I'd pass the throne on my usual walk home, but somehow, I only really noticed it at night, stumbling home alone or with friends who lived nearby. Perhaps it was once a grand tree, and then a grand stump, from which someone had carved a giant seat. Bubbling from a recent darts victory, some of us would climb up into it and stare out at the somewhat disappointing view of its kingdom: the little patch of grass next to the dog park. Although it could almost accommodate two people sitting cheek-to-cheek, the throne wasn't particularly comfortable, and within a few sobering seconds, we would hop off for fear of termite infestation.

Still, the throne was a regal landmark, and when I would see anyone trying it on for size, it always made me smile. On a recent walk-by, I noticed that the throne was missing, with some apologetic gravel and safety cones in its place. I was shocked by its absence, but then I remembered that in recent months, it had appeared tired and rotted. Few people dared to clamber up its little steps into its seat anymore. So much for the throne. I'm hoping for a new tree.

When I was little, Michael Jackson was my first understanding of celebrity. There he was, on my T.V. screen, dancing in videos. My older sister liked him too, which meant he must have been cool. We would spin his record on the family stereo, and I would pour over the album art. There he was, posing with a tiger. I would sing, "the chid is not my son," not knowing what the hell I was talking about. There he was, singing from my radio.

News broke that he had been injured while filming a Pepsi commercial, and I was devastated. He was burned? I was sincerely worried. Would he ever be the same? From that point onward, I eyed Pepsi warily. I looked for evidence in Michael's next public appearance (quite possibly the legendary "We Are the World" taping), and wondered if that matted spot on the side of his head was the wound he would always bear.

Tonight, I felt a twinge of that same devastation returning, but mostly, I was just sad.

From the vantage point of the fisherman's seat in the bow of the cleanup boat, the Charles is a beautiful, wetland waterway in spots, and a bold, wide, wind-swept urban bisector in others. Giant herons sweep down from treetops, feasting on the brief herring season before moving on. Canadian geese herd lines of goslings through the water and up an embankment. Solitary scullers take a breather before passing under a bridge, a man stands by his boat docked at the Esplanade, and asks our boat captain, for the 100th time, whether we've caught anything yet.

It was a light day by cleanup boat standards but we still pulled from the water the defining detritus of our city: dunkin' donuts cups, water bottles, beer cans, condoms, liquor bottles, candy wrappers, 1 flip flop (mens, Teva), 1 bicycle, balloons, plastic bags, 1 shoe (ladies, Blowfish), potato chip bags, beer bottles, and a Blackberry.

As a passenger, I have watched from the bus window: the biker, mouthing the word "shit" as he realized that the passing bus, nosing over to a stop, was about to encroach on the bike lane before the bicyclist could squeeze past.
As a bike rider, I know the fear and triumph of spotting a bus behind me and speeding away from it, knowing that as the distance increased between us, it became less and less of a concern.
I hadn't really thought about the bus driver until I was riding on a road suddenly jammed with morning traffic. I hesitated when I saw a stopped bus picking up passengers, signaling that would rejoin the long line of unmoving vehicles. As I wondered whether I could sneak up the bike lane before the bus lurched across it, I saw the driver's arm extend out the window, waving someone through. I couldn't imagine he meant me, but as I slowly started to pedal forward, he gave a thumbs up. I tried to toss a "thank you" toward the window as I passed, but I’m not sure he heard me.

I am fascinated by the bizarre, loveable addition of BriTunes to msnbc.com, although his playlist might be the first that doesn't actually play music.

You can read it here.

"Oh yeah, park that thing!"
--Uttered by me, under my breath, as I watched the driver of a Smart Car squeeze into a tiny spot on a crowded street, 9:18 p.m., Wednesday

Etiquette on the esplanade sidewalk is rudimentary at best. Walkers stay to the right of runners; both yield to roller bladers; all three should stay the hell out of the way of bicyclists. Among the bikers, even, there is some protocol: allow faster riders to pass, take care around narrow turns, etc. Still, when someone is passing, one would be hard pressed to get even a grunt of notice. Occasionally the passer yells a curt, "on your left!" at the passee, but even those notifications are rare.

So it was when I was riding home today, taking my sweet old time on my beloved single speed, enjoying the pleasant weather. From the corner of my left eye, I could see a man coming up to pass me. He rode a high-tech road bike and was decked in cycling clothes.

"Redline 925", he said, enjoying every syllable of my bike's name. "Thing of beauty!"
"Thank you!" I said in the time it would take for him to pass me. What else could one say while moving at 30 MPH?

Still, he hung back, and asked me how long I'd had it, did I love it, and how about those new handlebars? (I explained that I shorted them a little to get them just right.) We were pedaling at the same pace, but suspended in time, talking shop about bikes.

"That is a thing of beauty," he said again. I smiled, he sped off. At 5:30 p.m. on a Friday, my bike was getting hit on.

In a downtown bar that we hadn't been to since we were in our annoying early 20s, LBC and I realized that we shouldn't have been surprised that the rest of the clientele were annoying early-twentysomethings. With its prime Boylston St location, the bar was clearly a destination of booze trains of all kinds, which easily fell into categories, like the Popped-collar Pub Crawl or the Diminutive Bachelorette Party.

When a group stumbled in wearing sombreros and shaking maracas, I thought Swine Flu Pub Crawl, but LBC reasoned that they were just getting an early jump on Cindo de Mayo. Touché.

Dear Mom,

I don't yet know what I will get you for Mother's Day, but I promise it will be none of these six items, suggested by Walgreens.

Love,
Katie

Apple may be set to sell its billionth app on Friday, but for me, the iPhone is all about convergence. I was always juggling my phone, iPod, and camera, missing calls while rocking out or scrambling to dig up my ringing phone while snapping a picture. Now I just shift seamlessly with the pinch of the microphone on the headphones.

Still, it must've been jarring for the people on my greenline train when, startled myself, I answered a call somewhere beneath Government Center. "Hello?" I said a little too loudly, breaking the commuting silence. LBC was on the line and she couldn't hear me very well, so I must've screamed "Hello?" a few more times, now with the full attention of my fellow passengers.

"Where are you,?" she asked.
"The train."
"I don't know where that is."
"The train?? The T?" I said in that harmless stern voice family use with each other but in fact sounds bitchtastic to strangers.

Later, LBC and I shared a laugh as I retold the story, but for my captive audience on the E Line inbound, I am forever branded as that bitch who was talking to herself.

During those in-between years when the Boston Celtics were not blindingly awesome and winning championships, their fans were a curmudgeonly group. They had a tough team to love, their beloved "Gahden" had been reduced to rubble, and the new, sterile Fleetcenter kept all of the team banners, retired numbers, and traditions, but none of the charm.

These days, the C's are blindingly awesome, and at nearly every home game, their fans can almost rest assured that the Green will pull out a win in the end. The crowd can turn their attention to other pursuits, namely, getting on the Jumbotron. The game on the court runs parallel to the game that begins at home, in front of a mirror, when bright green afros are donned, stomachs and bald heads are painted with shamrocks, and someone says, "yeah, what a great idea to wear a green full body suit tonight."

At the game, they participate in a vigorous competition to get noticed, by dancing wildly during every time out, waiting for that moment when they see themselves staring back from the giant glowing screen. They do their signature move and proclaim victory, until the other guy with the lime green mullet steals back the spotlight, and the cycle begins again.

A Passover lesson: When partying it up with a first born under the age of 4, this is known as the plague we do not speak of. On the upside, pants are optional.

The store was open for another two hours, but with the clock nearing 10:00 p.m. on a Thursday, the aisles were becoming more and more deserted. Bread looked especially forlorn; was it fresh for the next day, or day-old from the previous? The fish counter was empty, even of ice. Two supermarket employees briskly whisked away last week's specials as shoppers looked on, perplexed; were the sale prices still good?
In the freezer aisle, two women stared at the overwhelming amount of Edy's Slow-Churned ice cream, marked down from $5.79 to $2.99. Clearly, neither would walk away empty handed when faced with such a bargain, but they shrugged their shoulders at each other and laughed, unsure of which flavor to pick.