Opinion

I started writing the Willie Black mystery series back in 2010 after a long career of writing literary fiction (10 of those so far). Some of the first 10 Willies (all published by The Permanent Press) were based loosely on real events in the very real city of Richmond, where I live. No. 11, though, was different.

We’ve all been living in the Goldilocks period — what scientists have determined to be not too hot, not too cold, but just right for the birth of human civilization. I don’t know about you, but after 11,700 years, I’ve gotten quite used to it. Now we’re entering head-on into the Anthropocene era, a period defined by human domination and the catastrophic mess its created.

Imagine you’re an albatross whose stomach is so bloated with plastic that you can hardly walk. Or a sea turtle suffocating on a plastic bag that you mistook for a jellyfish. Or a socialite at a gala, reaching to nibble on a shrimp canapé and unwittingly ingesting toxic microplastics. Whatever sort of creature you are, the deleterious effects of plastic are almost impossible to avoid.

What’s the hottest you’ve ever been? That time you were gills-to-breathe, flip-flops-stuck-to-asphalt, torture-chamber hot. Almost everyone’s been there. For me, it was Phnom Penn, Cambodia, 2019.

Just because it’s sitting in a wheelbarrow, doesn’t mean it’s local. When I decided to reduce my carbon footprint by eating more local, I had to come to terms with the sad fact that farm stand pineapples are not grown out here. And those pretty packages labeled, “Produit en France?” Probably not either.

One of the dangers of moving out to the East End from the city, is that you could find yourself trapped in a septic tank conversation (and yes, it’s really a thing). Like most New Yorkers, I just assumed that waste water magically disappeared to some far away kingdom inhabited by abandoned pet alligators and our tax dollars. After 14 years of living out here, I still wasn’t exactly sure what a septic tank did.

My 2010 Toyota Corolla is what people politely call a beach car, and impolitely call a piece of … well … they’re just being honest. The exterior is covered in nicks and scrapes. Inside, it looks like I’m always on my way to the dump. It’s the sort of car that you never have to lock, because if someone is desperate enough to steal it, be my guest.

Most people know God for his work as a spiritual guide for the last several thousand years. But what often gets overlooked is that as world creator, he’s an expert on the environment. Since he has over six billion followers (not including Instagram), I was lucky to score an interview with him when I ran into him at the W hotel.

Rainbows, beach walks, silk scarves, jazz and smoky bars are just some themes in Grace Schulman’s new book of poems “The Marble Bed.”

My favorite moment returning home to Sag Harbor after renting our house out has always been discovering Renter Food, the massive amount of stuff left behind that I’d never think to buy, but was happy to find (Cha-Ching!). This was our junk food Christmas.

In truth, there is nothing to grapple with here: Regardless of where a voter falls on the political spectrum, a vote for Fred W. Thiele Jr. is the only sensible one.

There are two questions on the November 3 ballot from Suffolk County. Our position is that “no” is the proper way to mark the ballot in both instances.

Nancy Goroff is our enthusiastic choice for the 1st District seat in the U.S. House of Representatives.

For the first time since 1977, the 1st District will not be represented in the State Senate by Kenneth LaValle, who is retiring after a legendary career.

In 2012, a thirsty dog named Rosie stopped to lap up a bit of water from Georgica Pond. Three hours later she was dead. A toxin called microcystin that’s commonly caused by algae blooms was found in her liver. It’s hard not to see Rosie as the canary in the coal mine. If this could happen in the pond of Steven Spielberg and Ron Perelman, it can happen anywhere.