That's pretty damned artful.Narration: I stand in the corner of this thread. A corner as dark and desolate as an old midwife’s snatch. The coffee-swilling college brats above gab away about Frank Miller and his legacy. I chuckle and think to myself sometimes that the only reason cancer hasn’t ended that man’s life yet is that the malformed cells in his body found the acidic bitterness running through his veins too damned corrosive to leech off of. Heh. Stubborn bastard. Holding onto the ghost tighter than a homeless person’s lips when giving a yuppie some business in an alleyway - all for the sake of a goddamned 2-day old sandwich. I thumb my cell phone with all the delicacy and precision of a dog’s nose awkwardly trying to pinpoint his own balls so he can clean them. God, when did hell on earth go digital? <swigs bourbon; coughs> Ol’ Frankie’s artwork I can only describe as the kind of shitfaced wonderland this bottle nuzzled up to me is about to send me to. Scribbled lines; human faces that look like pockmarked concrete trying to look presentable for a potluck dinner; the most cynical “modern art” you’ve seen since Warhol got big enough to where he could smear his grandma’s ashes and cigarette butts on canvas and be called brilliant for it. An acquired taste, I suppose. An acquired habit like alcohol. Like alcohol you swiped from a church pantry during a funeral.
That’s kind of what I get from Miller’s writing. Depressing or Freudian metaphors, an element of sneering dry humor throughout, and an alienated attitude towards more modern trends and attitudes. He’s kind of like an 80s Robert E. Howard if he had veered away from fantasy and dedicated himself full time to pulp noir.