Aside from annoying me, it would seem like the “Star Wars” marketing machine would anger purists. And yet I don’t hear anyone complaining. I asked two of my biggest “Star Wars” fan friends, whom I respect and adore and hope are still my friends after reading this, if any of this saturation bothers them. Both said not even a little.

I don’t get it — I love “Seinfeld,” but I don’t want to buy Kramer creamer or Elaine-inspired lipstick. Nor do I want to know that, somewhere, someone’s getting turned on by a George Costanza parody porno.

On a deeper level, the best part of fandom is the immeasurable joy of feeling like you’re part of a special community of brethren, with whom you speak a special language. When your secret club is the entire universe — and it’s all on sale! — it doesn’t feel much like a community anymore.

I’ve got nothing against “Star Wars” or its fans. Part of me really wants to experience their world. But turning mine into one giant “Star Wars” strip mall is only ensuring I never will.