TinTin was a staple of my childhood.

There used to be a big old kids bookstore in DC called The Cheshire Cat. I don’t remember it very well, which is to say, at all. I do have fragments of memory of bookstores as a child, but I think they’re of The Book Exchange in College Park, and the old B. Dalton in White Flint — you know the one, if you grew up in the area: the double floor plan, the catwalks, the stairwells?

Anyway, The Adventures of TinTin was a Belgian comic written and illustrated by a guy named Herge beginning in the 20s and through until the 70s. That’s not his actual name, just his pseudonym.

Anyway, TinTin’s a bit controversial in his own way — maybe a bit racist, maybe a tad New Order-ry, but I never picked up on any of that as a kid reading these books.

Anyhoodidliehooway, one day while surfing Amazon, I came across something fantastic and amazing: A (Almost But Not Quite) Complete Collection of TinTin. Hardbound, in a box, with three comics collected into each book, the twenty-one TinTin books I’d read over and over and over again, in one package. So of course when Mom was putting out feelers for what I might like for Christmas, this made the top of the list: and sure enough, come Christmas Eve, voila!

I was a bit put off by some of the customer reviews on Amazon.com, which stated that the set’s size made reading the strip difficult. The comics were published (in the States) at a size of 11.5 x 8.5, and these books are 8.75 x 6 (roughly). However, once I opened the set (and I read them in chronological order!), I found that as long as I had sufficient light, reading was easy as eating delicious apple pie.

I mentioned that the set was Almost But Not Quite Complete: two adventures, TinTin in the Congo, and TinTin in the Land of the Soviets, were not included (they are available to buy separately, and I might do that).

You’ll also be hearing more on TinTin in the future: the comics are being adapted into a movie by Steven Spielberg, and the adaption focuses on my favorite books — The Secret of the Unicorn, and Red Rackham’s Treasure.

(By the way? That image above? That’s about the same size as they are in the collection).

UPDATE:

I probably didn’t phrase this post very well, or in the correct tone — most of the people I follow, I do because they’re really great bloggers and I look forward to reading what they write next, so it’s a bit of a, say, cocktease?, to click on my reader and find the same post on everyone’s blog when my first reaction was “OMG! Look at all these great new blog posts to read!”

Like I said in this post, I wish Brandy & her special friend all the best, and I do think it’s probably one of the most emotional posts I’ve ever read … (honestly, anything so moving that could possible put me in as vulnerable an emotional state as to possibly be willing to clean my office’s kitchen, has gotta be pretty damn good).

But in expressing my displeasure at the frequent reposting, I insulted a great deal of people I had no intention of offending, and I truly and humbly apologize.

For those wondering why I haven’t apologized and deleted this post, it’s this: it’s very easy to “re-write history” on the internet by deleting offensive websites, or offensive blog posts. Overall, I think I’m a pretty good guy. But sometimes I can act like a total jerk. Deleting this post wouldn’t make me less of a jerk, but keeping it up here — at the very least — makes me accountable for being that jerk. End update.

During the Christmas season, I let my normal grumpy, curmudgeonly self go, and I become a happy, cheerful, do-unto-other type person, willing to smile even as, on Christmas Eve, a customer is cursing me out because we’re all sold out of some Aretha Franklin CD. “Well, sir, you’ve only known Christmas was coming all year!” I reply with a smile on my face, because, y’know what?

It’s Christmas: and from, say, a few weeks before Thanksgiving through this special holiday, I can be outgoing and pleasant and cheery. Because it’s the meaning of the season, right? Good cheer and peace on Earth?

Yeah, well, guess what motherfuckers, Christmas is over.

Grumpy? ON. Curmudgeon? ON.

Read blogs? Read a lot of blogs? Bet you’ve seen a lot of people reposting a post from a blogger named Brandy about her boyfriend, who was diagnosed with possible incurable cancer. It’s really a beautiful post, very moving, even possibly a little heartbreaking. (Totally serious).

I don’t even have a problem with the post itself (how could I? it makes me want to hug my boss and clean the office kitchen), my problem is with bloggers’ reactions to said post, namely, “Oh, wow! Even through everyone and their mother has already reposted this, I’m going to do it too!” And they’re often doing some sort of schmaltzy intro about the “true meaning of the season” or some-such.

Yeah, season ended three days ago, let’s keep moving on, okay?

Jesus H. Christ, let’s get two things straight here: first off, that post doesn’t need an intro (completely and totally my douchie opinion). Second of all, maybe you’ve noticed this (maybe you haven’t), but bloggers and blog readers tend to visit mostly the same circle — so by the time you decide to repost Brandy’s post, everyone who reads your blog has probably already seen it guest posted fifty ka-billion times.

How many times do you actually expect people to read it? Maybe if you got to it first, but after a while, it’s just, “Oh, so-and-so just reposted Brandy’s plea again. Boy, that’s nice, but I just really don’t feel like reading it for the fifteenth-fucking time.” Isn’t anybody writing anything original? (Obviously, I’m not).

See? I told you I was a douchebag.

And if you need some Aretha Franklin CD for Christmas 2010? You’ve got fifty-one and a half weeks, stop your fucking dilly-dallying.

On my way into the Bookstore yesterday, I stopped by the corner CVS and splurged for a 20oz Coke Zero and two Kraft Easy Mac packets — one would be my dinner that night, the next would be my lunch at the Office the following day, which also happens to be my last working day until 2010.

Yay!

Well, but not so much.

So with dinner and lunch in hand, I walk into the store, descend to the lower level, and shrug off my coat and bag in the backroom. I change out of my heavy, uncomfortable winter shoes into softer sneakers, and I get the office supervisor to sticker* my current read (“Night Over Water” by Follett). I pull the cover off one of the Easy Mac containers, pour in some water, set it in the microwave, set the time for three minutes** and I’m off to the restroom.

Returning to the breakroom, I’m a bit surprised to see the microwave has already finished its cooking cycle. I open the door, and take out a completely non-nuked Easy Mac. Did I forget to press start? I assume so, so I repeat the procedure and hit start.

The microwave runs for two seconds — literally, the display reads 3:00, then 2:59, then 2:58 — and then goes completely dead.

Leaning out of the breakroom, I ask the office supervisor if the microwave is broken. “Yes,” she replies.

“Well, why didn’t you put a note on it?” I ask, kind of incredulous.

“Everyone knows it’s broken,” she replies.

“I didn’t!” I snarl back, and I’m a bit surprised at how upset I am — after all, the Easy Mac? It’s a buck twenty at CVS. Hardly breaking the piggy bank, y’know?

So I grab a piece of paper from the office printer, write “Microwave Broken”, and tape it to the unit. I pitch the cold Easy Mac (I can think of no way to salvage it). Then I ponder what I’m going to have for dinner. I’ve just decided on a giant Babe Ruth bar from the employee vending machine, when our Operations Manager asks why there’s a sign taped to the microwave.

“It’s broken,” I tell her. “I think people ought to know before they waste their money on food they can’t nuke.” I raise my voice a bit for that last part. The Office Supe rolls her eyes and goes back to whatever pointless task she was doing.

“It’s not broken,” the Ops Manager presses the red button on the electrical socket. “The fuse went. You can use it now.”

I’m beyond elated, and grab the second Easy Mac container from my locker. I rip off the top, pour water in it, swirl it all about, stuff it into the microwave, set the time, and hit start.

Once again: 3:00 to 2:59 to 2:58 to complete power down.

“Um,” I say.

“Oh.” She says. “I guess it is broken.” She offers me an apologetic smile. “Sorry…”

So my dinner last night was a Babe Ruth chocolate bar and a small bottle of Coke Zero.

*One loss prevention measure employed by the store is to have a supervisor or manager place a yellow sticker printed by the company on personal items employees bring in which are also sold by the store — so, any books, DVDs, or CDs need to be stickered. It’s sort of pointless because half the time they’re too busy to do it, and don’t have time to get to it until we’re closing up for the night, at which point they’re just taking our word that it’s ours. Can’t tell you how often this happens.

**I know the package says to nuke the thing for three and a half minutes, but through trial and error, I’ve determined the store’s employee microwave’s optimal cooking time for Easy Mac is three minutes.