Columnists

We should see our history whole, not just cherry-pick the good parts.

It was a proud father moment for me watching the East Hampton Village Board meeting two weeks ago.

It’s 2021 and the voices of artificial intelligence that call our landlines attempting grand larceny never sound as human as Hal 9000 did.

When I interrupt, it isn’t because I want to stifle discussion, it’s because I want to extend it.

It seems to me that we Americans assume that the things we surround ourselves with are made not by actual people, but through some form of immaculate extrusion.

How about the worker bees getting their due for a change?

Someone said that he thought it was the last day of summer, but there was too much going on to reflect then upon the waning light.

There is a deepening frustration with the East End’s direction.

Good times, literally and figuratively, at a massive college cross-country meet in an unlikely place — the National Warplane Museum in northwestern New York.

How pleasant it must have been to be an inhabitant of that now-distant Cheever America of General Electric affluence, Buicks and Panasonics, and 10,000 swimming pools.

There’s a qualitative difference in pleasure between typing names into the YouTube search box and sheer happenstance over the airwaves.

Deep down, I’ve always been an Anglophile.

“We’ll always have the Wyndham Greencastle Super 8.”

So far I have spent only one night aboard Cerberus, as my work on it continues.

Help comes for a car that gives up the ghost.

This is the time when the fledged osprey learn to fend for themselves

When grackles attack.

Nothing is cozier and more hygge to me than the East Hampton Library. The library and I go way back.

A podcast explores the collaborative process of making a story.

When you hear corporate titans and the 1 percent rail that the Democrats’ efforts to revive the middle class in this country are “socialistic,” remember what the founding fathers said.

Too often we define ourselves by what we aspire to, rather than what we already have.

Thoughts on fandom, time-wasting, and the “refreshment factor.”

In seventh grade at the East Hampton Middle School, our math teacher taught us how to balance a checkbook by having us each run an imaginary store.

It’s up to us, to our inner drive, not to school ties or pedagogical assessments, as to whether we straighten up and fly right.

Each busy season here has its own characteristics.

In Netflix’s “The Chair,” one of the backdrops is declining enrollment at a small liberal arts college, and an English department, if not an entire discipline, in existential crisis.

A three-way conversation that I had by chance over the weekend inadvertently got to the root of something that underlies a lot of conflict here — resistance to change.

“I almost got court-martialed for wearing frayed cutoff shorts like that,” I said to Ed Hollander in the early going of the recent Artists-Writers Softball Game.

Do you want to know what year people stopped smiling and saying “hello” as they passed one another on the sidewalks of East Hampton? That would be the year of our Lord 1994.

Perhaps the calamitous end to the endless war in Afghanistan will finally persuade us that a liberal democracy cannot be grafted through force of arms onto other societies.