So I’d had enough of Uncasville for one year. I high-tailed it out of the land of beer-bellied Alpha males and shapeless women faster than a jack-rabbit in Dick Cheney’s backyard. Starting early this morning I drove to a beautiful Outlet Mall (oxymoron much?) in a place called Wrentham, Mass. Got the requisite Red Sox caps for my boys and found myself a nice DKNY suit which I neatly stuffed into my new PokerStars knapsack. Might need a little pressing when I get home. Then I got to Boston, and after several very loud and aggressive arguments with the lady who lives inside my GPS – at one point she actually demanded I stop the car and let her out – I finally found the famous Hanover street in Boston’s North End. I had perhaps the greatest Portobello mushroom sandwich EVER at a funky little place called Volle Nolle.

You should go there. Even if you have no reason to go to Boston. It’s that good. You can get a Porter flight to Boston at 9:45 AM, grab a cab when you get there and by noon you can plant yourself in this tiny place at the open window with the breeze blowing in and the sun on your face while watching Boston go by. As you eat your mind-blowing sandwich, you can hear some bombastic men (with accents so pronounced that they sound like they’re just taking the piss out of Bostonians) have explosive arguments about their beloved Red Sox. If you think you know your shit, you can even join in but you best be very sure of yourself because these guys REALLY know their shit. After that, you’ll still have time to amble down Hanover Street enjoying a ridiculously small cup of real Italian Gelato. At the corner of Hanover and Fleet St. you can stop into a cool little store called “Twilight” (like I did) and buy a little bauble for your wife (like I did) certain in the knowledge that she will absolutely pretend she loves it (like mine will). If you manage your time correctly you can still get back to the airport for the 1:45 flight and be back in your home, office, or local brothel by 4 PM. Nobody’ll ever know you were gone. The flight will cost you about $500, the sandwich is $8.75. Throw in a Limonato, a tiny little gelato, the cabs in Boston, the subways to and from the Island airport, and you’re in and out for less than $570 and I guarantee it will be money well spent. If you try this and don’t feel like you got your money’s worth I will personally reimburse you. How’s that? I’ll need receipts, so don’t even think about trying a fast one ____________.(you know who you are, so I won’t embarass you in these pages).

Anyway that was my trip. Thanks again for all the support, but a special thanks goes out to my “brother-in-hands” Domenic Scalamanga. (Get it? It`s like “Brother-in-arms”
but its “hands” because of the poker… get it? Oh, forget it.) Dom was supposed to come on this little jaunt with me but he chose instead to spend the better part of a week in the Intensive Care Unit at North York General Hospital fighting for his life. Luckily he’s OK now, and recovering nicely but was not up to making the trip.

But, God love him, he was right there with me the whole way – in more than spirit – texting me constant updates, valuable information that he’d found scouring the internet about the individual players at my table, as well as enthusiastic encouragement and sage advice. This is a real mensch. He doesn’t know what it means, but he is one. Thanks Domo, next time we’ll make the trip together. I’m thinking Italy, so you can translate for me. I’d recipricate but they don’t play poker tournaments in Israel (not to mention the fact that I don’t speak a word of Hebrew.)

On to the next one. I’m getting there. I can feel it.