It was like somebody having their own weapon turned on them. Famed local photographer, Peter Brady, ripped my iPhone away from me and turned the camera towards my ankles. I was caught, just steps from the shore, wearing sneakers and black socks. A nearby throng, led by George Johnson, crushed me with over the falls, gnarly invective. 

I was called a barney, a kook, a goofy foot, and shoobie. 

They were wiping me out with surf slang which was appropriate enough because I was at the Richie Allen Memorial Surf Classic. I took exception to shoobie, which is what they call DFDs in South Jersey and parts of California. I tried saying black socks were better than white but that just triggered another round in the washing machine.

Then I said I

Someone, a long time ago, asked a question about me that has never been accurately answered. She asked her friend, “Is Kevin Boyle socially awkward or socially inept?” Is he rude or just a rube? Both?

If there is a correct answer it would be D, all of the above.

 About a year ago, I wrote about how I hated getting hugged. And Rockaway being Rockaway, that meant I had to endure about a thousand hugs over the next two weeks.  At about hug number 970, I started getting used to it. I tried once

Death and taxes, I get it. The only guarantees in life. But the death part seems a little less definite. I mean you’re gonna die but some part of you just doesn’t believe it. You wake up every day. You’re still here.

If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and hoping for a different outcome—then what about the thought of dying? I keep thinking about it, but it doesn’t happen, so I must be insane.  

Which reminds me of that crazy kid’s prayer they taught you back in

The Rockaway Times is five. We launched this sucker five years ago this week and I can’t decide if it feels like five or fifty. 

It really started out as a mess. We had a typo before we even published our first edition.  The day before the paper launched, the big, beautiful Rockaway Times sign was hung on the front of our store. (We occupied the booth, current home of Belle Rock car service, at the time).  It looked great except for the missing “a.” The sign said Rockway, not Rockaway. “Take

I was out on a boat with four Captain Queegs last week, though only one knew how to sail. He could boast about that but the others were his equal or worse when it came to screaming paranoia, outsized delusion, and general insanity. Of course, I’m talking about my brothers.

One of those brothers will be pleased, no matter what, because he appears in this week’s column. He says it’s the only reason to read Boyleing Points—if he’s in it or can take claim for that week’s topic. He’s often

I was gonna write about waking up on the wrong side of the Roman candle because I don’t believe in fireworks after midnight. 

But I’m not gonna write about that, I’m just sayin’.

I’m all for the bombs bursting in air and the rockets’ red glare on the 4th of July but I’m not looking for proof through the night that the flag is still there when the calendar says it’s the 5th of July.

Hey, I know, I’m a dud and I should just turn up the white noise machine. But c’mon, turn it down for the

With technology, you get a lot of new normal. And I’m sorry to share.

I recently drove down to North Carolina because I’m a servant of the son who shall remain nameless. I was going to get some crap he left behind. He was shy about having a Hazmat team go in and clean out his apartment so he called me.

To start, I hate NYC driving. I hate Rockaway driving, in particular, but I don’t mind getting on the open highway once in a blue. On long trips— I think that means anything longer than two

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