Columnists

Road rage: Nine out of 10 people say they don’t have it. Actually, I have no idea if that’s true; I just made up the statistic to get your attention. But the subject has been on my mind a lot lately.

On the roads the layer of snowpack and slush was an improvement, quieting the traffic, for once slowing the heedless drivers, adding adventure to the school drop-off routine. 

My career on the stage was short and inglorious.

A happy memory of a trip to a micro brewery, and an unhappy realization that now all bottled beer tastes stale.

Why I gave my 9-year-old son a BB gun for Christmas merits a bit of explanation.

A couple of weeks ago things were so garbled on the sports page that Mary thought some readers might think I was senile. “Don’t worry,” someone in the front office said. “People have been saying that for years.”

We are in a housing crisis on the South Fork. No one seems to have found the right solution.

A father and a daughter, playoff football on the TV at a snow-swept B&B, and the glories of western New York.

Birds’ cries are full of mystery.

Having fallen kersplat on a particularly unforgiving sidewalk near Starbucks the other day, I knew it was time to trade in my sneakers.

We sat rapt last night, beyond our bedtime, through a chilling “Frontline” report on those who think their freedom’s infringed if they cannot infringe upon the freedom of others.

Few things are as satisfying as a well-done home repair.

A tough row to hoe for the college bound.

A litany of localism test questions

From Atlanticville to Hog Neck, what happened to the great place names of yore?

We find ourselves in the perverse position of wishing for raw, freezing weather.

Sports here got off to a stuttery start last year at this time, and I’m hoping this dreary virus doesn’t eat again into one of my life’s chief joys, which is rooting animatedly for the home, sweet home team.

While the pandemic has created havoc in so many aspects of life, Covid-19 has turned out to be the one thing that could finally save the Department of Motor Vehicles.

It’s Tuesday morning at 10 minutes to 10, and I have somehow neglected to come up with a subject for this week’s column, which needs to be turned in by 2:20 this afternoon.

Hobbled and fearing the worst, I jumped at a chance to see my knee doctor in Great Neck on the Tuesday before Christmas.

The first-ever issue of this paper read in a gothic font, “The Easthampton Star.” Seeing the name of the town as one word has raised the question of when East Hampton became two words and if it ever properly was just one.

Togetherness through cards.

It's always easier to destroy than to build, Mary keeps telling me. Perhaps that's why we're at each other's throats, on the Internet and elsewhere — it's easier.

It seems everyone took up at least one new thing during the pandemic. What with few or no social obligations and nowhere to go, we have tried to learn a fresh skill or do better at a familiar chore. Cleaning the kitchen has never been so interesting!

It's Spidey to the rescue — of cinemas. And just in time, before the hacking, feverish world backslides into another lockdown.

Radio seems to be surviving the advent of the internet, doesn’t it? Reading suffers, print media staggers, but listening goes on. I’m a radio person. You are or you aren’t.

Stephen Sondheim on the good, the bad, and the unheard.

The best part of Christmas is the run-up.

Yes, “play looser” is good advice, good advice in general, I’d say.

Two hundred sixteen years ago today, a woman enslaved by Samuel L’Hommedieu in Sag Harbor gave birth to a boy.