You drop the TV remote on the floor and the fun only starts. Not most of the time —every time — the batteries fall out. You’re not even finished cursing when at least one of those batteries starts rolling under the couch. You curse again as you see the little bastard disappear from view.

You get down on your knees and you can’t find the thing. Or you can see it, way back there, probably just out of reach. You feel the blood pouring into your head as you reach all the way, reach even further, …Jesus, your arm might get stuck. And finally...nothing. You curse again because you can’t reach the renegade battery and the thing is practically staring back at you with a smirk. You take a breath. You didn’t get the battery but on one level you’re

Pretty soon, Boyleing Points goes on summer vacation, which I hope extends until Thanksgiving. It’s just too damn hard typing in this heat. Anyway, I hope most of you are as forgetful as me and don’t recognize when I start to slip in columns from the past before I go completely radio silent.

With everybody out and about and heading to beaches and barbecues, it’s the time of year when having good neighbors is no small blessing. This is a retread of a 2016 column which, I have to say, made me

It’s officially summer —thirteen days until I declare it over.

With warm and sunny days ahead, there is the need for the annual Public Service Announcement. This is a social advisory. Put up your personal red flag. Like a good stretch of beach, you are closed. Your summer days are like piping plovers: endangered.    

This is the annual Please Don’t Invite Us To Anything Over The Summer announcement that you hope friends and family who live off the peninsula will read.

It’s necessary to

Well, that backfired. Writers are a needy bunch and are desperate for feedback (as long as it’s standing ovation).

After last week’s column, I got the exact kinda feedback I didn’t want. First, let me say, I usually forget what’s in my column until somebody reminds me on Thursday or Friday, well after the paper has hit the street.

So last Friday, I woke with full amnesia about what was in my column. The official beach opening was scheduled, so I went to the boardwalk to check out the

Being a trendsetter means you’ve got to be ready to be laughed at and ridiculed. I’ve gone out on a limb or two and taken my fair share of abuse. They laughed at me when I touted the glory and hipness of day drinking. Most of those people are now asking me to start parties earlier. And I was an early cheerleader for the colonoscopy movement. They laughed then.  Now they’re asking me for the night-before prep tips. Speaking of which…

There’s some new do-it-at-home test called Cologuard. TV

I was at a bar in Myrtle Beach. A group of golfers, maybe eight or 10 guys, were at a table next to me. They’d just obviously finished a round of golf and now were having a few rounds. Standard issue, middle-aged guys having some laughs, burgers and beers. 

I don’t golf but I do play the 19th hole occasionally, especially if the sun’s still out. I was a little envious of the boys having such a good time though things were winding down. They reminded me of my pals and then…

And then they asked

I’ve confused people. They can’t tell if I’m socially awkward or socially inept.

Which reminds me of that old sports quote from a coach to a player, “Son, are you ignorant or apathetic?”  The reply?  “I don’t know and I don’t care.”

Anyway, I’m kinda both – especially when it comes to hugging.  The bro hug is that thing that starts as a classic handshake and morphs into a kind of shoulder bump, half hug.  I don’t really get who you’re supposed to go bro with.  A really good friend might be

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