Columnists

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

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.

“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.

Deep down, I’ve always been an Anglophile.

When grackles attack.

Help comes for a car that gives up the ghost.

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

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.”

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 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.

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.

“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.

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.

A storm’s merely glancing blow leaves a parent free to focus on a daughter’s wrenching departure for college.

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.

One of the things that was supposed to get us through the Covid-19 lockdowns was learning something new.

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.

Mets games over the AM radio only make a trip to Citi Field itself that much sweeter. As long as the rain holds off . . .

Mary said she was excited to hear that I was making Lidia’s roasted eggplant with ziti and ricotta tonight, testimony, I suppose, to the depths of ennui we’ve plumbed — plum tomatoes are in the recipe too — since Emily and the kids left for Ohio, leaving us to marvel on our own at the glowing light she sees caressing us here.

I had been upstairs in the main newsroom working with our August interns when we heard several loud thumps above the usual background noise from outside.

I’m writing this in a blaze of blinding sun and white concrete, poolside at the Lighthouse Inn on Cape Cod, whither the kids and I have hied ourselves for a last-minute, three-night mini-cation. The Lighthouse Inn is a family-run resort founded in 1938, a cottage colony by the sea. A band was playing “Build Me Up, Buttercup” and “Sweet Caroline” by the water’s edge as we checked in.

A veritable tsunami of coffee in a decades-old thriller sets a grateful reader to thinking.

I was thinking the other day, walking in our neighborhood, that we were blessed by God; later, our daughter Emily, who lives in Ohio, told us why.