenery was beautiful even in the on-again, off-again rain.

The rain let up as we arrived in puffin territory. We walked down a slippery mountain path; around a small herd of rams, and we checked the sides of the mountains but saw no puffins. We saw more waterfalls and beautiful vistas of mountains and ocean and the ubiquitous gulls.

Suddenly Thordeval pointed to a spot just below us, maybe about 10 feet down. “There are two!”

And there were two, looking out of their nest. Then they left their nest. What beautiful birds! What comical birds! Oh my God, they just kissed and put their necks around each other. And, and, they were looking right at us. They did not seem afraid of us at all. Maybe these two weren’t aware that they could (someday) be a dinner for someone.

AP spent time cooing as she watched them through her binoculars. She took dozens of photographs with her phone. “I don’t think these are going to come out too clear. I wish I had my camera!” Since we always travel with carry-on and never check luggage, AP had decided to leave the camera home. Maybe we could get one good “phone” picture.

We watched these two birds for a good 20 minutes. They watched us too. Finally they went back into their nest; the rain picked up just then, and we headed back up the path, past the rams, and to Thordeval’s car.

A third puffin zipped by, his wings beating so fast he could have been a colossal hummingbird.

On the way back we toured Torshavn National Museum.

Thanks to Thordeval and a happily married pair of puffins, AP and I were very satisfied with our day in the Faroe Islands.

My 70th Birthday Cruise

Yes, I just turned 70. Seventy years old!

My wife, the Beautiful AP, told me to choose any trip I wanted as a 70^th birthday present and I decided on a cruise that would start in Copenhagen and go to Norway, Shetland Islands, Iceland, the Faroe Islands, and finish in Southampton, England.

I love cruising. My wife doesn’t. Despite my love for it, I found this particular cruise somewhat irritating and, at times, anger-provoking.

First off, you might think that at 70, I would be one of the oldest on this ship. Not so. Passengers went from somewhat young to middle to my age to the truly elderly; meaning those who had trouble walking, or breathing, or thinking, or figuring out where they were at any given time. These folks dominated the cruise and some suffered all of the aforementioned maladies.

And fat! There were more fat people (myself included) on the ship than slim ones. Some even made me look slim.

Many of the passengers were grumpy too. Okay, my nickname is Grumpy Grandpa, but I am aware of my surroundings and can find my way from point A to point B.

When AP and I signed up for a three-hour walking tour of Reykjavik, the day was a downpour of rain. Still, we wanted to go on the walking tour. What’s a little water? We paid $$$$ for the tour.

We had done a couple of hours seeing the city the day before on our own and we wanted the full experience of this small capital. Walking in the rain, the shine or the in-between was fine with us. We could dry off on the ship.

We were the first on the minibus. We joked with the tour guide about the fact that it might just be the two of us on the tour.

Then the other 14 people arrived, seven of them so decrepit that they had a hard time walking on the pier from the ship to the minibus. They had to be helped onto the bus! I’m 70, okay; and I have nothing against old people. But for God’s sake, if you can’t walk, why the hell would you sign up for a three-hour walking tour?

Three women of the seven decrepits immediately proclaimed that they assumed we would stay on the bus and make this a bus tour. Their proclamation sounded more like a demand. The tour guide said she would mostly do that.

I looked at AP and she looked at me. We paid $$$$ to sit in a minibus on a walking tour?

On the tour we did get out of the bus a few times. At one point we toured a sculpture garden, which was a beautiful place even in the pouring rain. One of the three complainers seemed to get lost, right in the middle of the garden, and went round and round in a circle—not a big circle, a little one, maybe a dozen feet in diameter. She was lost; in the garden and in her mind; in her eyes I could see the eyes my mother and father and father-in-law had when they were struck with Alzheimer’s.

I helped her by taking her arm and guiding her out of the garden to the minibus.

On the ship was an old guy, ever clad in a bathrobe, wandering around, not knowing what deck he was on or where his room was. Members of the crew kindly escorted him back to his room. He was lucky he didn’t fall off the ship. What was the purpose of putting this poor soul on a ship sailing the often rough seas of the North Atlantic?

The Back Story

Let me back up. We left Kennedy Airport on July 4^th. We were travelling first class as I like to. This irritates the Beautiful AP since she thinks it is not worth the money. She has no problem telling everyone in first class that she prefers coach. So much for me being a big shot.

When we went to the boarding area we met a couple, Mr. Foister and Ms. Mute, who immediately struck up a conversation; well, Mr. Foister did. He couldn’t stop talking. His wife, Ms. Mute, looked the other way.

“Why don’t we have dinner the next two nights in Copenhagen since we are all going to be there? It’s great that we’re staying at the same hotel. We can share a taxi too. This is going to be some trip.”

Then Mr. Foister started making plans for us on the cruise. “You know there is a big art contingent on the cruise. We collect art. You should come see us analyze the art works….” He was verbally off and running. His wife frowned and ignored him. AP and I made no commitments, which was easy because there was no opportunity for us to say anything.

Throughout the plane ride Mr. Foister hung out with the crew and knocked back one drink after another. When AP tried slipping by him to go to the lavatory, he started up again about all the things we could do together in Copenhagen and on the ship. She told him we were meeting friends and that she likes to keep her options open.

AP returned from the lavatory and whispered, “We have our trip planned. He’s foisting himself on us.”

“How do you want to handle this?”

“I guess we’ll just try to avoid them,” she said.

“No, do you really want to skulk around the ship trying to avoid them? It’s a small ship. What about Jerry and Tres? Do you think they want to spend time with Foister and Mute?”

“So what can we do?” she asked.

“I’m going to tell him right out that we have our own plans,” I said. “Then we don’t have to skulk around. That will end it.”

The Beautiful AP argued with me about this and I pretended she won the argument. (This is my new tactic and one I recommend to husbands everywhere.)

As we left the plane, AP went to the bathroom and Mr. Foister came up to me. “Hey, so let’s get that cab to the Marriott together.”

“We’re not hanging out with you,” I said. “We are getting our own cab. We have our own plans for this trip.”

Since he was still somewhat drunk, he staggered back and his face had that drunken questioning look. “Uh, ah, uh.”

“You understand, right?”

He understood. And that was what I had up my sleeve when I let AP think she won the argument. We did see Mr. Foister and Ms. Mute a couple of times on the ship but it was no big deal. Mr. Foister always seemed to be latched on to someone—a different someone every time I saw him.

“You were right,” AP finally said to me.

I love hearing that!

Copen-HAY-gen or Copen-HOG-en?

Recall that old commercial “Certs is a breath mint. No, Certs is a candy mint.” Then an announcer’s voice would say, “Stop, stop, you’re both right!” Well, how you pronounce Copenhagen can be either one of the above.

Copenhagen is a city of canals and we took a wonderful canal tour. You had to be careful because some of the bridges are so low that even people my height (5’6”) have to duck or lose their heads and what a mess that would be.

The Beautiful AP climbed all 400 steps of the Church of Our Saviour’s staircase that spirals round and round the outside of the building. While she did that climb, I sat in the churchyard fast asleep. Neither of us had slept on the plane ride over here and I was flat out exhausted. Oh, and we couldn’t get into our hotel room until four o’clock that afternoon.

The highlight of the trip occurred the next day; our personal three-hour tour hosted by Stuart. We hired him through the tour group Viator and he was well worth the price.

When he met us, the Beautiful AP asked, “How’s your English?”

He laughed, “Pretty good. I’m American.”

The man was in fact funny, delightful, and knowledgeable; he’s lived in 24 countries. The three hours flew by as we learned about the kings (Christian, Frederick, Christian, Frederick…) and some queens, and armies and wars. I never knew that as the Nazis ordered the Danes to hand their Jews over, the Danes clandestinely ushered their Jewish citizenry safely out of the country. There is a building built by Israel acknowledging this amazing achievement.

With Stuart, we discussed many current-day issues including immigration and how Denmark is handling the settlement of Muslim refugees. The Danish government integrates them into society throughout the country, thereby avoiding enclaves like we see in countries such as England, France and Germany.

If you do visit Copenhagen, you might want to tour with Stuart. You also might want to eat at two fabulous restaurants, Amass and Restaurant Kanalen. And ride a bicycle. The young, the old, the moms, the pops, and the kids zoom hither and thither through the streets on bikes.

AP and I would definitely visit this city again.

The Ship

Azamara Journey is a small ship that carries some 600 passengers and about four hundred crew. This small ship was set to tackle the sometimes rough waves of the North Atlantic Ocean and at times it was damn rough.

This was the 32^nd cruise for our travelling companions, Jerry “Stickman” and his lovely wife, the Sainted Tres. It was our fourth.

We had great rooms, right at the bow of the ship, with wide vistas and we figured we’d spend many a late afternoon relaxing on our connected balconies, indulging in wine and conversation. Not to happen. With the exception of a couple of days (make that hours!), the weather was too cold, too cloudy, too rainy, too windy and the seas too choppy to sit outside, so we scurried to a lovely inside destination called the Living Room.

The very first day we were “at sea” and we would be “at sea” five of the 12 days we were on the ship. This became monotonous—and also put me in a frame of mind that almost caused me to punch out another passenger, maybe two; something I hadn’t done in over 50 years since my boxing days.

The ship had two gourmet restaurants, one Italian and one a steak house, one general restaurant, a buffet and smaller food service places scattered throughout. You do not go hungry on a cruise. Most passengers gain weight. Not AP, of course. She always took the stairs and hit the gym all but one day.

The “Foxhole”

Our first tour was Mount Dalsnibba in Norway. We would take a bus up the two winding roads leading to the two peaks of the mountain range. I hadn’t really read the blurb about this tour as I simply got us on every tour Tres and Jerry had signed up for. Big mistake on my part.

The first ride up the first mountain was harrowing, with hairpin turns and a very narrow road on which our LARGE bus had to travel. What kind of maniac would want to take such a tour? Oh, right, Jerry “Stickman” who has jumped out of planes 450 times! This was his nutty idea and I just signed us up for it because he was on it – next time I’ll read the blurb.

We made it up to Eagle’s Bend Viewpoint and actually saw a brown eagle, and, yes, the view was amazing but it could not calm down the terror that had welled in me as with each turn. Then what goes up must (damnit!) go down.

I asked our tour guide, “Is the next mountain road just as bad?”

She smiled serenely, “No, you did the hard part already. The next one is easy.”

Arrrggghhh! She lied! It was far, far worse; far, far longer; far, far narrower and far, far more harrowing. In fact, from my seat on the bus I saw no road, just drops that were hundreds (millions) of feet deep.

Oh, sure, the scenery was spectacular. But screw the damn scenery! I could die on this road or, rather, off this road if the bus had a flat tire or the driver sneezed or a slight wind blew against the side of the bus. We would plummet down and down and down. No survivors, I’m sure.

Around and around on the mountain road we snaked at speeds that seemed a hundred miles an hour. I was sweating by the time we got to the top of a snow-covered mountain!

“That lake over there, the big one, has no life in it. Not fish or plants. It cannot harbor any life at all,” said the guide. Great we were looking at a dead lake, as in d-e-a-d.

I don’t care how beautiful the scenery was; I knew one thing – I had to get back on the bus and make an even more treacherous journey down the mountain side. Then I saw them; bicyclists pumping their bike’s pedals going up the damn mountain. What the hell was wrong with these people?

I did try to look at the scenery and feel its beauty because it was so beautiful, but the horror of the past and the upcoming return trip just didn’t allow me to enjoy it. My mind just kept repeating to me, “We’re gonna die! We’re gonna die!”

One woman came up to me. “I can see you are afraid of heights.” She was trying to be comforting.

“I’m afraid of death,” I said flatly.

The guide announced we were to now get on the bus for the return trip, the death trip, down that mountain road. How could they even call that sliver of concrete a “road”?

I took my seat, put on my seatbelt, kissed AP. “Uhm, that was a nice kiss,” she said.

“Goodbye my love,” I said. “We’ve had a great run, you and I.”

“Scobe, just close your eyes and don’t look down. This will end shortly.”

“Yes,” I said dramatically. “In the blink of an eye.”

She smiled and gave me a kiss on the forehead.

I closed my eyes and prayed, which is hard to do when you’re an atheist.

Dear God please don’t let me die. I’ve got too much to live for. Please don’t let a leaf hit the bus and knock it over the edge and down into the valley. God, take pity on me and on all the other people on this bus. Jesus, if God is too busy to bother, or he’s pissed off at the things I’ve said about religion and religious people, maybe you could just make sure the bus makes it down the mountain safely. Or if you are busy maybe Mary can come on over and keep the bus on the road, after all I am a son and Mary is a mother. My prayers are sincere. If there are any Norse gods hanging around please save us. Thor, you could save us. Please keep me alive. Really, I’ve been a good man. I haven’t hurt anyone, even those who have hurt me. Please, God, I want to live!

“Open your eyes,” said AP.

“Are we falling off the mountain?”

“No, we are down now,” she said.

I opened my eyes. The bus had stopped. I hadn’t even noticed that.

“We’re alive! We’re alive!”

Now I could be an atheist again.

Shetland

There is a great mystery show you can get on Netflix titled Shetland. That will give you an amazing view of these islands and the surrounding sea. Again, this was a bus trip with the slowest people seated up front and struggling to get out of the bus, holding everyone back.

“We have 15 minutes at this stop. Please everyone return at 12:15,” said the guide.

At 12:10 we managed to finally get off the bus. We got to see an argument between a mother and son as the mother wanted to walk and the son wanted to push her in the wheelchair. Walk? Walk uphill on a gravel road? Mom could barely stand.

Once released from the bus, the Beautiful AP and I zipped up the gravel road, zipped back down, and waited to get on the bus as mother and son slowly made their way back up the three steps. They never went to the top of the hill. Indeed, they never left the door of the bus.

We visited the Scalloway Museum and learned about the Shetland Bus. During World War II, the Shetlanders, Norwegian fisherman and Allied forces courageously ferried a vast array of armaments to the Resistance in Norway and smuggled out 350 people who would have been murdered in Hitler’s Holocaust.

There was a small castle next to the museum and AP characteristically went to climb up it.

I was sitting outside the museum. Near to me was a table filled with middle-aged and older men, a couple of guides and bus drivers. It was then when we saw She. Yes, She was there.

She appeared in her tight, low-cut, black and white striped dress, holding her cell phone up, taking selfies. The men watched her as She lifted her dress high over her knees (click! click!) or bent low in front of them so they could see her rather ample breasts dangling inside her dress (click! click!) or then bend over so they could see her wiggle her perfect butt in her perfect dress just a few yards from their faces.

Men are hard wired and a delicious dame wiggling, bending, posing and hiking up her dress in front of them just riveted their attention.. Finally, She jumped up onto a low stone wall, lifted her skirt almost all the way, and clicked! clicked! more selfies. I was riveted too – by her narcissism. I brought AP over to watch this.

Back at the ship we saw She sunning herself. One of her boobs fell out of her skimpy swimsuit as She turned over in her lounge chair. She slowly put her breast back into her bathing suit after fondling it a little bit. Many eyes bugged out at that. We didn’t see She after that as the waters got rough and the days were cold, wet and unsettled.

Akureyri Iceland and Planet Fart

This was an interesting trip for one reason—I got to see and smell the largest fart in the world! Okay, not exactly. First we were taken to the extremely disappointing waterfall of the gods where Iceland’s religion supposedly germinated. (Note: AP enjoyed the waterfalls.) We drove through the hillside to see amazing lava fields from volcanic eruptions past and present. The monstrous lava boulders and landscapes were indeed interesting.

Then we arrived at Planet Fart. We could smell this new planet from a mile or so away. “What the hell is that?” people asked. People scrunched their faces and looked around the bus to see who had cut a monstrous fart. The consensus was the old guy with the hearing aid in the front seat.

We parked and nothing looked Earthlike. The hills were shades of brown from almost off-white to doo-doo dark, in confusing streaks. There was no life on those hills either; there was no life anywhere near us. All around were bubbling lava or mud pits causing that awful stench. Steam rose from many of these pits. This was fart-land pure and simple.

Even AP, who finds fart humor completely unfunny, laughed at my fart jokes in this locale.

Days at Sea and I Lose It

We had to endure five days when we were “at sea.” The ship offers all sorts of activities on sea days. Jerry “Stickman,” the Sainted Tres, the Beautiful AP and I enjoy trivia, although we are not very good at it. But it was fun and something to do as the waves swelled and the ship lurched.

There were all sorts of trivia contests: modern music, modern love songs, iconic places on earth; fast food symbols; movie themes; sports stars; airplane symbols and the like. You could have a maximum of six members on your team.

I had taken a nap on the first day at sea. AP came back to the room. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “I can’t believe it.”

“Believe what?” I said.

“I was playing trivia with my group and this other group challenged every answer we gave. And we were right. It was two older guys and a woman.”

“There are shitheads everywhere,” I said in a comforting voice.

“That woman tried to tell us that MoMA and the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City are one and the same. Can you believe that? She tried to get the host to disqualify my answer. I told her I have been to both and they are different museums.”

Fortunately, the host ruled AP’s answer as correct.

That afternoon we all decided to play the battle of the sexes. The women made up one group, maybe a dozen of them, and a dozen of the men made up the other group.

As we entered the room AP nudged me and whispered, “There are the men.” I looked over at the two men. One looked scornful and the other resembled a mouse. Both men were ignoring everyone else.

Jerry and I sat down.

AP and Tres went over to the women. AP nodded to me to tell me the MoMA woman was on her team. The woman looked like a wicked witch ready to devour a small child.

So the game began. I had to do a charade cataloging four things. I did five because I mistakenly acted out the label for our group: Men. I finished a single second behind my wife the Beautiful AP who did the required four. Scornmale looked at me with scorn and Mouseman shook his head as if to say, “That guy [meaning me] is an idiot.”

The game kept going back and forth, each side answering trivia questions. Mouseman, Scornmale or MoMA challenged whatever answer they could.

Finally, the women were given this question “How many movies has Rocky appeared in?” The women conferred. “Five,” said MoMA.

“Sorry, that is wrong,” said the host. MoMA then argued but the host said, “I stand by my decision.” He was right that MoMA was wrong.

Then we got to answer that question. I yelled out “seven!” and quickly listed all the movies where Rocky appeared.

“Sorry, no. Rocky is in the title of only six,” said the host.

“You didn’t ask what movies had Rocky in the title,” I said.

“My decision is final,” said the host.

“You didn’t ask the titles of the movies,” I pleaded. I looked at my fellow teammates. “He didn’t ask the titles of the movies.”

“You were not supposed to shout out!” yelled Scornmale at me.

“You lost that round for us and we only tied the game,” said Mouseman.

“But I am right,” I said.

“You caused us not to win this game,” said Scornmale.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I am sorry but the host is wrong. At least we tied.”

“We would have won this game if you hadn’t shouted out,” said Mouseman.

“Look, I am sorry,” I said. “I just knew the answer.”

“And we only tied,” said Scornmale. Mouseman rolled his beady eyes.

My last words at this battle of the sexes were “I’m sorry. Really, I am.” The two men ignored me and left the room.

I found out sometime later that in trivia these three folks were undefeated.

We played trivia some more. Yes, their team consistently won. Scornmale, Mouseman and MoMA sat haughtily through every game.

Finally, the moment came. This particular trivia contest had only two teams: us versus them. Us this time did not have Jerry and Tres; they were elsewhere. AP and I were with Barbara and her husband Ray (two great passengers) versus the three of them with another snooty person added to their team.

“Using the letter ‘O’ name something with a tail.”

Our team agreed, “Ostrich!” I said it again. “Ostrich!”

“Team left wins!” said the host.

“Wait a minute! Wait just a minute!” said Scornmale. “Ostriches don’t have tails.”

“Yes, they do,” I said. “They have tail feathers, thus a tail.”

“They do not have tail feathers. They do not have tails,” shouted Mouseman.

“Team left wins unless you can show that ostriches do not have tails,” said the host.

MoMA said, “This is ridiculous! Birds don’t have tails!”

“Yes, they do, and we win,” I said.

There was more mumbling from them. Scornmale stood up and pointed his finger. “I challenge this decision!”

Mouseman shouted, “Okay, wise guy, do chickens have tails? Huh? Do chickens have tails?”

“I am not talking about chickens,” I said. “The ostrich is the bird we are talking about.”

“Oh, yeah,” yelled Mouseman. “Answer my question. Do chickens have tails? Come on, do chickens have tails?” These guys were really heated. I was getting heated too.

“He’s afraid to answer my question!” yelled Mouseman. “You see, he’s afraid to answer my question about chickens!”

“We aren’t talking about chickens,” I repeated.

“I think that question should be thrown out because he won’t answer my question about chickens,” said Mouseman. Scornmale and MoMA were vigorously nodding their heads.

“Team left wins,” said the host.

“I object! Do chickens have tails? He can’t answer the question!” yelled Mouseman. “He can’t answer a simple question!”

That was it; that was it. I was 20 years old again. “Why don’t you shut your fucking mouth?”

Silence.

I was ready. If Mouseman stood up I would walk over to him and knock him out. I was happy to also clobber Scornmale and even MoMA. What the hell? Seriously, what the hell?

MoMA turned to me and gave me her “look” which probably worked on young children she was about to devour, but I just gave her my look back and she turned her head.

I immediately realized I should never have said what I said to them, but it was too late. I wasn’t going to apologize but I also wasn’t going to hit anyone as I hadn’t hit anyone since my last fight 50 years ago. Well, maybe I had, but that is another story for another time.

Team Chicken, as I now thought of them, went back to their rooms and looked up if ostriches and chickens had tails. Wonder of wonders, they do have tails and, thus, so much for their objections to my answer.

My teams beat them two more times at trivia; still they were the best on the ship. But they were not undefeated, an accomplishment of which I was proud.

Do you see what days at sea reduced us to? Do you see why AP doesn’t like cruises?

Our last stop was the Faroe Islands where AP and I went in search of the puffins. That is a separate article (coming soon) in Bird Scobe.

The last day on the ship AP and I were heading towards the elevators to depart. And there were Foister and Mute standing next to Mouseman and MoMa and Scornmale in front of the elevators. Looking at them I realized this trip could have been worse than it actually was.

Windsor Castle

After the cruise, AP and I spent time in England, specifically to see Windsor Castle. It was a great tour, especially St. George’s Chapel.

Upon arriving home we started discussing future trips. It’s no surprise that AP hasn’t proposed any cruises.

[Read Frank Scoblete’s books I Am a Card Counter: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Blackjack, I Am a Dice Controller: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Craps and Confessions of a Wayward Catholic! All available from Amazon.com, on Kindle and electronic media, at Barnes and Noble, and at bookstores.]

Thoughts on the Best Television Shows

I am thinking of doing a Top 20 list of my favorite situation comedies, hour-long dramas, talk shows and the like. I do have a simple problem; I have not seen all the television shows some of my friends rave about such as Seinfeld, Cheers or Oprah.

Also, I think some readers will kill me if I don’t put I Love Lucy in the top five. I liked the show but I thought it was a bit overdone halfway through its run.

Would I be laughed out of town if I put The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet as one of the top comedies? How will people feel if I say Ozzie Nelson was one of the best actors I ever saw?

Some of my favorite shows lasted a single year, such as Firefly and the American version of Life on Mars. Is my taste so bad or is network television a true wasteland interrupted occasionally by a good show, many of which disappear into the ether? I remember when NBC discussed buying my sit-com Lower Education and then rejected it with these famous words, “Your show is too intelligent for NBC.”

I’ll mull all of this over as I watch my huge collection of videos of shows such as Blackadder, Vicar of Dibley, The Honeymooners, Fawlty Towers, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, Arrested Development, Star Trek, Modern Family and The Big Bang Theory along with others.

Hmm, the 20 best shows I ever saw. Coming soon. I asked my wife for her input and she said, “You watch too much TV.”

Tattooing Little Timbo

Parents have almost total say over what their kids eat, drink, watch on television, read; when they go to bed or whether the kid goes to this or that doctor or no doctor at all. You don’t want to vaccinate Little Timbo? You don’t have to vaccinate him. You want Little Timbo to belong to some whacked out religion? Fine.

If you wish to feed Little Timbo three or more meals a day of junky, greasy fast food, that’s fine. If you let the little one consume gallons of soda a week, that’s fine too. If Little Timbo’s idea of a vegetable is that green stuff that grows outside, but that never lands on his plate, hey that’s the parent’s right. Right? If Timbo has only experienced fruit in a pie; if his daily snacks are Cheese Doodles; if his nightly dessert is a gigantic portion ice cream and brownies, that’s hunky dory.

No parent has ever been arrested for child abuse because he or she feeds too few veggies, too much grease, too many gallons of soda, barrels of candy, or mountains of fast foods to Little Timbo.

Parents can bring up Little Timbo in extreme religions and cults. Do you believe that the white man or the black man or the yellow man is the devil? Fine, Little Timbo, that’s today’s lesson. Do you believe that women should cover their faces? Okay, cover them girls. And on and on wild religious beliefs go – but Little Timbo is his parents’ child and on and on Little Timbo will go as his parents take him there.

I know of only one case where a parent was stopped from exercising his/her almost total control of a baby and that concerned a couple who named their son Adolf Hitler—but that case seems to be the exception that proves the rule. I have read about some cases where in medical emergencies courts have overruled parents; these cases are pretty rare as well.

So now I ask you, what if mommy and daddy want to have Little Timbo tattooed. Would this be child abuse?

Don’t answer right away. First think on these things:

Think about the non-vaccination of babies when every legitimate study has shown that vaccinations have saved millions of lives. Think about what highly-processed, chemical-laden foods many parents feed their kids. Think about piercing a baby’s ears or nose. Think about religious practices such as circumcision. This is considered perfectly okay and the right of the parent to have performed. Clitorectomies are a growing concern in Ireland and are performed quite often in Muslim countries. Think about teaching creationism, which flies directly in the face of science.

Knowing all that parents are within their rights to do to their children… would tattooing your baby be child abuse?

Nasty and Nastier

All of us have read posts on Facebook, other social media and message boards where the initial poster expresses a coherent thought, then other posters write coherent replies that disagree with the coherent first poster. Then some of the posters respond to the first poster and then…slowly (or fastly) all hell breaks loose. This poster says something nasty about that poster; posters’ intelligences and understandings of the topic are challenged; those who disagree must be morons and then the attacks and counter attacks become really nasty. I am right; you are wrong; you are an idiot; no, you are an idiot; your mother is an ape; well, your mother is a *****.

This will then carry over to other posts by these posters—they go at each other in post after post on various topics. The hell continues. Posters are hurt; anger and sarcasm predominate and then the arguments essentially boil down to “My father can beat your father” or “Your mother is ugly.”

In war we see this with the demonization of the enemy. On Memorial Day my wife the Beautiful A.P. and I went to our village’s honoring of our soldiers who died defending America. The World War II guys still called the Japanese “Japs.” They had none of the love of Japan that many Americans exhibit, including my wife and me.

That’s what happens to our enemies in real war. We nail them with insults as well as ammo.

While posting on a web site is not equivalent to war, at times it seems it is.

Probably in war it is better to demonize than play Hamlet and think so deeply about things, that it causes brain freeze. Casinos don’t like it when you think. It is also possible that our thinking brain is uncomfortable with deep thought as well.

Are discussions between disagreeing people always fated to end in dislike, hatred or disdain of one other?

In my experience in surfing message boards, such hostility seems rampant. Those who agree with us are given a pass but those whose opinions differ—come on, their fathers are jerks and their mothers are…well, I’d rather not say.

A Night from Hell

FROM ROLLO: Help me Frank! I was on a cruise ship for seven days and played craps each night. I was playing with a bunch of “shakers and fakers” as I like to call the ones throwing the dice everywhere and making Field and Hard Ways bets. Then at the end of the table stood the Darksider, making Don’t Come bets and pressing all the Odds. His tray grew large while everyone else’s grew small.

Not even the mighty 5-Count could help me on this dark trip; by the last night his side of the table was betting dark bets.

Please tell me there are other ways to win at a game I truly love when this situation is placed in front of me besides joining the dark one? It seemed like everyone sevened out at around eight or nine just in time for me to get a couple Come bets out there.

This was a trip from hell.

FRANK RESPONDS: You certainly did experience a trip from hell. I’ve been there too. If people are sevening out on the eighth or ninth roll, the 5-Count can’t protect you. I wish it were a perfect method but sadly in casino gambling there are no perfect strategies. Losing for seven straight nights can mess with your head. I’m glad you didn’t decide to jump overboard.

As for going on the Darkside, keep in mind that the streak you experienced does not predict what will happen next. You could have switched to the Darkside and suddenly seen the Rightside go on a winning rampage. If that were to happen you might feel that you were cursed.

You might consider betting less or merely going to one Come bet with Odds until you won a few times. I wish I had some magic formula to help you. I don’t.

FROM BIG BOY: I dispute your craps theory that Come bets are better than Place bets. The thing with Place bets is you get to pick the number AND you can take your bets down whenever you want to. That seems to make these the better bets in my honest opinion.

Okay, go ahead, defend yourself.

FRANK RESPONDS: What you’re saying is true. You can pick your numbers and you can take your bets down at any time.

Now for the bad news. So what if you can pick your numbers? Only the 6 and 8 come in with a decent house edge of 1.52 percent; the other Place bets are awful. You face a four percent edge on the 5 and 9; and a 6.67 percent edge on the 4 and 10. Why would you want to ever place bets with those house edges?

In a random game you can’t outguess the dice. There is no predictive factor that would allow you to know what streak is coming next.

Now, as for taking down Place bets; yes, you can do that at any point. But you’d have to take these bets down about 80 percent of the time. I have never seen a Place bettor do that in my quarter century of play. I have seen Place bettors take down or turn off bets but I’ve never seen one ever get to 80 percent.

I think your arguments, while they sound good, just don’t cut it.

I Have Stalkers!

I am a minor celebrity in the great scheme of things. I have a good fan base for my gambling books, some fans have seen me on TV, and as I expand into other areas of writing I hope that fan base grows. But I mean I am “minor” as in completely, utterly minor—almost atom-like, as in I still take the damn garbage out on Mondays and Thursdays.

But I can now understand how real celebrities such as movie stars, sports stars, television stars, big-time writers like John Grisham must have it. There are nuts out there. There are seriously whacked-out people who write you, call you, show up at your house, knock on the hotel room doors where you are staying to invite themselves in.

I have stalkers, for crying out loud. I know many celebrities have stalkers. But they should just be for major celebrities, not the flea-sized kind that I am.

Newspaper articles report stalkers that have been brought to court by some of the real celebrities and almost none of them look really, really weird or even really, really scary.

But I can’t believe that in the past 20 years I have had my share—although I am not quite sure what my share should actually be.

A rabbi from a town near mine dropped by my house several times and asked to come for dinner. I made pleasant excuses the first couple of times. (“Oh, sorry, I had dinner already.” “It’s only two in the afternoon.” “I eat early.”) Finally, not to be offensive, I said, “Look, I eat pork and shellfish every damn night and down them with milk.” Now he just constantly emails me.

I had two women who seemed to always know where I was staying when in Vegas. However they did it, they were always able to take the elevator to my floor (often a floor that was secured), knock on my door (actually ring the bell of these particular rooms) and ask, “Oh, Frank, want some fun?” I would tell them that I was calling security in twenty seconds and they would go away. My wife would ask, “What was that?” I’d say, “Oh, just some fans.” She’d reply, “Oh, yeah, right,” turn over and go to sleep.

I have had several horrendous looking women, more like Morlocks than Eloi, who send me photos of themselves scantily clad, posing seductively, or rather, what they think is seductive. I completely ignore them because showing interest in them—even negative interest—would just encourage them.

I had a woman who would call me to tell me she was staying in Atlantic City in a beautiful suite and she would pay for everything if I joined her. I put my wife on the phone with her. That settled that.

I had one woman who offered me a “world-class *&^%**!!!” (I had never heard of that term before) if I did a favor for her husband. That was awkward. I blanched at the thought and immediately told my wife.

Oh, and men? Oh, yes, men too. “How do you know you don’t want to have sex with a man if you have never tried it?” If I were interested, I’d know it by now.

I did have one dangerous individual who had a severe mental illness called erotomania. This is when a person imagines and believes he or she has an intimate relationship with you. (Remember that woman who kept breaking into David Letterman’s house saying she was married to him when she had never even met him?) It is just the opposite of “Fatal Attraction” often with the same conclusion—the person (in this case, female) wants to harm you because she thinks you belong to her even if you don’t even know her or just know her in passing. That was scary. Thankfully that woman disappeared into the ether.

These crazies aside, I know this; I do enjoy people who have enjoyed my work, in whatever field it might be—teaching, writing, or acting. It is certainly an ego boost.

But these nuts, these fans who are certainly fanatical, are sad people. There is far, far more to a good life than bedding or bothering a person with even a modicum of fame.

Is fame important? No. I am happy taking out the garbage two days a week.