Columnists

It’s the simplicity, stupid.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

John Irving swings for the fences.

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.

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

When, exactly, did Patch­ogue get cool?

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

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.

The big game on Fox Sports — what could go wrong?

Quiescence tends to corrupt and absolute quiescence corrupts absolutely.

All is not death and doom in the new forest clearings. Here and there, new plant communities are taking hold.

You get me, YouTube, you really do.

Calling Manny Farber . . .

The late John Niles, who coached the 1986 Bridgehampton High Killer Bees boys basketball team, said it was the best group of athletes who’d ever played for him.

Other than buying a set of tires, a cabin air filter, windshield wipers, and keeping up with the oil change schedule, my Honda Clarity has had no costs other than for electricity — about $2.50 for 45 to 50 miles’ charge.

The animals in my garden are behaving like they think they are stars in a Beatrix Potter story or something, and I don’t mean they are comporting themselves adorably.