Columnists

A show for the (restaurant) working stiff.

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.

A summertime afternoon with the Hamptons Collegiate Baseball League.

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.”

Let’s hear it for freedom.

Encounters with Loudon Wainwright III.

Getting away from the week’s distractions would not be as easy as I had expected.

It’s getting hard to keep a grasp on what is and isn’t the right thing to do or to permit, with this teenage girl of mine.

Whenever Mark Shields would ask Judy Woodruff during his Friday evening discussions with David Brooks if he could say just one thing, Mary and I would come to the edge of our seats, she on the small couch, I on the recliner, knowing he was about to speak from the heart to our better angels.

A chance conversation last week while I was waiting for my food pickup at La Fondita got me thinking about the way those of us who work for a living on the South Fork talk about summer.

Lawrence Block’s hard-boiled romance of the down-and-out.