Frank Scoblete | Frank Scoblete

My Wife is THE Boss

As Valentine’s Day fast approaches, the 27^th anniversary of my marriage to the Beautiful AP is at hand. We married on Valentine’s Day so I wouldn’t forget what date our wedded bliss began. That date was AP’s idea.

Make no mistake about it, the Beautiful AP saved my life.

I was about 40 years old, losing my teaching job of 18 years, in debt up to Wilt Chamberlain’s eyeballs, paying child support and the mortgage on my first house and sending (who I hoped would be) my soon-to-be ex-wife to graduate school to become a librarian and taking the kids on weekends so they could be with me and also enjoy working with me in the theatre company I half-owned and I was depressed.

We were sitting on the beach at Cape May, New Jersey, and I was lamenting everything. I am an excellent lamenter.

“How can I get out from under all this debt? How can I send my kids to a private high school and then college? I do not want them to have to pay back college loans; I don’t want them to start their adult lives in debt. I don’t know where I can get all this money I need.”

Although I was not married to AP at that time, I knew we would get married as soon as my first wife and I could settle our almost six years of divorce discussions. As anyone knows who has gotten a divorce, the old song “Our Love is Here to Stay” must be rewritten as “My Former Love is Here to Slay” because divorce is a killing business.

But AP came in to save me. “Scobe, you are going to become a famous writer. You are going to take this gambling study you’ve been doing and make something big out of it. The kids will be totally taken care of and you’ll get out of debt. You’ll see, you are not down as much as looking up at where you will be going.”

She was right. In every way I was headed up. In every way.

And so it was that the Beautiful AP and I got married on Valentine’s Day once my now ex-wife had met a man she wanted to marry (I love that man!), moved to Texas in lightning-like fashion, so I now had custody of the kids, and all was right with the world. We paid the tuitions for high school and college; my debt was paid off; 35 books were published; television shows were written; consulting boomed; I did a lot of radio; I did a lot of television and I was free and clear and happy as could be.

And soon after our marriage I allowed the Beautiful AP to become the boss of my whole life. She deserved that much, did she not?

She is now in charge of everything. I watch her happily dusting, vacuuming the house and washing the floors and cleaning the bathrooms in her delightful manner. I see her scampering to do the laundry and to take the clothes out of the dryer and fold them and put them neatly away in our closets and cabinets. Our bathrooms are spotless. She is totally in charge

The whole house is hers! She deserves this power. She saved my life and now she runs everything. A woman in command is a wonder to behold.

When I sit in my recliner for hours and watch her exercise her authority over the whole house, I am in a state of joy. All women would enjoy such empowerment. Too many husbands do not allow their wives to have such strength in life as I do with the Beautiful AP. She even works a full-time job that she loves.

For our anniversary I bought some slippers for myself; wrapped up the box and gave them to her so that she could now joyously slip them on my feet when I call for them. I have stocked the refrigerator with grapes for her to bring to me and feed them to me—one at a time—as I enjoy an endless stream of movies.

I bought her an easy-to-use snow blower so she can make sure our property is clear after a storm. She’s even promised me that she would clean the garage.

What a woman!

Happy 27^th anniversary to my Beautiful AP

(Do not, under any circumstances, let the Beautiful AP read this article.)

Frank’s books are available on smile.amazon.com, Barnes and Noble, kindle, e-books and at book stores. Why not subscribe to Frank’s web site and get his articles emailed to you free of charge?

Is It Child Abuse?

Is it child abuse to tell children that there is a Santa Claus?

Is it child abuse to tell children there is a Tooth Fairy?

Is it child abuse to tell children there are ghosts?

Is it child abuse to circumcise a girl? (A clitorectomy removes the clitoris.)

Is it child abuse to force a child to be in classrooms with kids who make it difficult or almost impossible for the teacher to teach?

Is it child abuse to force a child into a school where violence occurs on a daily basis?

Is it child abuse to circumcise a boy?

Is it child abuse to spank a child for wrong-doing?

Is it child abuse to slap a child’s face for wrong-doing?

Is it child abuse to not get your child vaccinated?

Is it child abuse to not allow your child to ever see a doctor because you think God will cure him or her?

Is it child abuse not to allow a child to get a blood transfusion?

Is it child abuse to allow a child to read the Harry Potter books?

Is it child abuse to teach a child how to hunt?

Is it child abuse to pierce a child’s ears?

Is it child abuse to pierce a child’s nose?

Is it child abuse to take a child under 10 to an R-rated movie?

Is it child abuse to tell a child there is a devil?

Is it child abuse to tell a child there are angels?

Is it child abuse to teach a child that the earth is only a few thousand years old?

Is it child abuse to teach a child about evolution?

Is it child abuse to raise a child who spends more than four hours a day on the iPad?

Is it child abuse to raise a child who watches television more than six hours a day?

For the Birds

The critically acclaimed movie Birdman (or The Unexpected Value of Ignorance) starring Michael Keaton (a good actor) won the Academy Award for Best Picture. Here is the totality of my opinion, in short, this 2014 movie stunk. Even its long subtitle stunk.

It really stunk, as pigeon poop can stink from those city birds who value their own ignorance of the whole thing they are doing perhaps on your head while you walk under an overpass and – okay, let’s leave it at that; the movie stunk!

Birdman takes its place alongside another movie that gained huge critical raves, Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring which was released in 2004. This South Korean movie was supposed to be a profound look at a young monk being shepherded by an old monk during all the seasons.

Saying it is “slow-moving” makes this movie seem to be going fast. It is slower than slow, although (if I recall correctly) we do get to see a bird flying overhead during the movie’s interminable length. That bird was damn exciting.

So how is it that film critics can glorify movies that should never have made it out of their canisters to be put into projectors to frazzle normal folks such as me and my wife, the Beautiful AP? This is one of the great mysteries of my life, along with the origin of the universe.

Seriously, am I so behind in my intellectual capacity that I can’t wonder in absolute wonder at a supposedly fantastically wonderful movie that actually drags you through a year of dullness, using endless hours of screen time on seasons that don’t look as good as the seasons look right outside the theater where I saw the movie?

Or how about a movie that is so dull that the death of the lead character is aggressively prayed for by this member of the film’s audience? Please Lord, please God, please, kill Birdman. Kill him, please. Do that for those of us who are suffering through this horror. Even buttered popcorn can’t make this movie stomach-able.

I used to be a book reviewer for a newspaper in my early years of writing but I found it hard to nail a book as being awful. Books are one usually poor writer trying his or her damn best to create something good. If that book failed? I would just put that book down and read a different one to review. I don’t have that problem with bad movies. I’m not quite sure why. If a movie stinks I’ll tell you it stinks.

Frank’s website is www.frankscoblete.com. His books are available at smile.Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble, kindle, e-books and at bookstores.

“I Will Never Be Able to Kiss Her Again”

At the Chapel

Her name was Jacqueline Levine and she died last Saturday. Death was quick; a deep breath, a questioning sound, a fall to the floor and it was over. Her husband John Givre ran upstairs to the bedroom where he had heard a thump on the floor. He found her.

Nothing could be done to save her, not by John, not by the EMTs, not by the hospital staff. Jackie (as her friends and relatives called her), age 77, had passed.

The funeral service would be on Tuesday at the Boulevard-Riverside Chapel in Hewlett, New York. Jews bury their dead as soon as possible. There are no funeral homes with the preserved body lying “in state” for all to see. Instead, it is a closed-casket chapel service and then the burial.

I have attended several chapel services for Jewish friends and I prefer these to the religious ceremonies of Christians, particularly Catholics where the priest is the center of attention and the liturgy is full of pomp and circumstance and loads of fine-smelling incense. At many of those, there are no eulogies from family or friends; just the priest talking about a person he may not even know. Nothing beats a priest getting the name of the deceased wrong.

It is far different at a Jewish chapel service. The rabbi will say or sing some prayers and then he introduces some members of the family and friends to give their thoughts of the deceased. There’s little pomp and circumstance. But there are deep feelings. The family and the deceased are the focal points.

At Jackie’s funeral her two sons, her daughter, three of her granddaughters and her husband spoke. They were articulate, funny and gave a glowing tribute to a woman of great character and personal accomplishments.

Jackie helped so many people and was such a great mother and grandmother that her life, careers, and personality came across clearly to the large audience of mourners. My wife, the Beautiful AP, had become Jackie’s friend in the last 14 months. In that time AP developed a deep love for this woman.

John Givre looked out over the mourners and told us “Jackie was an atheist. She didn’t believe. I however believe everything. I look down,” he pointed towards the coffin covered by a religious flag with the Star of David emblazoned on it, “and Jackie’s body is there. But Jackie’s soul, her spirit, her being is not there. I do not think of the word ‘was’ when I think of her. I think of the word ‘is’ for Jackie is with all of us now. She is with us. My greatest sorrow today is that I will never be able to kiss her again. I will never be able to kiss her.”

At the end of the service Jackie had requested that Johann Sebastian Bach’s first movement of cantata Du Hirte Israel, 104 be played. .

When the chapel service was finished we rushed first to the bathrooms and then to the parking lot so we wouldn’t miss the procession to the cemetery. We needn’t have rushed. It took about a half hour for the procession to get going.

We were parked right near to the exit gate but a guy in a cruddy little red car decided he wanted to get directly behind the hearse so he zoomed over there, partially blocking us from getting into the forming procession.

But God has some wicked sense of humor, even at funerals. As the hearse was about to pull out of the lot, the little red car wouldn’t start. The guy in the red car was banging on the steering wheel trying to process his predicament, and, yes, wonder of wonders, we managed to get in front of him. He held up the whole funeral line while he tried to get his car to start. It finally started and he was right behind us. And we were right behind the hearse.

“Well,” said the Beautiful AP. “We won’t get lost this time as we did in Staten Island for Freddy’s.”

The Burial

The burial of Jackie was at Beth David Cemetery in Elmont, New York, only a few miles from the chapel. Since we were right behind the hearse I didn’t worry about losing sight of the procession. The cruddy red car behind us seemed to herk-and-jerk occasionally and once or twice I could see in the side mirror its driver worrying and searching for an explanation for his car’s sudden recalcitrance.

When we arrived at the Beth David Cemetery we had a long wait before we were lead to the gravesite. There was paperwork to be done and evidently one driver had made a wrong turn. That was John Givre, Jackie’s husband.

We drove up a small hill and I looked out over the expanse; this is a graveyard the way Manhattan is a city—packed with headstones going back over one hundred years. Many famous people are buried in this cemetery and now Jackie would be one of those, as she was famous to us.

The hearse finally stopped after a long trek through this city of headstones. We were at the gravesite. This would be our first Jewish graveside service.

“AP,” I said. “Look at the grave,” I pointed. “They didn’t take away the dirt.”

“I see,” she whispered.

“Do they just leave it there and when the ceremony is over the gravediggers shovel the dirt in?”

“Maybe,” she said.

We got out of our car. The little red car pulled up, the driver hopped out, relieved to have made it. It was the rabbi!

The gravediggers—who looked exactly like gravediggers look—were taking the coffin out of the hearse now. It was just a plain wooden box; nothing like the elaborate coffins we have always seen at Christian burials. This was a family plot; maybe they didn’t have enough money for a flamboyant burial box? How could that be when everyone here lived the truly comfortable middle- and upper-middle-class life? A plain wooden coffin?

“AP,” I whispered as we approached the grave. “Where’s the fake grass?” Christian burials feature AstroTurf to cover the dirt around the grave.

AP shrugged, having no answer.

“I expected something more elaborate, you know,” I said.

“I know,” she said.

They placed the coffin over the grave on wooden planks. There was a shovel in the dirt near the foot of the casket.

“Are the gravediggers just going to use that shovel,” I pointed, “to fill in the grave when everything is over and we’ve all left?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

Then the rabbi—a young guy—spoke. I think he was saying a prayer but my attention was on the gravediggers.

(Oh, my God!)

More shovels were brought out and slammed into the dirt around the grave. The rabbi told us that we will all get the chance to shovel dirt into the grave. We needed to fill the hole in a certain way.

I turned to AP. “This is horrifying,” I whispered. “They actually bury the person.”

“I never knew this,” she said.

We have four couples with whom we are close friends—three of the couples are Jewish and one member of the other couple is kosher (go figure that one!), but I never knew this was how a person was actually interred. Interred? Placed in a hole and buried by those who loved them.

The rabbi explained that the first shovelful is to be done with the shovel upside down “to symbolize that this is hard.” Then, he said, the person is to spear the shovel back in the dirt, to symbolize that this is a bitter task. The next mourner takes the shovel out of the dirt.

Jackie’s son, Danny, quietly and graciously invited us to shovel dirt, if we so desired. AP briefly told him that we are from a different tradition and this is very new and shocking to us.

AP shoveled dirt into the grave four times, the first with the shovel upside down.

“It’s so final,” she said to me softly.

Stunned as I was, I said: “It is so final. There’s no pretending here. This is what it really is. This is it.”

“This is it,” she said. “Jackie is dead and buried.”

“By us,” I said.

“By us,” she said.

When the grave had enough dirt in it, we formed two parallel lines for the family members to walk through as we offered our words of comfort for them. I touched each family member on the shoulder. I didn’t know any of these people, except for John Givre. I didn’t know what to say. Yet…yet, I felt for each of them.

I am still reflective of this experience. I never knew; I never knew. AP never knew. She never knew. This burial had more a feeling of sacredness than I ever felt at any other graveside I have ever experienced.

This site; this grave; was indeed the final resting place for Jackie Levine’s body.

Just as I was about to leave the I bent down and touched the ground. Jackie’s body was now a part of the earth.

I then saw John Givre and I thought: Jackie’s soul, her spirit, her being is still with him and she shall be with him for the rest of his life. And he’ll get to kiss her again when he gets to heaven.

Frank’s books are available on smile.Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble, kindle, e-books and at book stores.

State Birds: Wild, Weird and Wonderful

They come in all sizes, shapes and colors. Some are plain; some are spectacular. They are state birds. But underneath it all is cut-throat competition among some states.

Alaska named the Willow Ptarmigan as its state bird.. Why is obvious because this bird can survive deadly winters and even has feathers on its legs. You might say it is the legging bird. It has bright colors and is a favorite of hunters in the British Isles; one of the reasons Alaska would have fought in the Revolution if it were a colony then.

Arizona has a dotted bird, the Cactus Wren, as its herald but it sounds awful when its calls hit the airwaves. Quite a lot of Arizona is stark and so is this bird. Hard to tell males apart from females; but it’s so hot in Arizona that I don’t think the birds have the energy to care.

California has a rather dull bird. I guess Californians didn’t want the dull birds to feel bad because they aren’t as beautiful as the beautiful birds so they picked the subdued California Quail. That’s progressivism for you. This bird looks as if it can survive earthquakes, mudslides, forest fires, homelessness and high taxes. It is a true Californian.

Delaware has a domesticated multi-plumaged bird, the Blue Hen Chicken, and is easy to find in order to eat after you’ve marveled at its colors. Barnyards are great habitats for it. Don’t kill it with a gun as you’ll then be eating pellets.

Georgia named the Brown Thrasher, a so-so-looking bird, as its peach. Don’t quite know why but then again we’re talking about Georgia which is rarely on our minds.

Hawaii is our most recently recognized state and a paradise to visit; but its bird does not match the state’s beauty. The creature is somewhat yuckaii. Meet the Nene or Hawaiian Goose.

Idaho has the Mountain Bluebird and recently the falcon as its birds. The Bluebird is a stunning blue. Of course, like all songbirds it fastly flitters so you must have that “songbird patience” to get a good viewing. But make it quick because falcons eat Bluebirds.

Perhaps the prettiest thing you’ll see in Mississippi is its state bird the Wood Duck. Its other bird is the Mockingbird. That bird it shares with Arkansas, Florida and Tennessee.

Indiana, Illinois, Kentucky, North Carolina, Virginia, West Virginia and Ohio are at war as they all picked the Cardinal as their state bird. I see many Cardinals at my feeders (I live in New York); and they are beauties. However, I do not see any Kentuckians.

Louisiana picked the Brown Pelican. When Louisiana floods these birds feel happily at home.

Montana and Nebraska have a thing for the Western Meadowlark, a yellow bird that doesn’t seem strong enough to hang out in these cowboy states.

Frank’s website is www.frankscoblete.com. His books are available at smile.Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble, kindle, e-books and at bookstores.

Fearless Money Management

The late Captain of Craps, the legendary Atlantic City player I have written about in many of my books, once explained to me his theory on how much a person should bet at whatever game he wishes to play in order to experience a high degree of thrill with a low chance of having a heart attack and an even lower chance of being totally bored.

Casino gambling for the recreational player should be a “manageable thrill.” The Captain stated that a typical casino blackjack player playing for matchsticks or pennies would get bored rather quickly, since no hand really meant that much to him – losing had no sting; winning had no adrenaline jolt. But, if he bet $500 a hand, he might find himself sweating profusely as he saw his rent money or food money going out the window on a sustained series of losses. He might, quite literally, drop dead from anxiety. In the case of the $500 better, the emotions would range from dread at losing to relief at not losing. Where’s the fun in that?

The Captain’s theory of a “manageable thrill” came down to a simple formula: The bets you make have to be large enough to make it worth wanting to win, but small enough to make losing them not cause you to think of all the things you could have bought had you not lost. That was your “thrill zone” – the range of betting that had meaning, win or lose, but was not really hurtful to your emotional or economic life.

Often players will bet a certain amount when they first start a game, but gradually increase their bets until they hit the “sweat zone” as the Captain called it. The sweat zone is the place where the bet becomes uncomfortable to think about. Many craps players hit the sweat zone after several presses of their bets. Worse, a controlled shooter who is having a good roll will sometimes start to think more about the money at risk than about shooting the dice in a relaxed and careful manner. This makes shooting the dice no longer a thrilling exercise for the player but an agony. What if I roll a seven? What if I lose? Look at all that money!

There’s no doubt the average casino player is a thrill seeker. Going up against Lady Luck is a roller coaster ride where your money and your emotions go up and down, up and down. For many people, going on roller coasters is a delight – but it isn’t a delight if you’ve had a big meal and become sick to your stomach. Betting too much at a casino game is the equivalent of going on a roller coaster with a full gurgling belly. It could become a sickening experience for you and for others watching you. Then again, going on the kiddie boats that go around and around, with those little kids ringing the bells, might not be thrilling enough for you.

Interestingly enough, I have also noticed similar phenomena among some card counters. They may start their betting at $25 but when the count calls for it, they have to move that bet up, sometimes by a lot. At a certain point, and even with that edge over the casino to boot, these card counters will begin to sweat their action.

The escalation of their bets has gotten their hearts pounding and they are now entering the sweat zone. Losing such large amounts, amounts actually measured in emotions and not cash, has made what up to that point had been a pleasant pastime into an emotionally wrenching moment.

Gaming writers love to talk about strategies, house edges, and bankroll requirements but rarely do we discuss the emotional bankroll that a person must have to bet at this or that level. A red chip player might wish he could play at the green level, might even be able to objectively afford to, but he just can’t bring himself to do it. His hands start to tremble as he pushes out the chips. If this happens to you at a certain betting level, don’t make the bet! If you know this fact then be content to bet within your thrill zone and don’t attempt to push the envelope. It isn’t worth the consternation, second-guessing, and self-flagellation such an action would cause you.

The Captain had, from years of experience, learned that some bets just aren’t worth making, even bets where you might have an edge, if the fear of loss becomes so overwhelming that the act of making the bet becomes an act of anguish.

Some philosophers have speculated that man is composed of three parts: mind, body and spirit. To enjoy casino gambling, all three of those components should be utilized. Your mind should tell you which are the best bets to make; your spirit should enjoy the contest; and your body will let you know when you’ve gone overboard because it will start sweating!

All the best in and out of the casinos!

Visit Frank’s web site at www.frankscoblete.com. Frank’s books are available at smile-Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble, kindle, e-books and at bookstores.

Fearless Money Management

All the best in and out of the casinos!

Visit Frank’s web site at www.frankscoblete.com. Frank’s books are available at smile.Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble, kindle, e-books and at bookstores.

A Manageable Thrill

All the best in and out of the casinos!

Visit Frank’s web site at www.frankscoblete.com. Frank’s books are available at smile.Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble, kindle, e-books and at bookstores.

Longer or Shorter?

One of the opening scenes of the 1995 movie Casino has Robert De Niro as Sam “Ace” Rothstein explaining how the casino makes money. A mega-high roller has just won millions from his casino and Rothstein and company want to get that money back. So Rothstein arranges for the guy’s plane to have some mechanical difficulties so the high roller returns to the casino.

Of course, this fellow is a gambler of the first order and, of course, he hits the tables once again, only to lose everything he won and then some. Rothstein explains that the longer a player plays the better it is for the casino. Why is that?

The house edge is geared to work over time, slowly grinding away at the player’s bankroll. Yes, a player can get lucky in the short run but over time? There is no problem for the casino to win money. Time is money in the bank for a casino.

But what is not exactly explained is how the casinos make money regularly. After all, most players come to a casino infrequently, at best a few times a year. And most of these players are nowhere near a mega-high roller. Here is how the casinos do it:

Take a look at a busy casino and think of the tens of thousands of decisions at the various games that are being made every day, sometimes every hour or less in the big ones, and realize that time can also be equated with the number of decisions a player plays. You see decisions also equal duration for the house edge to work its mathematical magic. Slot machines, video poker machines, blackjack, craps, roulette, mini-baccarat, and all those carnival table games launch those countless thousands of decisions after decisions against the player.

Yes, in that monstrous mass of players some of them are getting lucky today or tonight but that doesn’t matter; the weight of what’s happening heavily favors the casino. Just read the casinos’ monthly reports and you can plainly see how much each casino makes at their games.

Certainly our player above could have come back to the casino and continued his winning ways, but the point was finely made in the movie – the more you play the better the chance you’ll end up a loser.

So what is a player to do to somewhat offset that “the more play the better for the casino” fact? Play less!

What? Am I kidding here? Maybe you are the type of player who enjoys spending eight hours, maybe more, maybe less, a day in the temple of Lady Luck; how can I dare say play less? What if you only like to play a couple of hours a day?

I am not saying that you must play less time; what I am saying is simply this: In the time you spend playing, be it two hours, four hours, eight hours or more, experience fewer decisions during that time. Your expected losses over time will be far less if you do this.

Blackjack players playing a hundred-twenty hands per hour are giving the casino a good shot at them the longer they play. If that player enjoys playing five hours a day; count ‘em up: That’s 600 decisions playing against the house edge.

Think of the poor blackjack player who doesn’t play the computer derived basic strategy for his or her hands against the casino; that is asking for trouble over the few days such a player plays a year. What if that player plays weekly or every day? There’s only one word for that – yikes!

I am not going to say actually play less time since that would probably be anathema to almost all players. I am saying you can play as long as you like by separating clock time from decision-making time.

In our blackjack scenario above, what if the player could reduce his decision making time by 20 percent? Play your five or more hours but don’t play as many decisions in that time. How to do that? Here’s a simple guideline:

Only play at full or almost full tables. The number of decisions you face will automatically be reduced.
If you have to go to the bathroom, do so when the game is actually in progress, not while the dealer is shuffling. The game will be there when you come back.
Speaking of shuffling, do not play against continuous automatic shufflers as these add about 20 percent to the number of decisions you’ll face in an hour.
Be friendly. The more players talk at the table, the slower the game goes.
Bet less than you usually do. If you are a $25 player, go down to $20 or even $15. That reduction of play will lose you far less money over time.
Do not be concerned with comps. They are given based on your theoretical loss, not the fact that you have a pleasing personality.

These types of approaches to the game of blackjack can also be used at just about all the other games.

All the best in and out of the casinos!

Visit Frank’s web site at www.frankscoblete.com. Frank’s books are available at smile.Amazon.com, Kindle, Barnes and Noble, e-books and at bookstores.

Franklin versus Franklin

This information may be apocryphal but so what? Apocryphal stories can be fascinating. A biblical apocryphal story titled “The Wisdom of Solomon” has the author (the smartest man of all time!) caution men not to marry more than one wife, as the anger and conflicts caused by those backbiting women couldn’t be contained.

Ben Franklin and his illegitimate son William Franklin were close for a while, but when the Revolutionary War was brewing William was a “loyalist” to the British, while Ben supported the Revolution. That didn’t enhance their relationship.

William and Ben also disputed which language should be used by Americans; it was a tossup between German and English. The Germans dominated the northern populace throughout the early days and they were the first of the hated immigrants. Ben wanted people to speak only English while William leaned towards German. That didn’t enhance their relationship either.

But their big blowout came about because of a bird or, rather, two birds—the bald eagle and the wild turkey. There was a big debate flaring in the colonies as to which bird should be their emblem and later on, the emblem of United States.

William championed the bald eagle because he and his supporters thought the bird was regal and a true monarch of the air. Ben advocated the wild turkey because it was combative and didn’t take any guff from other birds or people. It also tasted a lot better than the bald eagle. Perhaps Ben liked the wild turkey because it was quite promiscuous, enjoying the intimate company of as many lady turkeys as it could.

To this day Americans love turkey, consuming over 750 million pounds of it, according to the University of Illinois Extension.

William’s predilection for the regality of the bald eagle probably came from his love of the British crown and royalty in general. Although not as promiscuous as his father, William did sire his own illegitimate son much like Ben and King Solomon.

Although a close look at the bald eagle will reveal that although it does nail fish and small varmints, it will also chow down on carrion. So it isn’t as regal as William at first thought. Still, unlike the turkey, the bald eagle does not make a habit of attacking people. It’s generally a loner, while the wild turkey prefers gang colors.

Father/son relationships can be fraught with difficulties, as many of you know; just look at Luke Skywalker and his dear old dad, Darth Vader. That relationship cost Luke an arm, although I actually prefer the leg (of a turkey that is).

Visit Frank’s web site at www.frankscoblete.com. His books are available at smile.amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, as e-books and at bookstores.