Columnists

When I was a teenager, the doomed trajectory of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s life story caught my attention.

There’s more going on than you’d think at Sunken Meadow come state qualifier time.

I quit Facebook years ago, convinced that, despite the happy patina, it was by and large a medium for meanness, for back-stabbing, name-calling, ganging-up, and worse.

Doing the storms, the worst rot I found was on windows less than 20 years old made of junk wood and not intended to last.

In the mid-1970s, Promised Land was like the wilderness of the Bible.

All legislation held hostage? There’s gotta be another way.

“What difference does it make, really, when we’re floating around in space in a hostile universe?”

We in the news business have to be sure to walk the information over to where readers are, and not expect all of them to come to us.

I myself don’t believe in specters, but this is a true story.

“Us,” the PBS mini-series that ran on “Masterpiece” — every married couple should see it.

Yesterday, in the throes of a flushed feeling of unease, “a full-body tingling” that seems to occur monthly whose cause has yet to be determined by the cardiologists — that it doesn’t happen every night when the NewsHour’s on can be counted a blessing — I answered “not very well” when asked, casually, how I was feeling.

For many of us, the windstorm that lingered from Tuesday into Wednesday brought to mind 2012 and Superstorm Sandy, which paralyzed the Northeast. Oct. 28 of that year had been still and warm enough that two of the Rattray children had gone swimming at the copper-gold end of the day.

Many times over the last 13 years, since my daughter arrived home at the age of 1, I’ve wanted to astonish everyone with my own list of all the tasks and errands I accomplish daily. I can hardly believe, myself, that I wake up by 6:30, and not infrequently by 5:45 a.m., in order to begin the varied and often esoteric chores of momming, from goldfish-feeding to trumpet-renting.

Best diner ever.

We should see our history whole, not just cherry-pick the good parts.

It was a proud father moment for me watching the East Hampton Village Board meeting two weeks ago.

We have entered red-pickup season.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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

Deep down, I’ve always been an Anglophile.

When grackles attack.