Columnists

No wonder April’s called the cruelest month.

In the basement one evening this week, I began thinking about tools, pacing one’s self, and focusing on the path, instead of the outcome.

Notes from the barber’s chair.

Is it possible the pendulum has swung too hard toward time-saving devices, the no-brain zone, and ultraconvenience?

Keeping tabs on the on-again-off-again check engine light.

The other day, when looking into family history for a column, I read a New Yorker magazine profile of a charming rustic character by the name of Everett Joshua Edwards: my great-grandfather.

Carl Johnson hopes Bridgehampton can remain a year-round community.

Tick season is upon us again, and so are conversations about the East End’s public enemy number one.

I’m more than a little susceptible to seasonal affective disorder, but my outlook brightens as soon as the big hand on the grandfather clock is wound forward an hour on daylight saving time and the afternoons begin to lengthen.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez said that in Latin America, the completely fantastical was reality.

I will be in the 60-plus demographic by the time the new East Hampton senior citizens center opens; I have to get my 2 cents in somehow.

It’s the simplicity, stupid.

Unlike Dante, we began our trip in Purgatory at the federal building on the city’s Lower West Side.

There was a time when I paid close attention to what it said on the backs of seed envelopes. Now I know enough to make my own decisions about the timing of when to plant.

We interrupt raging March Madness to wonder when the Jets’ Aaron Rodgers waiting game will ever end.

This week’s column is the personal-essay equivalent of a very bad odor. Prepare yourself, reader!

The surprising end result of all that construction work at La Guardia.

My somewhat critical attitude toward cats — my less than all-embracing affection for all pets, all the time — is a character flaw, I’m aware.

Is heaven some sort of club, a fraternity? If so, its population may be sparse.

Foul weather is just the way it is here in the month of March.

At last, the legendary Washington Heights home of the Millrose Games, “the fastest track in the world.”

There is not so much to do in March, other than plan and perhaps go on walks.

I am interested in the mixing and remixing of ourselves, and there’s no better feeling than when we’re in tune.

I’m one of those people who has extraordinarily intense dreams and who always wants to talk about them.

What’s it to be? Torpor and dictators? Or an educated, enlivened, engaged populace debating how best to proceed?

One of the things that has struck me about the rash of dead whales on beaches in the Northeast is that it has been going on for years, millenniums, in fact.

John Irving swings for the fences.

“Tennis players live nine years longer,” I said to the guys I was playing doubles with the other day.

When, exactly, did Patch­ogue get cool?

This year for Black History Month I have been occupied by preparing for an exhibit at the Sag Harbor Cinema, intended to reach a broad audience.