Columnists

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

Deep down, I’ve always been an Anglophile.

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.”