In Which Your Humble Blogger mak—look, just shut the fucking thing off, OK?
In Which Your Humble Blogger reads the sequel first. Again.
In Which Your Humble Blogger really only wants to know if his mother likes it.
In Which Your Humble Blogger brushes up his Shaw.
In Which Your Humble Blogger talks out his ass, but is willing to say the obvious thing that seems to be left unsaid on the air.
In Which Your Humble Blogger finds that a particular novel reads somewhat different in the context of the author’s ouvre than in the context of a different author’s ouvre when you are confused about who wrote what, and haven’t actually read any of that author’s books, even when you think you have.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is a dustman, and wears a dustman’s hat.
In Which Your Humble Blogger tried a diet of quiet rest, no sweets, but went nearly crazy, and went clearly crazy.
In Which Your Humble Blogger can freeze in bed, he can sneeze in bed, he can eat crackers and cheese in bed, but never can he sin in bed.
In Which Your Humble Blogger has read four of the last five Hugo-winning novels, three of them before they won, if I remember correctly.