So, I moved into the right lane then swerved into the left, swerved back to the right, swerved again and then jerked the wheel to get back in the left lane. And then waited for a bike rider to pass so I could make a right turn from the left lane. I should have gotten a Driving Under the Influence but I was stone cold sober. I should have been pulled over for reckless driving, at least, but I had a fool-proof excuse: I was just following the driving lanes in Rockaway.

There’s some thing, an island? A something-or-other that is near the median at Beach 105th Street and it just causes driver after driver – believe me, you can read their lips – saying, what in the hell is that? There’s another one at Beach 102nd and RBB. Me, being the dogged

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

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

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

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