Columnists

L.A. story: eternal gratitude to that West Hollywood art house cinema for an introduction to Krzysztof Kieslowski’s “Dekalog.”

On the Day of the Dead, I think about them, my immediate forebears.

Only about a month remains in the village’s leaf-pickup program, and at this rate there will be nothing much to suck up.

My children definitely don’t feel the sense of excitement we felt as children at the holidays. They’re quite blasé.

The adventures, follies, and disequilibrium of running on a treadmill.

It was a homecoming win all the more memorable for the fact that its attainment was the players’ gift to their coach and a gift to themselves.

Sea water temperature is projected to rise by .05 to .5 degrees Celsius per decade, with warming expected to be amplified in shallow coastal waters like ours.

You know you are a child of the 1970s when . . .

I’d been looking forward to Cormaria’s “Sunday supper” takeout offering for weeks.

I am reminded of an exhibition the Israeli Tennis Centers, just about all of which were said to be located in underprivileged Israeli neighborhoods, gave a half-dozen years ago at the East Hampton Indoor Tennis Club that Scott Rubenstein manages.

Cerberus and I had the crossing to Old Saybrook to ourselves. I could stand a year of Octobers, I thought.

My friend and I are stuck in something of a creative bind at midcareer, looking around and wondering where the community went.

If you’re questioning the sanity of spending time in front of a television watching professional football, read on.

Gubbins is back and I have a pair of bright, shiny new Asics sneakers on to celebrate the sports store’s return.

When was the last time you saw the tail of a white-tailed deer? They no longer seem to care about the human presence at all.

We are either cynical or naive by nature. I believe this to be true.

When a campus visit becomes an urban tasting tour that smacks the complacency out of your mouth.

It says “Forever” on our stamps, and we say we live in the UNITED States, but I wonder. East Hamptoners, though, give me hope.

The Star last week called it Sammy’s Beach, on Three Mile Harbor, when, in fact, the correct name is Sammis, as in the local family that lived there.

There has been all too much clinging going on in this family.

Netflix’s documentary series “Wrestlers” gets at the real America — you know, the oddball, likable one.

Watching people running at each other like careening trucks while safe in the comfort of one’s own home is probably something to atone for, and yet football is “as American as apple pie.”

It was toward the end of the 2014 Hamptons International Film Festival, and I had been asked to be a juror in the documentary film competition.

Such is the lot of the personal essayist: Sometimes you have to lead with “I.”

Directed onto a heat-oppressed dog, a box fan does double duty as Proustian madeleine.

I am about to begin my 57th year at The Star. Yet I should not be borne wistfully into the past.

What is the Huntting Inn, anyway?

Having spent a lifetime looking at fabrics and trying to imagine what it felt like to live in the material world while wearing a dress of dimity or cambric or society silk, I have gotten pretty good at recognizing what era a print or pattern is from.

When Cormac McCarthy died this summer, I didn’t go to one of his late novels, I went to “Blood Meridian.”

I was taken to task recently for not giving as much space to the Travis Field memorial softball tournament as I did to the Artists and Writers Game, but both events were noteworthy.