Frank Scoblete | Frank Scoblete

School Days

The Beautiful AP and I were coming back from swimming on Tuesday morning. It was the first day of school for kids on Long Island, New York. AP was driving. It was 7:45. We swim weekday mornings from 6:30 to 7:30. It’s a great way to start the day.

“Look at the four of them,” I said.

“Off to school they go,” said AP.

“Look at the little guy,” I said.

She laughed.

Two of the four kids were in high school; they were chatting with each other. The third kid, probably in eighth grade, was buried in his phone. The little one had to be, maybe, sixth grade? My, my, my did he strut!

“The poor kid has to show he is something special, walking with all these older kids. So he has that exaggerated strut, ‘Look at me!’ his strut says. ‘I’m not just a little guy. I’ve got it!’”

“First day of school is nerve wracking,” said AP.

“Especially for the teachers,” I said. “The day before the first day of school, Labor Day, that night’s sleep—if you do sleep—can be filled with horror. If you teach high school, you will be meeting 130 to 160 kids. You know some of them will be PITAs [pains in the ass]. The high schoolers are only meeting about nine teachers. Teachers have it tougher.”

“I feel sorry for the kids,” said AP. “I mean they all have to act cool or at least most of them do. They could be shaking inside.”

“True,” I said. “But I do think the teachers have more to fear.”

We were on Ocean Avenue, with the High School on our right and the Middle school on our left. About 10 teachers were heading for the Middle School.

“Look at that group,” I said. “Which of those teachers will be destroyed this year? Which will go home many a night and cry? Which will go home after a good day of teaching only thinking of the kid or two who gave them trouble that day? At times it’s hard to even enjoy the good days.”

“There are plenty of teachers who love what they do and enjoy teaching,” said AP.

“Yeah, that may be so, but just about all of those teachers here and across the country are going to be emotionally stripped and whipped on given days. They’ll know what pain is.”

In my 33 years of teaching I never had to send a disciplinary referral for a kid or even yell at a class but I was well aware that at any moment I could be hung out to dry by my students.

I used to have schoolmares. I’d dream that I had suddenly lost control of a class and the kids were now tearing me to pieces. I’ve been retired going on 16 years and I still have schoolmares! As it turns out, all teachers have schoolmares at one time or another.

I saw horror visit many teachers; their careers painted in the colors of torment. I don’t know how they did it; year after year, students mocking them, baiting them, and ganging up on them. Some of these teachers were true experts in their subjects—but devastated almost daily.

There were quite a number of new teachers who couldn’t make it into their second year—or even their second semester. I saw a big, strong Marine come back to the teachers’ room and cry. He left soon after this. A former cop took up teaching in his retirement. On the third week of school, he jokingly asked me, “How do you do this without a gun?” He left after his first year to enjoy his retirement from the police force.

I knew teachers who had only honors classes because they couldn’t survive “regular” classes. And how were those honors classes? Pandemonium.

“What about teachers who say they look forward to a school year?” asked AP.

“I’ll place a bet that often enough they will write referrals; they will have dreadful days. Their mouths say they are looking forward to the year but their hearts? No. They will have tough times.”

Ah, yes, the first day of school! When that bell rings before each period, it ushers in the next round—and that bell rings day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year and…how could I still have schoolmares?

“So are you saying that you hated your teaching career?” asked AP.

“I loved it,” I laughed. “I loved it.” Yes, I did.

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.

You Look Just Like…

A person says to you, “You look just like…” or “Do you know you look just like…” and you give a small smile and say, “Yes, I have been told that before,” or “Really?” or “I’ve never been told that.”

I am convinced that telling someone he or she looks like someone else—usually someone famous—while not an outright insult is definitely not a compliment.

I knew a guy who thought I looked like Regis Philbin. Okay, first time he said that (which was the first time we met in 1990 in Las Vegas) I gave the traditional reply, “I’ve never been told that.”

He was unrelenting. At blackjack tables he’d ask other players, dealers, pit crew, “Hey, doesn’t he look just like Regis Philbin?” There were a variety of answers from such people. But my wife, the Beautiful AP insisted, “No, he doesn’t. He looks like himself.” (Now that is a good wife!)

You know who he looked like? A less-handsome Robert Redford. But I never told him this. I allowed him to be his own less-handsome self.

Even though Regis Philbin and Robert Redford were good-looking men in their prime, here is what is “bad” about saying such things: the person is always put in second place. “You look just like…” The primary person in the look-alike comparison is the star to whom you are being compared. Who wants to come in second—or in this case, last?

I was just at a restaurant in Cape May, New Jersey and the waiter looked just like a young Arnold Schwarzenegger. I didn’t tell him that because in the comparison, Schwarzenegger is top dog; the waiter isn’t. The waiter looks like him. Schwarzenegger doesn’t look like the waiter. No one would say, “Arnold Schwarzenegger looks just like you!” In fact, if you met Arnold you wouldn’t say, “You look just like this waiter in Cape May, New Jersey.”

So that person whom you are so eager to say looks just like someone else should be spared the comparison. That person, as my wife says, only looks just like himself.

Are there people who look just like other people? Hell, yeah. Should you tell them this? Hell, no!

There may even be times when someone looks like a non-celebrity that you know. Should you tell this to him or her? Again, no.

Keep in mind, all look people like themselves…even if they don’t.

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.]

The Three Types of Blackjack Players

There are three types of blackjack players and sub-categories of these three. If you are a self-styled blackjack player using your own unique and probably wrong strategy and you are easily offended, you might not want to read this article. That’s my warning to you.

Blackjack players who are card counters, meaning they can get a small edge over the casino when they play, have certain things they look for. They want deep penetration into the deck, decks or shoe. This allows their count to become stronger as the cards have been played.

These players are not as interested in the rules as they are in the penetration (however, they will probably forgo the 6:5 blackjack games). Penetration is the key to the casino treasury. They would also prefer to play alone or with only a couple of players at the table. Advantage players want to play as many hands as possible. They love fast dealers!

Regular basic strategy players (basic strategy being the computer derived play of every player hand against every dealer up-card) want just the opposite. They want good rules, shallow penetration, a full table and slow dealers. The fewer hands such players play the better for them. Old, arthritic dealers or those dealers who love to talk are the best bets for a basic strategy player.

Card counters and basic strategy players are opposite sides of the blackjack coin; the two never to meet in their long-term expectations.

The third type of player, the category of which goes from stupid to stupider to “oh, my god, he did what?” Such players use their own well-thought-out-seemingly-logical strategy which is totally wrong and based merely on their own limited experiences in the casinos. (“I know what I am doing; I have been playing blackjack for years.” “Sorry, no, you don’t. You split 10s, double on 12, and annoy everyone by giving the wrong advice! And there’s a funky odor coming from you.”)

Players who try to use their psychic powers are long-term losers. Players who assume the dealer always has a 10-card in the hole, even though only about 31 percent of the cards are of 10-value, are long term losers. Players who always insure their hands, even their blackjacks, are long-term losers. Players who split fives…players who won’t hit their 16 against a dealer up-card of seven…players who don’t always split aces and eights – the list goes on forever – they are all losers.

Yes, basic strategy players are losers but they are basically losing a mere one-half percent of their action while our third category folks are losing their shirts.

Blackjack is a great game, for card counters and for basic strategy players, but each must play the particular game their strategies are suited for. And that third category? Sadly, there’s no talking to them.

[Read Frank’s new book I Am a Card Counter: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Blackjack! Available from Amazon.com, Kindle and electronic media, Barnes and Noble, and at bookstores.]

The Faster the “Worster”

There are two factors that must be considered when analyzing the various casino games, the house edge and speed of the game. The two go together like “love and marriage” and a “horse and carriage.”

A game with a high house edge but very few decisions might actually be better than playing a game with a low house edge but many decisions.

Take a look at the game of mini-baccarat. The house edges on the two main bets of “bank” and “player” are 1.06 percent and 1.24 percent respectively. That means a player can expect to lose $1.06 per $100 wagered on “bank” and $1.24 per $100 wagered on “player.” Sounds great and as house edges go it is great.

Now let us take a look at roulette. The house edge on the American wheel (0 and 00) is a monstrous 5.26 percent. Yikes! That means a player can expect to lose $5.26 per $100 wagered. That is some big loss.

So it is clear that as house edges go, mini-baccarat is overwhelmingly superior to roulette.

Now let’s take a look at the speed of these games. In mini-baccarat a player can face 150 or more decisions per hour on either “bank” or “player.” There is a third bet too but we don’t have to worry about it since we never make it. That is called the “tie” bet coming in with over a 14 percent house edge.

I recently went to the casino and clocked mini-baccarat games. They came in with 140 to 180 decisions per hour. An amazing speed! Now, the minimum bet was $15 (most players were green and black chippers but let’s stick to $15). Let us take 160 decisions per hour.

The player bets $15 for 160 decisions. He bets a total of $2,400 and his expectation is to lose $25.44 on “bank” and $29.76 on “player.” So let’s say we average these two out to make the hourly loss on a $15 bet $27.60.

Now we turn our attention to roulette. The average game (based on my observations) will have approximately 35 decisions per hour (especially at an almost full or completely full table). So multiply $15 times 35 decisions and you get $525 wagered of which the player is expected to lose $27.62 – just about the same as a player at mini-baccarat. So a good house-edge game and a bad house-edge game come in just about the same.

So when you are deciding which games to play and if you want to figure what your losses would be with game “A” and game “B,” it is wise to learn how fast the games are as well. House edge is only one measure. It takes “two to tango” after all.

[Frank Scoblete’s new books are I Am a Dice Controller: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Craps! and I Am a Card Counter: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Blackjack! Available on Amazon.com, kindle, Barnes and Noble, and at bookstores.]

A Chanting We Will Go!

Those of you around in the late 1960s and early 1970s will remember the anti-draft chant of “Hell no, we won’t go!” That chant was heard almost every day at colleges and street protests and during occasional riots.

In the 1930s the chant was: “America first! America first!”

Those of us in labor unions have used many chants as we picketed or protested this, that or the other injustice.

The recent anti-Trump rallies have seen many such chants, some which have been used long before Trump became President. Here are a few (taken from L.V. Anderson’s article “All the Chants I Heard….” from Slate website:)

No justice, no peace!
My body, my choice!
Muslim rights are human rights! (You can replace “Muslim” with any group.)
Black lives matter!
Education not deportation!
Say it loud! Say it clear, refugees are welcome here!
Love trumps hate!
Whose streets? Our streets!
Hey hey! Ho ho! Donald Trump has got to go!
Love! Not hate! Makes America great!
Donald Trump! Go away! Racist, sexist, anti-gay!

Many of you who are religious know the various chants of your faith. In Buddhism such chants are called mantras.

So why are chants used in protests? Two reasons:

The chants keep people united
The chants stop the chanters from actually thinking

Something said over and over and over again drowns out any other thoughts a person can have. This is an effective tool in meditation because it focuses the mind. Chanting is a thought destroyer that allows leaders to manipulate the chanters.

The next demonstration you attend (or watch on television) please note the faces of the chanters. Do they reflect deeply held thoughts and reasoned opinions? Or do they reflect the exact opposite?

[Read my book Confessions of a Wayward Catholic! Available at amazon.com, kindle, Barnes and Noble, and at bookstores.]

Nature Flipped Me the Bird

I have become somewhat passionate about this birding business. My wife, the Beautiful AP, and I planned on a birding weekend. We planned that just the two of us were going to go to Camman’s Pond Park in Merrick on Saturday morning so AP could take some pictures of White-Hooded Mergansers which are supposed to be plentiful there.

Two days prior we had had a 12-inch snow storm and the park, we presumed, was loaded with snow. But we were going anyway except…

The Beautiful AP got a call from Scuba Steve who owns the pool where we swim and where she teaches swimming, asking her if she could teach classes that day since one of the other swim teachers was out sick. She said yes, leaving me and the White-Hooded Mergansers for another time.

AP has a saying, “No day goes as planned.” Well obviously going to teach swimming disrupted our original plan but even the swim-teaching plan went off the rails. Some tiny tot had diarrhea in the pool and everyone had to leap out.

She came home early. “A kid pooped in the pool,” she said.

“Crap,” I said.

Sunday our South Shore Audubon Society bird walk was to be at the Massapequa Preserve. Joe, our bird-walk leader, went on Saturday to check out the conditions. It was snowy and wet and, yes, icy – and Joe slipped and fell. Plus rain and sleet were predicted. So that walk was cancelled.

No day goes as planned. Often that is because Mother Nature has something else in mind—and this weekend, she clearly flipped me the bird.

Slot Machines Are Like a Box of Chocolates

Hijacking Mrs. Gump’s line (“Life is like a box of chocolates.”) from the movie Forrest Gump, I now apply it to the casinos’ favorite revenue stream, the slot machines. Nowhere in the casino kingdom is spectacular diversity as apparent as in the slot machine aisles and in the slot machine choices players have the opportunity to make. Like a box of assorted chocolates, there are machines for every love, lust, desire, hunger, dream, passing fancy or momentary whim of the slot player.

The slot manufacturers’ credo comes from another movie, Field of Dreams – “If you build it, he will come.” So these slot bosses have built an Everest of slot machines and, yes, he and she and you and me and everyone else seemingly has come. Those machines are the all-American game.

Many slot players are looking for the magical road to life-altering riches and the casino slot machines have plenty of choices if that’s what a player wants. From five-cent attempts at jackpots of tens of thousands of dollars to dollar-denomination attempts at millions if not tens of millions of dollars, if a player wants to dream and fantasize about what life would be like if he or she had the means to tell the overbearing boss to “jump in the lake” those machines will fuel such a dream. Ah, the joy of it all; fantasizing can be fun.

If outlandish dreaming is what you want, then those multi-casino progressives are the machines for you. So what if the house edges are in the double digits and the odds of hitting one of the life-altering jackpots can be around 50 million to one – someone has to win those monster payouts, so why couldn’t it be you?

If you are the type of slot player who likes to stay current with the popular culture of television and movies, or with stars of film, serials or comics, then there are dozens of machines that will cater to you. You have Elvis and Star Wars and Clint Eastwood and Betty Boop and Rambo and Wheel of Fortune, along with such superstars as Hellboy and Frank Scoblete (just kidding). Simply walk around the slot floors and you feel as if you are on a Hollywood set or in your favorite television show’s studio. Or it can be just you and your favorite star sharing an intimate gaming session together. There’s even a machine called “Scrooge” but why anyone would ever think one of these could be loose is beyond me.

Are you a man or woman who tenaciously holds on to traditional things with a death-like iron grip? Do you eschew the new-fangled machines with all their hype and pomp and celebrity worship and prefer a remnant of the past in your play? Well there are still plenty of those traditional-style machines all over every casino – Red, White and Blue; Sizzling Sevens; Wild Cherry; Double Diamond and many more.

Now what if you are a player who wants to boldly go into the slot machine universe where only the bravest of the brave have gone before? Then there is now a multi-verse of multi-line machines that can take 10, 20, 50 or more coins (credits) on penny, nickel, quarter and higher denomination machines. These machines can be so confusing that some players have no idea of how or why they have won (or lost) as the hit frequencies of the machines can be outrageously high for putting in mega-multiple and even more multiple coins than you have ever played before.

Keep in mind you can hit on every spin of a mega-multi-line machine and still lose your shirt or blouse or whatever it is people lose nowadays. Hit frequencies and winning frequencies are not the same thing. You can hit like mad and lose like crazy. But those almost constant hits on these mega-multi-line machines can mind-meld players the way Mr. Spock of Star Trek fame did in those great movies and shows. The constant hits have a hypnotizing effect. Oh, yes, these machines take you to another world completely.

Some machines have classic symbols, some have wild and wacky video entertainment, some have outrageous sound effects and some, believe it or not, still actually take coins because there are still players who enjoy getting blood poison from the metal coatings rubbing off – well, to each his or her own.

Naturally and as always, there are better and worse machines to play, depending on what you want as your slot playing experience. I tend to advocate the most conservative possible playing style, risking the least amount of money for the best possible chance of coming home tonight with even a small win. Most slot players are not like me. I am the type to say that if slot machines are like a box of chocolates, just give me a wedge of plain dark chocolate and I am content.

If you are the type of person who needs all sorts of bells and whistles, then you might want some large chocolate ovals with nuts and raisins and berries and fudge and creams of every variety and whatever else the manufacturer can cram into it.

You will never find such diversity of experience at blackjack, craps, roulette or any of the other table games. Compared to the slot candies in the machine box, those table games just can’t hold their head high in the diversity department. And maybe that’s why slot machines are the diet of the masses.

[Read Frank Scoblete’s book Slot Conquest: How to Beat the Slot Machines! Available at Amazon.com, kindle, Barnes and Noble, and at bookstores.]

The Slot Machine Martingale

His eyes were feverish; his hands trembling. “Oh, my lord!” he thought excitedly. “I have found a sure fire way to win at gambling. It is so simple; I am amazed no one ever thought of this before! I am brilliant!”

He turned to his wife, “Honey, we are going to own the world! This betting system will always win; it has to always win. It can’t lose.” He was ecstatic; that is, he was ecstatic until the system crashed and burned and took away everything he had previously won using it. He was crestfallen.

That “he” was me 27 years ago and that “can’t lose” system I invented was called a Martingale – a system also invented by countless thousands of gamblers for centuries and played extensively at roulette by the aristocracy of Europe in the 18^th century – before those aristocrats became peasants because they used it and lost their fortunes.

I think just about every casino gambler, especially at the start of his or her career, will discover the Martingale and think, “I can’t lose with this – it has to win! Honey, let’s buy a gargantuan safe.”

The simple Martingale is a double your bet after you lose system. I bet one dollar; I lose one dollar, I now bet two dollars. If I win the second bet, I have made up for the loss of that one dollar and made one dollar in profit. If I lose that second bet, well then my next bet is four dollars. If I win that, I get back the three dollars I lost plus one dollar in profit. And up it goes until I inevitably win.

Yes, it does sound like an unbeatable system but two things prevent it from being successful in the real world of wagering. If there is no cap on your betting, you need an infinite amount of money to keep going “up, up and away!” when you hit a prolonged losing streak. And all gamblers, using all betting systems, will run into long losing streaks. If you don’t have the cash you are doomed, as I was, to crash.

In casinos, the house betting limits stop the players from going to extraordinary levels of betting using the Martingale. Usually seven to nine increases in one’s bet hits the highest limit and nothing higher can be wagered. That’s what did me in. I lost seven spins at roulette in a row, couldn’t bet enough on the next spin to get it all back, and I went down to peasantdom like those 18^th century aristocrats.

But what about using the Martingale on slot machines? Could the slots, with their amazing variety of denominations and potential number of coins played, be the first and only successful use of the Martingale betting system?

Let’s take a look at how one could go about structuring a Martingale at slot play.

Go to quarter machines and play one coin. Say the jackpot line is $600. Once you have lost more than $600, you will have to now start putting in two coins. If that jackpot is $900, then you have a $300 loss limit before you have to go to three coins. If the jackpot is $1,200, as soon as you have lost another $300 playing three coins you can no longer get an overall win on that quarter machine.

Yes, you will have some bigger and smaller non-jackpot hits, so really playing as described in the above paragraph is simplistic but it makes a valid point. You will sooner or later have to jump up the bets to stay in the game. With slots, you might not lose that $600 or $900 or $1,200 for quite a while or you might lose it in a few dozen blinks of the eye. That is all a matter of luck and math.

Once you have lost all on the quarter machines, you must now go up to the 50 cents machines; then the dollar machines; the five dollar machines and higher. Remember, playing the Martingale means you must win back all the money you lost to show a profit. Yes, the profit will be small – perhaps just a dollar – and the risk will be greater and greater as you go up in denomination, but that is the Martingale at work.

I am guessing that with careful pen and paper work, you can make a chart of how much money you would need to take the slot machine Martingale through the roof. I am also thinking that the amount would be staggering.

The bromide, “Well, I have to win sooner or later,” while sounding good, really has no meaning. You actually don’t have to win sooner or later. You can wipe out your bankroll, indeed, you can wipe out every penny you have, if you keep going higher and higher in a Martingale and lose until you have nothing left to bet anymore.

Certainly, it would be a rare occasion to go through the roof on a slot machine Martingale system but the more you play, the better the chance that probability will catch you in its claws and send you through the roof and send your money down the toilet.

In such a dire situation – one that I experienced – you are risking everything for a little return. Is such a gamble worth it? True, you will have many wins along the Martingale trail but as you proceed down that road, a big, hungry monster is lurking in the woods, getting ready to pounce and eat you all up.

It is best to avoid the Martingale. It is an unbeatable system…until it loses.

[My book Slot Conquest: How to Beat the Slot Machines is available from Amazon.com, kindle, Barnes and Noble, and at bookstores. Yes, this book has beatable machines – if you can find them!]

Hollywood: The Home of Hypocrites

The Hollywood “elite” love to lecture us about morality and causes: “Wall Street is evil! Big corporations must not be given tax breaks! Mega-multi-millionaires and billionaires should be taxed more! Republicans are the party of the rich! Conservatives are stupid! Our new President is a greedy monster!”

They portray themselves as the voice of the “people”; the little people, meaning most of the rest of us.

Seriously, such silliness.

I have a friend who does voice overs and would also make a great television or radio spokesperson for some product. He’s had a heck of a time getting jobs.

Does he muffle his words? Is he ugly and ungainly? Not at all. He’s a good looking, true professional but those big jobs keep eluding him. What is the reason? He’s damn good…but he isn’t:

Jon Hamm; or Donald Sutherland, or Kiefer Sutherland, or Jim Parsons, or Kaley Cuoco, or Brad Pitt, or Matt Damon, or Samuel L. Jackson or Jennifer Aniston, or Angelina Jolie, or Catherine Zita Jones, or James Earl Jones, or Sofia Vergara, or Julie Bowen, or Ty Burrel, or Jesse Tyler Ferguson, or Morgan Freeman, or George Clooney, or Danny DeVito, or Oprah Winfrey, or Robert De Niro, or Al Pacino, or Daniel Craig, or Arnold Schwarzenegger, or Sylvester Stallone, or Kevin Bacon, or Ben Affleck, or Steve Carell, or Mila Kunis, or Leonardo DiCaprio, or Tina Fey, or so many, many more Hollywood stars that would complete this huge list.

Some of the stars on the above list make 10 million or more a movie or a million dollars or more per episode of their television shows. They are multi-millionaires being paid a pretty penny to do commercials.

Without needing the money, they are taking jobs from actors who need every penny they can scrounge. For each Hollywood star doing commercials, there is one fewer unknown not getting his or her break.

Why are such stars so greedy when they are rolling in dough? When they are living in mansions that could house dozens of homeless people or refugees?

Shouldn’t Hollywood stars be concerned about their fellow performers?

Seriously, at every awards show (and Hollywood gives itself so many awards that the statue industry is eternally flushed with cash) multiple stars give pompous speeches about politics, politicians or this or that social cause. Couldn’t some of them at least champion fledging and out-of-work actors?

But, no.

Come on, Hollywood stars, how about a helping hand? How about you don’t take the commercials to add to your immense fortunes, but instead make sure the unknowns, the struggling, or out-of-work get a chance to actually work? Wouldn’t that be a great social cause? A moral statement, far more effective than blathering about Wall Street, giant corporations, conservatives and the rich!

I am not asking for the government to step in and force these super wealthy to be charitable; I am asking Hollywood stars to give up these side jobs so other talented hopefuls can work.

Why don’t the stars do what they tell others to do – give up a little to help many?

[Read Confessions of a Wayward Catholic. Available on amazon.com, kindle, Barnes and Noble, and at bookstores.]