On The Streets Where You Live

There was a walk, back when I was living in Aberdeen, that always felt… I don’t know, charged? That may be the wrong word, but that’s what comes to mind, that’s what it felt like. As if there were some kind of magic in it, as if the streets and the night and the still combined and made some kind of incredible that couldn’t have existed any other way.

I had a girlfriend, at the time. If you’d asked me then, I wouldn’t have agreed; we had broken up, I would argue, and that’s what we both told everyone at the time, and that’s what it felt like at the time, with all the attendant heartache and every word between us becoming sharp electricity every time we talked. But, nonetheless, I feel as if she was still my girlfriend at the time, when I look back. We were trying to stay friends, we told each other, and that was why we’d spend so much time together, with me visiting her apartment so much and staying until the late night slipped into early morning. Some of those times we’d kiss, and some of those times do more, and that’s why I feel as if we were still together then, even if we disagreed at the time. It might not have been healthy, but it was what we did, even as we kept it our secret and never really talked about what was happening, even to each other.

But at least once a week, I’d find myself walking home when the rest of the world was asleep.

I romanticize it, when I look back. I remember it with nights that were perfectly still, skies almost entirely calm with clouds drifting slowly across the sky, harmlessly. Night pitch black, except for the moon hanging over me, watching me as I’d make each step. I’d walk in silence, listening to the nothing around me, the noise in the background of people shouting to each other on the way home from bars and clubs and trying to pull and failing, or taxis filled with people who were in too much of a hurry to get behind closed doors again for whatever reason. Sometimes, when I was convinced that no-one else was around, I’d sing; something melancholy and romantic, to suit my mood. Normally, in those days, when I walked for such a long time – it’d take me half an hour or so to walk from her place to mine – I’d bring a discman or something with me, but these nights were for me alone.

And so, I’d sing, walking home, watching my orange shadows under the street lights and indulge myself in myself, the odd, comfortable sadness and loneliness I was feeling at the time and the rhythm of my footsteps. There was something wonderful about the walk, no matter what had happened that night; a feeling that, while my feelings for this girl were complicated and unknowable, there was a simplicity and comfort in knowing exactly where I was going.

Slam Your Body Down And Wind It All Around

It seems like ancient history now, but back in 1996, the Spice Girls seemed to be the most pop thing around. They were new, their music following the tried and tested “First two songs upbeat, then a ballad for the third single that just happens to coincide with Christmas” formula, and by accident or design – although I think it was a bit of both, but I doubt you’d ever find anyone willing to admit that nowadays – everyone seemed to have an opinion and a favourite. Even those who pretended to hate everything they stood for could tell you at least one of their names, and most likely all five of their nicknames; there was Scary, Posh, Sporty, Baby and Ginger. You’d say it like that and it sounded like a sports team or roll call.

My favourite, when they first appeared, was Ginger Spice Geri Halliwell (although I was almost swayed by Posh, for about a day, and ended up thinking that Sporty was probably the talented one, the George Harrison of the group). The main reason was that she seemed like my girlfriend of the time, I admit; both of them were over the top and in your face and all those usual three word phrases we used to politely say “loud and annoying, after a while”. But there was something else, as well; she seemed to be the centre of the group, the one around whom the rest of them orbited, looking for what to do next. She was the most cartoonish, the one with the biggest personality and presence (Seeing her at the Brits the next year in the infamous Union Jack dress kind of made that the most obvious it would ever be; her appropriation of the then-still-cool iconic image from the fading Britpop scene in general and Oasis in particular making to clear that they were the then-new Queens of Pop. Next day, no-one could remember what the rest of the band looked like), just simply the most ideally “pop” of the five. Looking back, it’s strange to think that we all bought into it because now we can all see that she was TOO cartoony, too over the top with all the exaggerated make-up and knowing winks and practiced asides; she looks like a small girl’s idea of a cool pop star, or a drag queen’s. But at the time it worked; it was the antidote to the earnestness of the boys with guitars in sports tops that we were used to. It was a version of glamour and fabulousness, even if it was a ridiculous one, and that’s what we needed.
You could see that Geri really had been the centre of the band when she left, and the Spice Girls became a crap imitation of the R’n'B bands that were just breaking into the mainstream at the time. Suddenly they were taking themselves too seriously and she was going solo, being too cabaret and showing that her singing sounded a lot better when surrounded by four other voices. But there really was a time where all five of them were the most pop thing Britain could imagine, everywhere from songs on the radio to stickers and lollipops.

Say Hello To The New Logo, Pretty Much Exactly The Same As The Old Logo

From a press release sent out by Marvel Comics just now:

Marvel is pleased to provide your first look at the new logo making its debut on the cover of Fantastic Four #570 as a new era for Marvel’s First Family begins here!

Here is said new logo making its debut on the cover of FF #570:

Now, here is the cover from FF #161, from 1975:

And here’s letterer and all-round comic type expert Todd Klein talking about the above logo:

Still blocky, but now angled, with a telescoped drop shadow, and taking up about the same amount of space as the original FF logo. The letterforms are, to me, a game of “one of these things is not like the others.” I’ll give you a minute. Okay, all the shapes are squared block letters except the S, which is rounded. A very odd combination! There are some other odd things: look how wide the O is compared to the U, and the R has a right leg that seems to be trying to escape from the logo altogether.

So, wait, they didn’t even fix the “odd things” on the original? Yeah, that’s definitely one “new logo making its debut,” 34 years after it, you know, actually made its debut.

Everybody Knows, Which Way You Go

(Something found on my computer, recently; I apparently wrote it in 2002, but I’m not sure why or what for.)

I can only remember parts of the night, like photos taken then that I look back on; that and colours. For some reason, that night was always orange for me, the weird glow of the streetlights when we stopped the car outside my flat. She needed the toilet, I remember that, and I told her to use ours. I can’t remember if I asked her to stay afterwards, or if that just happened.

It’s six years ago and we’d been out at the local dive, as was our wont on a Monday night. There’d been a big gang of us, the way there always seemed to be, but somehow she’d asked if I wanted a lift home instead of walking for the best part of an hour or so. Not being particularly in the mood for more exercise after dancing for four hours, I said yes.

Obviously, that wasn’t the only reason. The other reason was the confusion that was our relationship at that point. We were this strange thing; not really friends, but something more than passing acquaintances. We had mutual friends, but over the past few months had been spending more and more time talking to each other more than anyone else each time we went out. I had a crush on her a mile wide. She was pretty and sexy and knew it, which at that point in my life always meant trouble. She’d say things like “There’s nothing I like more than a good hard cock in my mouth” and laugh as my face betrayed the explosions going on inside my naïve, raised-by-porn-mags, head. But what made us interesting and exciting was that the more she flirted, the more she seemed to mean it. From out of nowhere, she suddenly seemed to actually like me, despite herself. That was the other reason that I said I’d love a lift home.

We made small talk the entire drive, sub-flirty but neither of us really wanting to go as far as to admit anything for fear of a rejection that involved being pointed at and laughing. When she said she desperately needed the toilet, what else could I do?

The night continued until the sun came up, I remember that. We just got to talking about anything and everything except what we both wanted to talk about; we talked around it and over it and under it, but neither of us would break first. She talked about her boyfriend and pointedly said that she would never want to cheat on him, but somehow we still ended up sleeping beside each other, fully clothed, curled into each other. We spent hours being honest with each other about everything but the most important thing, but there was still a magic and daring about what we were doing; neither of us had ever told anyone the kind of things we were telling each other that night. I kept thinking of a line from a book I’d read years ago, which said that love always offered enough; if she and I would never be together, then we’d know the other better than anyone else. We talked like trapeze artists without a net.

After hours, the sun came up the way it always does, and I told her to stay, that she was too too tired to drive home. We fell asleep with arms around one another, not saying anything.

(My dream that night felt like magic as well: Different versions of she and me throughout the ages like action figures. Us in space, floating and holding hands. Us as Bonnie and Clyde. Us as hippies, soldiers, lovers. Collect the set.)

The morning after, she phoned her boyfriend and lied about where she’d spent the night. I told her that it felt like something was happening between us, and she fixed me with a scared glare: “Nothing is happening between us,” she said quietly, “Nothing ever will.”

She was wrong both times.

And even now, I could still tell you so many stories about her that they’d fill novels, dictionaries, encyclopedias. I could tell you about her blue lipstick that took so long to apply every morning, or about the way that she’d never leave the house without make-up on. I could tell you about the way that she always wanted a glass of orange juice besde her when she slept. There could be stories about the way we’d dance together in nightclubs, or the months spent after we’d split up where we refused to speak to each other without sniping, look at each other without daggers.

Despite all this, she’s always been a “without whom”. You see them at the start and the end of things, books or in CD booklets where people thank their friends for helping them get things done. “Thanks to whoever, without whom I’d never have…” whatever. She was the without whom I’d have stayed the same person, somehow. And I’m glad that I didn’t, and it’s all thanks to her.

The memories come in flashes, in no real order: Kissing in cars in the middle of the night, both of us tired from where we’d just been. Her in the mirror in the morning. Walking her home after not talking for months, telling each other stories and not knowing what was going on. Smiles and stolen glances all the time.

She felt like the first person to see through me and like me anyway. We’ve fallen out and back in more than once, and all the time, even when we pretended to be the worst of enemies, we would have done everything we could for the other if they’d needed us. She’s got a kid now, and a man who’s right for her, which is far more than I could ever have been; the last time I saw her, she looked content, which was new for her and suited her. I have no idea what’s going on in her life now, but I hope that she’s always happy, wherever she is.

I Try To Reach You, When I’m In My Bed

I’m having one of those moments when a song has conjured up such a tangible part of my past that I can hear it around me, taste its air in my mouth and feel the way it pushes my heart against my chest. The song, delivered by my iPod’s random function, was “Mellow Doubt” by Teenage Fanclub, from their Grand Prix album, the moment where all of their influences and their loves and their talents came together to give us the great West Coast of Scotland Big Star album that we always knew they had in them all along.

Despite its pun-filled name (“Mellowed Out”, get it?), the song itself is this tender moment of melancholy, acoustic guitars and a thick accented sadness mumbling lyrics as heartfelt as they are artless (“I’m in trouble, and I know it/How I’m feeling, I can’t show it/But these feelings don’t go away” goes the chorus, setting the tone for the rest of the song). When I first heard it, it was (What’s The Story) Morning Glory?-era Britain, and the song probably got on the radio because it could’ve been a Noel Gallagher B-Side, but I remember it hitting a chord with the boy who felt too much that I was back then. I wasn’t convinced about the whistling break in the middle, nor singer Norman Blake’s beard, but I bought it nonetheless and played it over and over.

Years later, listening to it by accident feels odd; for all the nostalgia that hits me as soon as the strum and the voice comes inside me, I feel like I understand it more, what it’s about, even though that’s just me pushing all the experiences I’ve had since then onto the words. It feels like a song that I was too young for, or too innocent for, the first time, though, something I’ve grown into without meaning to (There are parts that seem so well-suited to my experiences that I wonder whether I’ve thought and done things specifically because of this song in some way, and I realize that and feel embarrassed, dumb and impressionable). For a second, I wish that I could go back and tell the me hearing it for the first time to make some different decisions and save himself some heartache along the way. But then, where would I have ended up?

So Much For San Diego

San Diego Comic-Con only finished yesterday – I only made it home about nine hours ago – but it already seems a world away; I don’t know if that’s the power of a good night’s sleep (My first in a week! My first more than five hours sleep in more than a week, too), or my mind trying to repair psychic damage by hiding everything again or whatever, but it’s true. I can’t quite comprehend that, this time yesterday, I was planning out the Smallville coverage I had to do, or how I’d manage to see everyone I wanted to still try to catch up to see in the less-than-an-hour-before-the-flight I’d have available to me, or or or.

Con felt, if anything, busier this year, more packed with a million somethings that I wanted to do, either for work or for me – work won in almost every single instance, when they clashed, and I’m sorry for everyone I didn’t get to see, or see enough of (Sorry, Bonnie!) – and more exhausting. Staying up til 5am to file stories sounds like a journalist cliche, but actually doing it, writing in the hotel lobby because your roommate is asleep and you don’t want to wake him up, turned out to be depressingly true. It was the con of internet journalism frustration, again, like last year’s, but the frustration was different: last year’s was the “I can’t get in/can’t talk to anyone” con, and this one was “Why does our traffic suck?” I had multiple conversations with multiple people about the apparent evils of Twitter and it breaking the news faster than anyone could type up the story, and already I know that next year will be the year where everything will be liveblogged so that everyone can try and be first again. Such is the self-perpetuating exhaustion of the internet, I guess.

But there was another con, happening if not at the same time, then in the mornings and nights and moments where there was a little space to sneak it in; the one where I got to see friends again, and meet people I’ve known through email for the first time (Hello, Alasdair, and Ryan, and Jim, and Jonah, and AnnaMaria, and many others) or others who shared an Eisners and a snarky sense of humor (Hello, Snow),  or even just get to spend time with folks who’re important to me. I said, as we rushed to make it to the airport in time for the flight yesterday, that I kind of wished that we had another evening in town, to just have one last huzzah of a meal or something, to relax together and talk and not worry about what stories we had to write up immediately afterwards. But, really, I wanted to go home.

I have a million funny, dumb, sad, frustrating con stories to tell, but I’m too tired to do any of them right now; I’m also too tired, mentally, to say whether it was a good or bad con, if that makes sense? It was a con. In more ways than one.

Normal service resumes on this here blog today. Hello again.

My First San Diego

(Tomorrow morning, earlier that any human being should be traveling, I’ll be en route to this year’s San Diego Comic-Con to cover it for io9.com, necessitating a few days of radio silence for this here blogarama – Normal Service (or some posting, at least) will resume at the start of next week, probably around Tuesday when the terror and panic has worn off slightly. But, until then, let’s look back – back! – to 2006, and the first time I ever went, and the report I wrote up about said trip for Newsarama.com. Since that site’s been relaunched, I don’t think this is even up there anymore, so here it is for your attempt at enjoyment.)

“So, how do you feel now that you’ve made your first public appearance?”

Heidi MacDonald says these things to fuck with my head, I think. The blogging panel at San Diego had just finished minutes earlier, and I hadn’t been thinking in terms of my first public appearance or anything similar at all, instead trying to concentrate on not shaking or saying anything entirely ridiculous. I’m still not sure that I accomplished either of those goals, to be honest – there was a point where I’d tried to have a drink of water, only to realize that my hands were shaking as if I was I was a character in a Scooby Doo cartoon who’d just seen the groundskeeper dressed up as Frankenstein’s Glowing Radioactive Monster, lumbering around and saying “Muuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhh” – mostly because I have kind of blanked out the entire panel in my memory. I remember before the panel, meeting lots of people whose blogs I’d read online for years and swapped emails with for the first time (including Beaucoup Kevin Church, who invented a new musical genre just for me), and I remember Heidi announcing that we had to wrap things up and me thinking “Wait, it’s been an hour already?”, but most everything else? Lost to the mists of time until my subconscious has decided that I’m strong enough to remember every horrifying little detail.

Anyway, it was just after half past one in the afternoon, and I still had five hours or so to explore the San Diego Comicon for the first time in my life before catching a plane back to San Francisco and my visiting family. Five hours, I thought to myself, would be more than enough time to see the sights and say hello to everyone that I wanted to say hello to.

That sound you hear? That’s the laughter of everyone who’s ever been to San Diego, mocking my innocence and lack of time-planning.

Let’s start with the size of the damn place. It’s not something that you initially fully realize; you walk into the main hall and it’s this massive space that seems smaller than it really is – Even though you can stand at one end of the hall and not be able to see the other end, all of the booths and displays somehow manage to disguise just how huge the place is. Your eyes get distracted by the flashing lights, the Lego Batman or the weird thing that’s taken over the Sci-Fi Channel’s space like the end of Watchmen, or something, and your mind just sort of skips over the fact that Oh my God, the hall is far too large for any one event to take over like this and there’s the same amount of space upstair where all of the panels and presentations are taking place. It’s not until much later, when you’re over watching, say, Jon J. Muth create these beautiful inkbrush drawings where every single line is perfect, despite him not having made any pencil guidelines whatsoever and you remember that you said you’d meet someone at the First Second booth in ten minutes, and you spend what feels like twelve years just walking from one booth to the other, that you realize just how far away the booths are. It’s not until the next day, when your feet hurt as if you’ve just walked a marathon, that you realize the size of the damn place.

With something that big completely crammed with booths and creators and retailers (who seemed to somehow manage to sell things like Justice League of America #0 for five dollars even though it only had been released last Wednesday and should only be $2.99, which says a lot about how much comfort and immediacy must mean to the people who were buying the book instead of waiting a few days until they went home and could probably buy it for cover price) and people in outfits to boggle the mind and occasionally the hormones, it suddenly became clear that there was no way that I could probably even find half the people I wanted to see, never mind say hello to them. It became not even a case of prioritizing things as much as just taking things as they came, which is probably how I ended up spending so much time talking to Eddie Campbell.

Now, there are probably several books that could be written about my love for Mr. Campbell. There would be the one where I’d write at length about the way that my discovery of his Graffiti Kitchen one-shot changed the way I looked at comics forever, when I was just starting art school and therefore all impressionable and looking for something new and unexpected, introducing me to writing as honest and complex as the best prose I had read. Then there would be one where I’d expound about his artwork, the way that his scratchy line and uncomplicated page construction seduce the reader with what looks like a natural and uneducated style, much in the same manner – but entirely different look – that Alex Toth’s pages did. And finally, there would be a book where I’d go on and on about Campbell’s urge to challenge the conventional wisdom on a regular basis and instead follow his dreams and ambitions, even if they lead you to Australia and becoming a court artist, and the example that he sets in doing so. Not that I said any of this to him, of course; instead, we talked about our shared Scottish heritage, and the importance of shoes, all the while with me trying desperately not to say anything like “I love you, Mr. Campbell.” I may have gushed slightly, I admit, but come on. I kind of had to.

(In other “Oh, look, there’s one of my heroes” news, I was so awestruck by seeing Dave McKean and Kent Williams at the Allan Speigel booth that I clammed up and couldn’t even say hello, remembering a time when I’d met McKean and Neil Gaiman on their signing tour for Mr. Punch, years ago, when Neil was chatty and personable and Dave looked as if I had somehow accidentally killed his cat.)

(I had met Eddie Campbell at the First Second Books booth, where I also spent time with the wonderful Gina Gagliano and the equally wonderful Mark Siegel, talking about the books past, present and upcoming – American Born Chinese, which is coming out in September unless I’m completely misremembering, is something that lots of people should check out, in particular. That booth was also where I met Jim Ottaviani, of GT Labs, whose Bone Sharps, Cowboys and Thunder Lizards book may be the best thing I picked up at the con – similar in tone to Matt Fraction and Steve Sanders’ recent Five Fists of Science, but with the added attraction of the story being true. As the back of the book says: “Cowboys, dinosaurs and scientists?!” Indians, too, if you’re wondering.)

(I know. No more of the parentheses.)

Anyway. One of the things that seemed odd about the booths was that, with the exception of the DC monolith, the comics booths were completely eclipsed by the toy people and the TV people and movie people; Marvel’s displays (at the Activision booth, I think? They didn’t really have one of their own, due to their incestuous relationship with Wizard) in particular seemed to consist of large versions of recent comic covers glued to cardboard that were already peeling off and curling up in the heat, and a TV screen advertising Civil War over and over again, which was kind of… underwhelming for the largest comic publisher in the country. But then, how to compete with the real life cars at the Hot Wheels display or half-naked women breeding worthwhile hatred for the entire male gender? One day, Heavy Metal fetish gear woman, there may come a day when you won’t have to pull the sweaty palm of someone dressed as Anakin Skywalker up from your ass to your hip because they’d thought that they could get away with some quick grope action. Keep up hope.

Anakin Skywalkers were all over the place, however. It seemed like wherever I looked, there would be an Anakin Skywalker accompanied by Amidala, or whatever Natalie Portman was called. Each time I saw them, I wondered just how so many cute young people could convince their equally cute partners that dressing up as Star Wars characters and wandering around a comic convention all weekend would be a good idea. Where were these people when I was young? Other popular choices for dressing up included the traditional stormtroopers, Darth Vader and, surprisingly, characters from Pirates of the Carribean, “Busty Wench” being, it seemed, the new fairy elf queen woman from Lord of The Rings.

Everytime I go to comic conventions, I never come away thinking of things comic-related; I always leave with misty water-colored memories of the people dressed in outfits doing things that just seem wrong. Chewbacca taking a ride on a rickshaw, while tourists yell “Hey, Chewie!” as he goes past, for example. Or the woman who’d spent the day at a booth dressed as She-Ra, Princess of Power, exhausted outside the convention center, cigarette hanging from mouth as she watches the fans walk past, giving them a look born of hatred and surrender to another two days of the same. It’s the way that seeing things like that – Your nostalgia made real and the way that it’s become twisted and kind of horrifying in the process – sums up the experience of something like Comic-Con, which is much too much of a good thing and then some, so that it comes out the other end like some kind of Fanboy Heart of Darkness.

Did I have a good time? I have no idea; parts of it – talking to Eddie, Gina, Jim, Mark, or Jeff Parker, or Heidi, Kevin Church, Tim Leong, or all of the other people I spent more than three words with – were great. Other parts were frustrating – sorry I couldn’t find you, Kirsten – or amusing or just plain weird. I flew out that night, as planned, completely confused about what had happened, and two days later, I’m still undecided. My first public appearance was, in the end, one of the more understandable parts of the day (and thankfully, no-one seems to have posted something on their blog along the lines of “Graeme was a dick”. Although there’s still time, I suppose); it’s the rest of the San Diego experience that’s left me bewitched, bothered and bewildered.

But I think I want to try it again next year. And for more than five hours, next time.

And As We Drive, I Keep Calling Leaving Cute One Liners

Lilys – not the Lilys, just Lilys – are one of those bands that appeared out of nowhere in my life, stole my heart and then proceeded to disappoint in ever increasing amounts ever since. In Britain, they’re the definition of a one hit wonder; their song “A Nanny in Manhattan” – that’s the video above, kids – was used in a Levi’s advert, and everyone heard it and thought “That is 1960s pop the way we like it, daddio” and rushed out to buy it before never buying anything by them ever again. Me, I was different only in that I bought the single and then loved it so much – although loved the B-Sides even more – that I bought the album it came from, Better Can’t Make Your Life Better, and found out that the album was even better than the single – Seriously, something like “Returns Every Morning” is pop perfection to me – so that I even bought the second version of the album when it was reissued with new songs and a new production that brought in new instruments like oboes and strings as if it was trying to sound like the Flaming Lips/Mercury Rev axis that was making NME readers excited at the time. There’s no doubt about it, I was a fan.

And then their next album, The 3 Way, came out, and it was… not as good, shall we say. Some of the songs were wonderful, but there was an effort you could hear, a strain compared to Better. Like anyone in love, I put it down to me; I’m not listening to it properly, or I just don’t get it. It took another album, Precollection, to make me realize that it was them. It was the classic split: We grew apart because of artistic differences, I guess; they wanted to go in a different direction (namely, shoegazing), and I didn’t want to follow. There’s no real regrets to speak of, but any song from Better Can’t Make Your Life Better still makes me feel as if harmonies and guitars and weird noises are all you ever need to make me smile.

SFA, Okay?

How anyone could not love Super Furry Animals is sometimes beyond me. Sure, not loving everything they’ve ever done, I can understand – they could be too eclectic for a lot of people, mixing techno and folk and glam rock and whatever else they fancy doing at any given time – but that eclectic nature is why I think that everyone should be able to embrace just one of their songs, take it home and want to cuddle with it every night.

Like every great band in history, they had a period where they couldn’t do any wrong – and they tried, even remixing tapes of Beatles rehearsal sessions into weird cut-up techno poetry that should’ve been unlistenable – but what was surprising was that it was such a long run. From 1997′s Radiator through 2003′s Phantom Power (That’s four albums, a compilation, an ep and some awesome B-Sides, if you’re counting), there really wasn’t a bad song in their discography. By the time that 2001′s Rings Around The World album managed to define the post-9/11 zeitgeist despite coming out before the attacks, it seemed as if they could do no wrong… which, of course, just meant that they’d disappoint so much more when they did.

There’s nothing actually wrong with their next three albums – Love Kraft, Hey! Venus and Dark Days/Light Years – but they’re just not as… I don’t know. Catchy? Immediate? Good? as what came before, and because of that, they somehow seem flawed and unfinished. I still bought them, of course, but in the same way that you half-assedly support something for the wrong reasons – Hoping for the old magic, but knowing that you’re going to be disappointed.

I’m going to institute a new rule for all bands I like, called “Quit while you’re ahead so that you can never disappoint me like all the rest.” Do you think it’ll catch on?

Farewell, Matt Brady

A day after the world was rocked by Matt Brady’s announcement that he would be stepping down from his position of Comic Internet’s Favorite Whipping Boy at Newsarama.com, rumors are circulating that there must be more to this shock resignation than meets the eye. Despite his farewell address clarifying that “this is a decision I made, and am leaving the site at my own time, on my own terms,” many commentators have seized upon the unexpected nature of the announcement and dazed and, at times, just plain high appearance of Brady at his e-press conference yesterday. Watch video of Brady’s resignation press conference here

While tributes poured in from peers and former colleagues alike, some questioned the timing of the resignation, suggesting that perhaps he was simply trying to do it while Rich Johnston was asleep and not looking for something to put online at BleedingCool.com. In a statement, Brady said “I guess what I have to say is that for the past 18 years, I’ve been honored that the comics industry took me into its family…it’s community. Thank you for allowing me to have a go at this crazy job and succeed, despite insane conditions, challenging competition and the occasional weeks and months of uphill battles,” before explaining that he had chosen not to embrace the traditional lame duck status in this particular climate of comics as usual, adding that only a dead fish knows when to pass the ball or something.

After the announcement, CBR’s Jonah Weiland blasted Brady’s decision, complaining that now they wouldn’t get to hang out in Chicago’s scariest neighborhoods for dinner and watch Batman movies being filmed, before boasting about the size of his “pork thing” in one of the strangest innuendoes it’s ever been our misfortune to read.

A source close to Newsarama.com said that the site would continue under the new leadership of Lucas Siegel, who has already claimed that steering the site through the choppy waters of comic journalism is his dream job, showing that his subconscious really needs to think bigger at times. Siegel has literally seconds of calm to look forward to before people start accusing the site of being biased towards DC thanks to his marriage to DC editorial’s Janelle Siegel.

In an interview last month with CNN’s Wolf Blitzer, Brady said he was unsure about his future in internet journalism about funny books because he needed to focus on his state and his family, and also because he wasn’t sure whether Tom Spurgeon would approve of the amount of time he spent preparing for conventions.

“So, no decision yet on San Diego prep time for either 2010 or let alone 2012?” Blitzer asked.

“No decision that I’d want to announce today,” Brady responded.

Matt Brady will be missed by the internet, but happily reuinited with his family and “real life.”

Below: Brady, fielding calls while surrounded by Boom! Studio’s Ian Brill and famously round-headed popstar Moby back in 2007:

(Enjoy the lack of people giving you shit, Matt. You deserve it.)