Columnists

It can be hard to muster much enthusiasm for N.B.A. players today, when you were weaned on the likes of Larry Bird, Robert Parish, and Kevin McHale.

Ukraine, though its people’s suffering has been appalling, has decidedly not been an easy toss out. We’re rooting for it.

Spring is a time for paying attention, for noticing things.

A plea for no phones at the wheel, before artificial intelligence takes over the roads.

The traditional Irish tune “Whiskey in the Jar” is told from the perspective of a highwayman, a bold deceiver and drunken carouser who meets with an English officer, Captain Farrell, on the Cork and Kerry Mountains.

Honeysuckle, lilac, Coppertone, and secondhand smoke: These are a few of my favorite things. I sidle up to strangers at parties when they strike a match, just for nostalgic proximity. days of youth when I smell tobacco wafting on the breeze.

To be of a place, and to be part of a worthy tradition to boot, is to be really blessed.

The brutal reality here is that reasonably priced year-round or even seasonal rooms are essentially nonexistent.

Profundity and solace from an unlikely source.

Emily Dickinson said you’ll know it’s poetry if it knocks your socks off, or words to that effect, and that was how Mary and I felt as we were watching the documentary “Viva Maestro” at the Sag Harbor Cinema the other day.

I drove by the Pantigo fields as a group was getting set for a groundbreaking ceremony for a new Southampton Hospital adjunct. It made me sad, and then angry.

At the 2019 Comic Con in New York, before Covid cramped its style, I walked right by a booth set up by a legend among comic-book artists, Neal Adams.

In the spring of 2001, I watched the clean-living-Americans-go-to-outer-space movie “The Right Stuff” and decided what I needed was to learn how to pilot a plane.

John Steinbeck and Cannery Row East.

I never liked the happy-clappy bright yellow of spring’s early buds.

In just one day last week I was inspected and boosted, and soon I’ll be implanted as well.

The East Hampton Town Trustees eventually had to take on the question of a scholarship named for William J. Rysam, an enslaver of other human beings.

Even when I was a punk-rock teenager of 15 and 16, I kept a carefully curated vanity table, my bottles of drugstore body lotion and mail-order pins and badges displayed like a still life, like a Joseph Cornell assemblage.

Thomas Piketty thinks we’re heading toward more equality should the wealth be spread around a bit more.

I had a realization, of sorts, swimming in the warm water off Puerto Rico last week.

This year the fun was bled right out of TurboTax.

I’m glad my daughter is finally getting into thrifting.

It is depressing to think that war, nuclear weaponry, and oceans clogged with plastic will be our legacy to coming generations.

Notes on life in a small plane.

Sag Harbor Village is the big city for me. 

Of late, I have gotten interested in a psychological aspect of cleaning.

A cable TV search for something to watch. Something other than ads.

It was at Theater 80 that I received my education in Barbara Stanwyck and Greer Garson.

Word from sunny Florida raises hopes for a revived piano circuit.

Recollections of an ancestor's relief work in Mariupol, Ukraine, a century ago.