Columnists

My son, Teddy, has been given a more-or-less-clean bill of health by his orthopedic surgeon after 12 years of what amounts to rather major medical intervention.

Revisiting Gregory Clark, newspaperman, outdoorsman, critic of modernity.

I should have read the Rotten Tomatoes critics’ and audience’s reviews more thoroughly before taking Mary to “Showing Up” in Sag Harbor on a recent rainy Sunday.

Time is ticking towards Cerberus’s launch day, which means there is a lot to do before Nick the boat-mover shows up.

If the Mets say to grab a mug and tea proudly, I’m happy to oblige.

Fox and Murdoch got off easy.

One summer night, my brother wrecked my car.

Seventeen Edwards Lane had slowly been descending into the gloom for a year or more.

Newspaper vending machines. I miss them.

In the urologist’s office.

Last Thursday’s record high 84 degrees got me reminiscing to a friend about a very, very low-budget feature film I worked on as location manager in the late 1980s.

For 300 years, residents have complained about Town Pond’s turbid appearance.

Notes from the barber’s chair.

No wonder April’s called the cruelest month.

In the basement one evening this week, I began thinking about tools, pacing one’s self, and focusing on the path, instead of the outcome.

Is it possible the pendulum has swung too hard toward time-saving devices, the no-brain zone, and ultraconvenience?

Keeping tabs on the on-again-off-again check engine light.

Carl Johnson hopes Bridgehampton can remain a year-round community.

Tick season is upon us again, and so are conversations about the East End’s public enemy number one.

The other day, when looking into family history for a column, I read a New Yorker magazine profile of a charming rustic character by the name of Everett Joshua Edwards: my great-grandfather.

It’s the simplicity, stupid.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez said that in Latin America, the completely fantastical was reality.

I will be in the 60-plus demographic by the time the new East Hampton senior citizens center opens; I have to get my 2 cents in somehow.

I’m more than a little susceptible to seasonal affective disorder, but my outlook brightens as soon as the big hand on the grandfather clock is wound forward an hour on daylight saving time and the afternoons begin to lengthen.

We interrupt raging March Madness to wonder when the Jets’ Aaron Rodgers waiting game will ever end.

Unlike Dante, we began our trip in Purgatory at the federal building on the city’s Lower West Side.

There was a time when I paid close attention to what it said on the backs of seed envelopes. Now I know enough to make my own decisions about the timing of when to plant.

This week’s column is the personal-essay equivalent of a very bad odor. Prepare yourself, reader!

The surprising end result of all that construction work at La Guardia.

Is heaven some sort of club, a fraternity? If so, its population may be sparse.