The Fredösphere

James Lileks is bleating about Tintin.  Six months ago I would not have been able to identify that name.  Had you showed me some of the artwork, I would have said it was vaguely familiar.  But one day my five-year-old son (Der Drübermensch) noticed the Tintin series on the shelf at the Ann Arbor library, and we were off.  Now we spend the last few minutes of every day reading a few pages.

Here's the official site.

So, what's with the knickers? In the later stories, Tintin seems to be trapped in a clothing time warp while everyone around him has adopted hip fashions like bell bottoms and wide lapels. My theory is that our hero has made some kind of Faustian bargain. I will never die, but remain in my mid-twenties for all eternity, and the only catch is, I have to wear these increasingly outmoded pants?  That doesn't seem too bad! What he doesn't realize is, in four hundred years he'll be living a jaded, debauched nightmare where he claws maniacally at the now tattered and filthy rags hanging about his waist while everyone else is wearing metallic jumpsuits -- or has evolved to a point where clothing is unnecessary.