My name is Grumps, which is perhaps the least inventive nickname ever assigned, though I wasn't the one who assigned it. The title was conferred, quite accidentally, by a friend’s six-year-old daughter—a tiny despot who seemingly mistook me for a character in a low-budget Russian cartoon. Naturally, my wife, Kiki, and my four sons thought this was hilarious and immediately declared it my official "Granddad Name." My protests were, as always, utterly ignored. So now, when we’re home, we are Kiki and the Grumps, a name that, to my ear, sounds less like a happy couple and more like a spectacularly terrible lounge duo booked on a cruise ship that hasn't seen port since 1983.

When it comes to this comic book operation, Kiki is, frankly, just glad that my obsessive, bordering-on-pathological attention has been diverted from correcting the cutlery drawer to sorting comics, leaving her largely un-annoyed.

I am often asked about the name, The Grumpy Apothecary. I should confess immediately that I am not a pharmacist, nor do I peddle elixirs or poultices. The "Apothecary" is simply the ghost of a truly dreadful regional theatre production of Romeo & Juliet from twenty years ago, in which I played the titular, underpaid poison-mixer. The "Grumpy" part, I assure you, is simply the residual feeling one gets after spending three hours sorting through a new shipment.

This entire operation is strictly online, which saves us both a great deal of trouble. The "store" is merely a small, dingy corner of the house that Kiki permits me to use for my inventory. And while the overhead lighting flickers, I can assure you that I am genuinely glad I am not operating this entire enterprise out of my parents' basement. One must retain some dignity.

The shop is how I—an otherwise occupied professional with a rather unconventional work schedule—maintain a shred of sanity. My job requires me to travel the world, and while that sounds glamorous, the reality is less James Bond and more endless, soul-crushing hours spent in airports, followed by crippling jetlag. The administrative boredom between assignments is enough to make a man voluntarily purchase a Hulk #181.

My philosophy is simple: Quality comics at realistic prices. It is a joyless endeavor, but one I pursue with rigid discipline.

The only true source of stress, the thing that keeps me awake at night, is the staggering incompetence of my own suppliers. I have, on several occasions, nearly closed the entire business due to the sheer volume of comics they ship to me, bagged and boarded with the poly-bag flap tucked under the book, obscuring the cover. This is not merely amateur; it is an act of barbarism. The flap goes in the back, people. It is the
literary equivalent of tucking your napkin into the collar of a dinner jacket. My customers, rest assured, always receive correctly flapped comics. I am not a monster; I am merely the weary, final line of defense against chaos.

If you are a decent human being who appreciates a correctly-flapped comic and understands the difference between Near Mint and Used Coaster, welcome. If you are one of the others, perhaps try
Etsy. I hear they cater to optimists.