Columnists

At last, lyrics you could sink your teeth into.

Things are comfortable here, so much so that one wants to stay put.

A goodbye to Little League and its ball field.

Being by the ocean is not, to me, a frivolous pursuit.

Convenience mart food, and food for thought, at a pit stop in the land of plenty.

I’m intrigued by the fact that I’ve been diagnosed with paroxysmal supraventricular tachycardia.

It’s important to talk about how social media distorts the digital world we see — and don’t see.

I’m not going to go gentle into that good night.

What’s all this fuss about lawn care?

Countries like Britain, Scotland, Australia, New Zealand, and Canada, all chagrined by mass shootings at one time or another, have all effectively enacted gun safety laws.

When people complain about tape, most times, it seems to me, they are talking about red. But in my case, my beef is with blue, literally.

I have actually considered if I would or wouldn’t bow, if and when I were to meet Queen Elizabeth.

When your kids start going to the movies without you.

Covid worries and pollen aside, I can think of nowhere else I’d rather be at this time of year.

Living where I do down in the dunes past Amagansett, ticks are just part of the scenery.

Is it weird that I think of mortality — transience and permanence — whenever I drive my car on the New Jersey Turnpike?

It can be hard to muster much enthusiasm for N.B.A. players today, when you were weaned on the likes of Larry Bird, Robert Parish, and Kevin McHale.

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?

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

A plea for no phones at the wheel, before artificial intelligence takes over the roads.

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.

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.

Profundity and solace from an unlikely source.

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.

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.

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.

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.