Tag: Scobe

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 18th 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 18th 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.]

The All You Can’t Eat Buffet

 

I was in one of the produce aisles at Best Yet in Franklin Square, lazily waiting for my wife, the Beautiful AP, to select which delicious fruits and vegetables she would force me to eat.

 

The man was several feet away and chewing madly. He picked several grapes from a grape bag and shoved them into his mouth. He had little finesse as the grape juice went down his chin and dripped back into the grapes’ bins. Some unsuspecting shopper would buy grapes sprinkled with his spit.

 

Then he moved to the next batch of fruit, and the next. If he could ram it into his mouth he’d eat it. He even pushed small tomatoes in there.

 

I’d guess the guy was about 75 years old, neatly dressed. He did buy some items—a cantaloupe, a few avocadoes, a half watermelon. I guess these were not easy to gobble down in a single swallow. He did eat the heads off a couple of small bunches of broccoli.

 

This was a truly annoying man (let me say it straight—this was a disgusting, drooling man) who joined my supermarket buffet list; you know, those characters who think they can nibble this or that in the produce aisle because they might buy something.

 

There was the harried woman with the little brat riding in the cart (“Ma! Ma! Ma! I want that!”). She actually gave this whiny kid “free” produce. There was the fat man who ate delicately for about five minutes as if he were at a gourmet restaurant. He even tried an apple! He bought nothing.

 

How about this one? A woman ate a small slice of peach and – this is horrifying – put the uneaten part it back in the pile! Or the fine diner who carried around a small plate with her as she sampled the “buffet”!

 

Maybe these and others like them think they can do this because none of the store’s employees stop them.

 

Many of these gourmands are older and they brazenly swallow their prey with pride and defiance. They know no one would tackle a person using a walker.

 

As I watch these thieves fill their stomachs, I could lose the contents of mine.

[My new book Confessions of a Wayward Catholic is available at amazon.com, kindle, Barnes and Noble, and at bookstores.]

 

Meet the Mrs.

 

My wife, the Beautiful AP, has taken up photography, specifically photographing birds.

Our birding group was at Mill Pond in Bellmore, New York this past Sunday and AP had a big breakthrough that brought attention and applause from our South Shore Audubon Society.

Now the Beautiful AP is a sociable person and as she has been learning her camera she has shared her ups and downs with everyone in the group and with some people who are just wandering around in the woods. They have given her encouragement as many Audubon members are excellent photographers. She has received valuable tips – from everyone, even those scruffy folks who might be homeless. To be honest, by and large her photos have been (shall we say) disappointing.

A couple of weeks ago, she got one great picture of a Great Horned Owl and one good shot of a Red-Bellied Woodpecker. Everything else was a blur.

I am not quite as sociable as my lovely wife but I do talk to my fellow birders about this, that or the other thing. Since I know little about birds we talk about politics. The Audubon Society is mostly liberal although there are some conservatives and Trump supporters. The liberals are concerned about the environment, while the conservatives are concerned about the liberals.

As AP photographed like a crazy woman, she’d show me some of them.

“What do you think of these?” she asked.

“Where is the bird?”

She hit me in the arm. “Right there,” she pointed.

“I just see fog with some dark lump in there,” I said. She hit me in the arm again. Honesty is sometimes not the best policy with a wife.

But towards the end of the birding day she nailed it! She had a picture of a beautiful Robin and two gorgeous pictures of a duck.

“Wow!” I said. “Now those are beautiful pictures. What kind of duck is that?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “It looks different doesn’t it? I’m going to ask the experts if they can identify it.”

She walked a ways down the path to the others of our group. I love the way she walks, so determined, so AP-like.

In a moment I heard, “Wow!” and “It’s a Pintail! Where did you see it?”

The Beautiful AP lead the group of about 15 to where she photographed the Pintail.

“That’s a female Pintail,” confirmed Bill our leader for this tour as he looked at the photo.

“She’ll be known as Mrs. Pintail,” said AP.

Bill saw Mrs. Pintail, pointed her out so everyone could see it. Cameras clicked, video was taken as Bill then explained why it is called Pintail. “You can see that its tail comes to a pin.” It also has quite a long neck.

Since it was February, this duck should have migrated south to winter. But here she was. Rather, here they were: Mrs. Pintail and my Mrs.

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

 

 

 

 

The Snowy Owl in Flight

Claire Reilly is an expert photographer whose pictures can amaze and delight. I enjoy viewing them on her Facebook page.

She also must have the patience of a saint because she has captured great pictures of a singular Snowy Owl who has been hanging out at Jones Beach on Long Island, New York.

My wife the Beautiful AP and I joined our South Shore Audubon Society a month or so ago to trudge the beach looking for this marvelous creature. We saw plenty of birds of different varieties but no Snowy Owl.

But not Claire! Here are some great pictures she took of the Snowy Owl – in flight no less!

 

 

 

Found: The Great Horned Owl!

If you read my article “The Hunt for the Great Horned Owl” you’d recall that my wife the Beautiful AP, my son Mike and I spent three days in Cape May during Christmas trying to locate one of the great apex predators, the Great Horned Owl. I wanted to find this amazing creature so that I could go back to the South Shore Audubon Society (which is on Long Island) and tell the members that not only had we seen this bird but I was now no longer just a birdbrain in the society.

I wanted to strut around like a birding big shot.

Such wasn’t to happen. The Great Horned Owl didn’t make an appearance.

But yesterday at Hempstead Lake State Park on Long Island, one month after the defeat in Cape May, on our Sunday bird walk with the South Shore Audubon Society we got to see this awesome predator. Olga, a wonderful photographer with a keen eye, spotted one. What’s ironic is that the Beautiful AP and I didn’t expect to see any birds because the day was foggy and dreary. “Do birds come out in this crummy weather?” I asked. Evidently they do.

The 15 members stood in awe, photographing and exclaiming what a magnificent bird the Great Horned Owl is. The Beautiful AP shot dozens of blurry photographs with her new camera (AP has taken up photography) but one stood out (see below). At one point this usually nocturnal bird let loose and flew over our heads. The Great Horned Owl is large and strong!

So we saw it, watched it for quite a while and then continued on our birding expedition. We saw a variety of birds but the Great Horned Owl was the hit of the day!

Photo by A.P. Scoblete

[Read Confessions of a Wayward Catholic! On sale at Amazon.com, Kindle, Barnes and Noble, and at bookstores.]

 

 

 

 

 

Scobe’s 10 Commandments of Facebook

 

Facebook has been good for me. I have received hundreds of emails and public posts from my former students who told me in no uncertain terms that I did “the job” as a teacher. I have had readers of my books and articles tell me I have “done the job” as a writer as well. And my wife tells me when I take out the garbage that I have “done the job.” (I’m only kidding; she takes out the garbage.)

But Facebook does have its irritations.

Here are the 10 Commandments that you should follow, which will probably make most—and possibly all—of your Facebook friends happier and grateful.

Commandment #1: Thou shalt not tell people to “like and share if you agree.” Some posts go as far as to test people’s friendship by whether the person shares the post or not. If people want to share something you posted, they will without being told. Sharing or not sharing is not a measure of friendship.

Commandment #2: Thou shalt not try to spread “the word” because many of us don’t want to have words spread upon us. There are just too many “words” from heaven’s “wordsmiths” and you end up preaching to the choir, not the rest of us.

Commandment #3: Thou shalt not post that money, or good times, or magic moments are coming to us through angels, God, astrology or any new-age system unless you back it up with a guarantee and concrete evidence. Also if none of this happens to your friends give them your account numbers at the bank so they can get something out of your predictions. By the way, skeptics are doing nicely without any of these benedictions and predictions.

Commandment #4: Thou shalt not write posts that are hysterical; either politically (“Trump is Hitler!” “Hillary is a pedophile!”), religiously (“The world is about to end! Repent or be damned!”), conspiratorially (“The world is being run by a powerful secret group of people who have run it since the year 1300!” “The World Trade Center was blown up by Mossad!”), or anything truly dripping with anger, fear, despair or any other topics taken to such extremes that the person creating these extremities seems to be unhinged.

Commandment #5: Thou shalt not let your Facebook friends know too much about your problems. Yes, feel free to write about births and marriages and achievements of children, relatives, friends and you; and yes, tell us all about interesting trips and humorous times you’ve had. Come on, no one is a fan of neurotic people going on and on and on about their personal or mental problems. One “going on” is interesting and worthy of note (okay, maybe two) but 17 thousand “going on” posts are just too, too, too damn much. Thou shalt feel free to post about illness or other challenges in your life or in the lives of family and friends to ask for thoughts, prayers or assistance. Oh, yes, please don’t tell us “I’m really very shy” when you have blurted every thought you should reserve for your psychiatrist.

Commandment #6: Thou shalt know thyself. Don’t post saying, “I never write anything political, but I couldn’t resist this,” when 90 percent of your posts are political.  Read your own posts and learn about yourself.

Commandment #7: Thou shalt post no more than four pictures of an event (or pet) so that your friends can view them without further clicking. You must not open the possibility that your Facebook friends will get lost in a sea of photos and never get back to the original page.

Commandment #8: Thou shalt not call someone with whom you’re disagreeing any repulsive names. You can’t win a debate by calling the other person an idiot, a moron, a bed bug, a ploppy, a turd and so forth. If it feels good to say it, then you’ve said the wrong thing.

Commandment #9: Thou shalt not post links to “news” articles unless you are sure the articles are about events that actually took place.

Commandment #10: Thou shalt not post more than one picture of food. This is a commandment to help all of us fatties. Please, have a heart!

[Read Confessions of a Wayward Catholic which is available at Amazon.com, kindle, Barnes and Noble, and bookstores.]

 

 

 

 

 

Look! A Big Bird with a Bright Orange Breast!

 

My fourth bird-watching expedition was to Hempstead Lake State Park on Long Island, New York. It was a lot of fun — even though I did make something of an ass of myself (something I am getting really good at).

The birding group composed of maybe 20 men and women, some quite old (some maybe dead), some quite smart and some I haven’t figured out yet; all bedecked in their bird watching gear of brown clothes with binoculars hanging from their necks, was an enthusiastic lot.

My wife the Beautiful AP and I were the rank amateurs in every way. Using our brand-new 8 x 42 powered binoculars every time someone said something such as “Look over there (pointing), a tan-breasted marmalade rotund chick flyer!” I’d put the binocs (being cool that’s what I now call them – binocs) to my eyes and try to focus on the bird – mostly where my fellow birders were pointing.

Inevitably I got branches and tree limbs or ground or marsh grass but I could never find the bird. The magnification of the binocs was great. I mean I could really see the stupid leaves of the stupid trees.

Maybe human eyesight and binoc sight are on a different level?

The bird walk took two hours and at the end of hour number one I had seen some birds. But usually only for a few seconds because those rotten birds could fly. Just as my binocs were honing in on them; off they would go! Pfft! That’s more annoying than someone talking during a movie.

All I was doing was basically tramping through the woods, over the tree roots that were above the ground. (“Please God; don’t let me break my ankle.”) I was sweating like a pig (do pigs sweat?) and fearful I would rub up against some poison ivy which seemed to be growing everywhere.

We came to the lake; a nice lake that was a little low on water since Long Island was not getting much rain. I binoced-in on a bunch that were lazing their way along the shore. Oh, yeah!

Other than huffing and puffing, I had not contributed anything to the bird-walk of our South Shore Audubon team except stuff like “I don’t see anything.” Or, “Is that poison ivy here?” “A yellow tufted what?” “The darn thing flew away!”

Then I saw them! Three Seagulls. Right at lakeside. “Look over there,” I shouted. “Seagulls! Three of them.” I pointed at them as if I were a pro.

Then a woman’s voice from the behind me said, “To a true birder there are no such thing as Seagulls. We just call them gulls. Seagulls don’t exist.”

(Oh, for crying out loud! Lady did you have to ruin my moment?)

My default is usually to say something funny in moments such as these and I went right to my default. I pointed to the “gulls” and said, “See, gulls!” There wasn’t a single laugh; not one stinking laugh. I thought “see, gulls” was funny. I was alone in the world on that one.

My other great moment came about 10 minutes later. I was scouring the lakeshore, trying to find some birds I could point to and make up for my “see, gulls” comment. I didn’t want to be on the outs with my new birding brethren. I had to redeem myself.

Then I saw it. A big bird with a bright orange breast; it was magnificent. “Everyone! Everyone! Across the lake. (I pointed triumphantly.) Over there. A big bird with a bright orange breast!”

Binoculars, far more powerful ones than those I had, held by birders far more experienced than I am, trained on the bird. (Oh, yeah; oh, yeah! Take that “see gull” lady!)

Then…

The telescope-man’s voice was kind, “Frank, that’s a pile of garbage.” Everyone laughed.

Listen to me; I still think “see, gulls” was funny.

[Read Frank’s new book I Am a Dice Controller: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Craps! Available at Amazon.com, kindle, Barnes and Noble and at bookstores.]

 

I Will Destroy My Grandkids!

 

My wife the Beautiful AP (known to our grandkids as Grand AP) brought a Scrabble game over when we were on babysitting duty for New Year’s Eve. Our grandkids are a boy 11 (known as Johnny Scobes) and a girl of nine (Dani Scobes). The Scobe name is going to live on.

“We’re going to play Scrabble,” said Grand AP taking out our Scrabble Board.

“Are you sure, my beauty?” I asked. “I mean, I am going to destroy all of you if we play that game.”

“You don’t know that Grandpa Scobe,” said Dani Scobes.

I bent down and whispered into Johnny Scobes’ ear, “I am going to kick your ass!” I whispered so Grand AP wouldn’t be able to hear me as she dislikes when I do “guy-talk” with Johnny Scobes. Johnny Scobes, of course, smiled as I said the word “ass” and now he felt he could whisper the word back to me. “No, I am going to kick your big fat ass.” Please note my grandson’s creativity. He added the words “big” and “fat” to the threat.

“I know what you guys are doing,” said Grand AP. “There’s not to be any bad talk.”

“He started it,” I lied. Johnny Scobes shook his head no.

By some kind of process of elimination ruled over by Grand AP, I was slated to go last.

And the game began.

“I have never lost in this game,” I bragged.

“You lose to me all the time,” said Grand AP.

“Only sometimes all the time,” I said.

“The rest of the times too,” she said.

And we played. I kept pointing to Johnny Scobes and making a fist. “You’re dead.”

Johnny Scobes laughed.

Dani Scobes said, “Grandpa, if you brag it will be worse when you lose. You shouldn’t brag.”

“Listen kid,” I said. “When it comes to Scrabble I am the king of the universe.”

“What would be a good score?” asked Dani Scobe.

“Anything over one hundred,” said Grand AP.

The final score was:

Grand AP – 150

Dani Scobes – 108

Johnny Scobes – 106

Grandpa Scobe – 78

 

Obviously, the game was fixed.

 

[Read Frank’s book Confessions of a Wayward Catholic! On sale at Amazon.com, kindle, Barnes and Noble and at bookstores.]

How (not) to Stop a Fight

 

[At Lawrence High School in Cedarhurst, New York.]

The girl was maybe 4’10”— if that; slightly built, but she was a tigress. I think she was a sophomore. She had gotten the bigger girl down on her back and she was pounding away, punch, punch, punch.

I knew I had to stop the fight, so I did. In those days, the early 1970’s, I was in great shape, running 10-mile races, boxing, doing amazing numbers of calisthenics. Today, sadly, I am Jabba the Hutt. But then? I was close to a god.

I went behind the tigress and grabbed her, thereby squeezing her back against my chest. I lifted her easily off the bigger girl. I had a tight hold on the tigress.

But tigress was kicking like crazy, trying to break my hold but being small, her feet were where a man doesn’t want someone’s kicking feet to be.

She did a backward kick, a backward kick and then – two feet, one after another, landed on an area I had treasured since I first discovered it — my balls, or in polite terms, my balls!

I can’t let go of her I thought. My other thought was that I’d never have sex again thanks to this tiny monster. I just hoped my private parts didn’t fall to the floor.

I was gasping in agony when the assistant principal came over and took the tigress out of my arms. That’s the first time in my life I wanted a female out of my arms.

I leaned against a desk, breathing deeply, when a female teacher said, “You look so pale Scobe. Are you all right?”

“I’m great; I’m fine,” I falsettoed.

My balls did recover. I did end up being able to produce children. But I will never forget that little tigress. I hope she comes back as a man in the next life. So I can kick her you-know-where.

[Read Frank’s latest book Confessions of a Wayward Catholic! Available on Amazon.com., Kindle, Barnes and Noble, and at bookstores.]