Columnists

The D.H. comes to the National League, and no one misses the old ways.

Where meanness, which surfaces every now and then, comes from I don’t know.

Step outside of the East Hampton Star building on Main Street on a summer day and there is a very high probability that a private jet will be overhead.

We’re going to get petty this week, reader. Let’s get trifling. Let’s talk about signage.

Shades of Jimmy Carter, the part of my hair suddenly switched sides.

I must say, in retrospect, that if the coronavirus were still raging, Authors Night would have been a good place to catch it.

As August rolls to a leisurely close, a minor mystery has returned to my neighborhood: the Cranberry Hole Road banana bandit is back after a long absence. 

And now for the budget portion of our Italian vacation.

From streaming services to superheroes, it’s sensory overload.

Don’t look back, as Satchel Paige said, for something might be gaining on you.

A hero of roadside seed spreading.

My extremely rudimentary ideas of Rome previously came from the movies.

The undiscovered country of Riverhead dining.

A coach’s argument that his prayers following high school football games were private and personal is hard to believe.

Deer have radically altered the microhabitat here.

Whenever the subject of romance comes up, I like to say that I reached my peak of popularity in July 1979.

Notes on the air-conditioning wars.

I say the evidence as to Donald Trump’s criminal intent has been there all along.

An encounter with driveway theft.

Spaghetti-eaters have been scratching their names and initials into the wood paneling at Sam’s Restaurant on Newtown Lane since 1947.

A show for the (restaurant) working stiff.

It’s depressing reading about young people’s apathy when it comes to voting.

A bunch of us had gone clamming off a boat on Sunday, which was the last I had seen the wallet.

I’m in the camp that believes the deer have got to go.

A summertime afternoon with the Hamptons Collegiate Baseball League.

To O’en, when he’s on the move, everything is new — the quotidian becomes all-absorbing. I envy him that.

Deer do not read The Star. As best as I can tell, neither do the rabbits that ate my parsley last summer.

I once read someplace that the popular song most frequently to be found on the jukeboxes of the Empire State was Sinatra’s “Summer Wind.”

Encounters with Loudon Wainwright III.

Let’s hear it for freedom.