Columnists

What exactly does it mean when you can’t finish a book — not once, but over and over again?

This column is being written toward sunset from the harbor at Plymouth, Mass. Alone time, something so many of us say we want, is elusive, but I have had time to think this week.

“Cancel” is the word of the year, and not just in the social-shunning sense.

The airline industry may be on the verge of collapse, but once upon a time pilots were celebrities, dating movie stars, driving fancy cars — hold the autopilot, thank you very much.

Since we are all still feeling our way around remote work and online meetings, I thought that I would ask my high school junior for a few tips.

A creeping dread — of finding ourselves homebound again, wearing fuzzy slippers and harassed expressions around the kitchen table, bickering about who ate the last Klondike Bar — has driven me to wallow in as much outdoor time as I possibly can before the temperature falls.

I was limited to 20-minute segments of highlights over a small laptop screen, but even that couldn’t diminish the pleasures of the Tour de France.

This is a column about poop trucks.

I am extremely bent out of shape about the apparent near-future extinction of the Atlantic right whale.

What happens when your children go back to school after six months of family time at home?

If I could only get to Abraham’s Path and make it across the railroad tracks without the tire rim shattering, I would be okay.

There was a fair bit more activity in front of the Star office when the Methodist Lane United States Postal Service mailboxes were inaccessible during work on the railroad trestles nearby.

I’ve just come from chasing my son as he set off double-quick for his first day in Mr. Tupper’s fifth-grade class at the John M. Marshall Elementary School.

It took a global pandemic lockdown for me to finally appreciate my father’s lifelong predilection for napping.

First cellphone service, next the U.S. mail. It’s no wonder Americans’ trust in public institutions is not stronger.

Some people have “sensitivities” to particular sounds or to the fabric content of sweaters. I myself have a pretentious sensitivity to trendy words.

Dominic Smith, the good-guy left fielder, first baseman, and designated hitter for the Mets, broke down when discussing the implications of the police shooting of Jacob Blake.

Something I noticed only recently about the pandemic is that I felt significantly more animated after talking with a friend or even making a work call.

The problem with buying good, fat Maine lobsters is that no one in my household will eat them with me.

Monday night’s opening of the Republican National Convention raised important questions every American must ponder.

Nearly every morning since the middle of March, I get up, make coffee, feed the dogs, and look up the previous day’s coronavirus numbers.

Graduation was held at the Hayground School in Bridgehampton on Saturday evening, and the parents kind of fell apart.

When reality throws you for a loop, there’s always the escapism of the Great American Comic Book.

Searching for something for our weekly “Recovering the Past” contest, I found a photograph I had taken in August, almost exactly 30 years ago today.

Like many of us sinners, I spend too much time shopping on the internet.

I’ve been waiting for someone to say something to me about the “Free Leonard Peltier” shirts I’ve been wearing.

The novel coronavirus, ever refracting normalcy, casts an eerie glow on the path ahead.

Some people just will not wear masks. This struck me on the Cross Sound Ferry on my way back from Massachusetts.

One of the greatest compensations for losing sleep on squad night is driving home through empty streets and then walking slowly up to my stoop from the driveway in the still of the night.

What to make of the Amazin’s in this weirdly brief and virus-plagued season?