Of course I did: Yesterday I literally slipped on a banana peel. It was outside the car.

Mystery: Okay, so. There is this Wise Potato Chip truck from the 80s that parks in random places all over Southie, and Tom and I have been obsessed with it for like three years, because inside are either Federal Agents or sex traffickers or stolen televisions, but definitely not Wise Potato Chips. It’s fun to look for, like Waldo or that turkey that got loose a couple of years ago, and it always winds up being someplace weird like outside the post office or by that grocery store on Dorchester Street that advertises forty pounds of meat for 60 dollars.

We watched the South Boston No Reservations last night, which is probably a whole post in itself, but at one point (after the grinders at Rondo’s but before they get hammered at Quenchers and that guy throws chunks of ice at them on the street) there is a long, moody shot of Weirdly Sexy Anthony Bourdain walking up Broadway. Creeping along behind him?

THE WISE POTATO CHIP TRUCK.

Ina’s Carrot Raisin Salad: GROSS, INA. Disappointing. Weird and wet and too peppery.

PSA: Please let it be known that I have hated Donald Trump since at least 1998, when he said a tasteless thing about Hanson. THIS IS WHY I HOLD GRUDGES, SIR. BECAUSE PEOPLE LIKE YOU CONTINUE TO BE THE WORST IN TWO MILLENNIA.

Further Adventures in Fabricated Makeouts: I watched The Voice and now I want Adam Levine and Christina Aguilera to secretly date each other.  He’s a womanizer! She’s still smarting from her divorce! Dear Universe, please deliver, I have pop star romcoms on the brain.