I want to thank Mr. Ira Rennert. Really.
Years ago when he began work on his compound in Sagaponack many were outraged. How could he take that lovely unbroken vista, Fairfield, and build something on it?
Rumors swirled as more and more work was done in this huge ex-farm field overlooking the ocean. People tried to get a look at it. They flew over it and crept up from the beach to try see what was going on.
So I got a ticket. Not a speeding ticket, a parking ticket. At Trout Pond. Wrong place, wrong time. Guilty.
But. . . . What went through my mind was this:
This doesn’t apply to me, because I was working.
I didn’t see the sign.
I didn’t look for a sign.
I wouldn’t have read the sign if I had been looking for it or if I had seen it because:
I was working.
If you were to sit in the back seat of my car or hitch a ride in my pocket, you would hear me composing rules like Gibbs does on “NCIS.” Naturally, because they are mine, they are less terse than his. Maybe they are suggestions and disgruntlements rather than rules, but I like “NCIS,” and if I can channel Gibbs, why not? Another favorite, Melissa Harris Perry on MSNBC, reads (on air) a letter to someone to whom she would like to make a point. She also inspires me. Herewith:
Dear significant-others of the comb over guys,
I know you are suffering, and I am here to help. Trim this part off and leave the rest of this article around the house for the gents to see in the sanctity of the room where they do the comb-over.
Do the gentlemen with seven hairs 11 inches long that stretch from left ear to right ear really think that that looks like a healthy head of hair? Really?
I grew up in Manhattan. I traveled to school on a school bus and when I was old enough I used my school bus pass to take the regular public buses. The uptown buses often let you out right onto subway grates. Not a problem, we wore school uniforms . . . with bloomers. No kidding.
The other day, much to my astonishment, our two absolutely indoor cats fetched up with fleas.
I know there was no winter last year, and I know that makes a difference, but in 12 years of indoor cats and human feet walking in and out, this is the very first time for fleas. Can this be climate change on a totally local level?
When I was a kid, I hated writing thank-you notes.
Christmases and birthdays would come along with presents in the mail (always welcome) from my Alabama grandmother, my poet aunt and composer uncle in Pittsburgh, and my two sets of godparents in New Haven and Woodstock, N.Y.
Halsey Mckay Gallery had a hip and lively vibe on Saturday when it opened its doors to "No Ground, but Say Ground," a group show organized by Joe Fyfe.
The Brooklyn-based artist was inspired by Samuel Beckett's "Worstword Ho" in his role as curator, chosing works that suggest "no where to locate oneself, no where to stand."
For most, going to an exhibition opening is about looking at the art. For Durell Godfrey, the Star's resident Elliott Erwitt, going to an opening is about looking at the people looking at art. Here are some scenes she captured on Saturday night at Guild Hall.