Columnists

Thoughts from someone who hated daylight saving time. Until suddenly he didn't.

Almost 250 years ago, an enslaved man was sold not far from this newspaper’s office.

My favorite meal is an inter-meal that comes around at 4:30. I love tea.

A governor plays tit-for-tat with the White House.

The strong-arming to remove a street mural in the District of Columbia is part of a push by the right to erase Black Americans’ legacy and humanity.

Hyper-nostalgia may be a foolish game to persist in playing in 2025, but it is an ingrained part of our local culture.

Adventures in vacation week skiing.

For years, I have believed with a fervor that clothes with signs of wear, if not tear, are cool.

It really is too bad for the teenagers of 2025 that thrifting has devolved into such a sad affair, slim pickings and executive prices.

Staring through the plate glass at T. Anthony’s pizzeria in the middle of the Boston University campus and seeing a 19-year-old idiot — me.

If the South Fork of Long Island could have a unifying motto, it might be bigger is better.

The world is a much more mysterious place than you thought it was when you were young and certain.

A thoroughly painful viewing experience.

The Westminster Dog Show may have just concluded with Monty, a giant schnauzer, the overall winner, but every day is dog-show day here.

Have you tried Sleep Jar or the ambient noise function on Alexa? My sleep sounds of choice are wintry and stormy. The chill blast.

Thoughts of Harvey Pekar and life among the files.

Immigrant labor has helped keep the Hamptons humming for decades, longer if you go back to the turn of the 20th century and the Irish and Italians who worked on the estates of the oceanfront rich.

It is the story of my life that, post sixth grade, I have pretty much always been on the giver end of the Valentine exchange.

Goodbye to a one-of-a-kind family pet.

As stupid as renaming the Gulf of Mexico is, it reminds me of a similar effort of my own right here in East Hampton.

You employ the words “cope,” “coping,” or “copium” when another person has expressed feelings and desires clearly but you think their actual argument is feeble.

Hard time as a captive to talk radio.

The first hat I produced after weeks of work was a bit of a disaster, looking like something a “Game of Thrones” extra would have worn before getting his head chopped off

The pashmina, with its many petal colors like varieties of April flowers, was the late-20th-century version of the Tulip Mania of the Dutch golden age.

A mild cold snap here conjures a real cold snap way up north.

Along the eastward shore of Napeague Harbor a length of rusted pipe pokes out of a dune. This pipe has an interesting history.

I don’t quite know how it came to be that my parents’ culinary habits were on the advanced side for the 1970s and its sesame-seed buns and Fresca.

How can I give up on my 17-year-old workhorse of a car with 287,000 miles on it? It’s like a member of the family, gamely limping on to its final reward.

Last week, this column described a railroad line that once connected Bridgehampton to Sag Harbor. Part of what I left out was an explanation of why the road that now is the most direct route between the two is to this day called a turnpike.

I wonder if any climate scientists today are tabulating an increase in the number of citizens slipping and falling in the snow and ice and cracking their skulls open now that we so seldom have snow and ice.