Opinion

Most, if not nearly all, of the Airbnb hosts in East Hampton Town are breaking the law.

If you’re like me, a fishing greenhorn after you’ve already gone gray, I’ve got a few tips.

There is a little-known grave­site in East Hampton where the remains of Nathaniel R. Arch, a genuine United States war hero, lie.

Nantucket voters earlier this month voted in favor of topless bathing. But what about New York State, or even East Hampton?

Did those who died in this country’s wars, who defended an egalitarian, optimistic, forward-looking society, die so that its lawmaking bodies would simply sit on their hands doing nothing, stymied when confronted with issues demanding action?

It is often said that gas prices are out of whack on the South Fork, and now all prices are.

Like Chicago in 2003, East Hampton Town owns its airport, free of promises to the F.A.A. But unlike in the Windy City, there is a growing contingent of residents who say East Hampton’s should be closed.

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.

There should no longer be any mistaking the racist core of what has become of the Republican Party, both nationally and in our own state.

Honeybees will not make a hole in your house, but they will take advantage of an existing one. So be sure to take a good look around your property and seal up all cracks and crevices.

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.

These days, “one could do worse than yield to the power of food.” And poetry.

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.

The waters around Sag Harbor and Shelter Island have become incredibly busy in recent years. Adding regular ferry trips seems unwise.

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.

Whether meaningful reductions in flights by the most noxious aircraft will be achieved remains to be seen.

Profundity and solace from an unlikely source.

The organizers of the May 1 5K run in East Hampton Village deserve the highest praise.

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.

About half of the East Hampton Town shoreline is eroding. Sea level rise will increase the affected area to all of the town’s waterfront over time. These are the key points in a draft policy document released last week intended to guide officials as they contemplate how to prepare.

Lessons from the Dutch travails of World War II.

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.

A January survey conducted by CNN found that 69 percent of Americans were opposed to overturning the landmark case of Roe v. Wade and Planned Parenthood v. Casey, the 1992 opinion limiting the right to an abortion but preserving the fundamental freedom to choose to terminate a pregnancy.

Whenever I give a lecture and someone asks me why so many Jews went like sheep to the slaughter during the Holocaust, the question sets my teeth on edge.

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