Well, it’s the season. The sci-fi kink crowd is prowling the streets. People of all ages are standing in five hour long lines. The Mennonites are handing out lavender Jesus brochures. My ladywife, Alex, has been reduced to the ole duck n cover into my shoulder every time someone mentions those magic words, “I know how it ends.” The familiar sirens and tubas of Mass Ave have been supplanted with child-type people screaming out of car windows at the top of their lungs: Harry Potter Rocks.

Leaving me with only two things to say:

1) I DO know how it ends.

2) People have got to stop telling me about how woe-is-them for always being mistaken for H. Pott. Dedicated readers might notice this is blag #2 on which I’m complaining about this phenomenon. That’s how annoying it is. Do you get it? Enough to make someone blog on two DIFFERENT sites.  (I have closed down the other one, but thanks for all the good times.)

a. blogging hasn’t worked

b. must try a more direct approach to nip-problem-in-bud. See below a list of all the people I can think of who have made this inane conversation with me. Please feel free to comment with other accusations. Only you can prevent forest fires.

i. Alexander “pie” Weissman, “A to the K Ward” Kasia, Nicosystem, Spencer (reprieve: he’s 9), Tom White,

ii. I will provide the email addresses, phone numbers, and shoe sizes of all these offenders for a small fee

*for reference see L. Coleman’s explanation of Foucault’s Discipline and Punish. In particular, the facts that confess themselves.

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