Surf and F'ing Turf. Yeahhhhh!

At the risk of sounding like Peter King here, I must give you a Czabe version “Enjoyable/Aggravating Travel Tip of the Week.”

11:20 a.m. - Newburyport, NH

We've just jetted down I-95 from Bangor International Airport in our rented mini-van. Me, my wife, my two daughters, and my two nephews. My sister-in-law and her husband got a week at home alone, while the lil' monsters stayed a week longer in Maine to attend camp.

(Note to self: invoice for the kid wrangling once we are home.)

Prior to leaving their retirement cottage in Bar Harbor, I engaged in a spirited father/son-in-law argument over how long it would take to get to Boston for our absurdly cheap JetBlue flight back to Dulles ($89 each way).

I said: “Without traffic, 4 hours or less, no problem.”

Pops, rolling his eyes in disgust, jabbed back... “Look. It's 5 hours, maybe more! Saturday is a 'change day' up here, and there's going to be lots of traffic.”

With my pops-in-law, there is ALWAYS going to be traffic. And with him, the amount of traffic only comes in one size: “alot.”

There is never a “chance” of traffic, or “some” or even “light” traffic. Nope. It's gonna be a lot. Always.

“Dad, it's 244 miles, almost all highway, I checked it on my iPhone” I insisted. “Of course we're not going to sleep in, but I think we are fine.”

My dad threw his hands up and turned away. Serves me right for arguing with a local.

Anyway, back to our trip. We've just clicked through mile 204 and it's time for lunch. Time check: 2 hours and 41 minutes. In my head, I channel my best Degeneration X signature crotch chop with a “SUCK IT!” for my dad.

I do it in my head because I do love him. But I love being right even more.

If I wanted, we could plow through to Logan International and punch a ticket for 3:45 door to door. I could then call him, hand the phone to a stranger with a thick BAH-stahn accent and say: “Here, tell this guy what time it is here.”

Nah. Time to clear the bench and let the scrubs play. No need to run up the score.

PS: Change day traffic was as non-existent as A-Rod in October.

We find a strip mall and decide to try a little franchise place called “D'Angelo's Grilled Sandwiches.” Looks like a stepped up Subway. I'm pumped.

On the menu is a nice array of just what the name implied. Cheesesteaks, meatball subs, cold sandwiches, the works. Nice.

But oh.... hellooooo... what do .. we... have... heeeere?

“Surf and Turf Special: $12.95”

Can you say “5-inch lobster sandwich with 5 inch cheesesteak?”

What a score!

If you've been to the northeast, you've probably had a lobster roll or “sandwich.” It's all the good part of the lobster (i.e. meat) soaked in mayo and stuffed in a special half-roll, half bread cradle. They also throw lettuce in there, but I waive that player like Cuttino Mobley in a 3-team deal before he even takes a physical with my team.

In short, it kicks ass.

But most lobster roll sandwiches around touristy Bar Harbor, run 12-15 bucks alone. This one was every bit as good, but had an awesome cheeseteak thrown in as part of the deal.

Shwing!

I know that 14 bucks is a lot to pay for a “sandwich lunch” but if we had a D'Angelos in my area (and I don't think we do) I might wear that special out. I could easily see myself snagging that double-double 3 or 4 times a week.

Easy.

Apparently, D'Angelos's is also the “Official” sandwich shop of the Boston Red Sox. And as such, they have a cool logo that reads “Lobster Nation” but with the red socks replaced with lobster claws. If they had a t-shirt with that, I would have bought two on the spot.

Okay, that's all I got. Now, back to random football thoughts like Peter King.

“You know, I think Tom Cable is walking a fine but jagged line of sanity in Oakland, judging by his first month of camp.....”

Man, I should really get a gig like King's. This is fun!