This is Clowes indulging in that 20 year nostalgia gap, kind of like how I wanted 70s bell bottoms in the 90s. So, through this sort of homesick generational lens, we get a series of absurd stories about a freewheeling private eye and his misadventures.
The loose (LOOSE) narrative here, or at least the framing device, is that Lloyd Llewellyn is trying to put together a book. Of what, I’m not sure, since he doesn’t seem to do any investigating in any of the stories. I wasn’t expecting this to necessarily be noir or anything, but it would have graciously given Llewellyn something to do.
Wanting him to have something to do kind of misses the point, though. He’s the sort of guy who thing happen to, not the sort of guy who does things. He has just enough urges and inclinations (drinking and women, mostly) to stumble into situations that allow Clowes to do what he does best in this collection: the piecemeal introduction of a unique, broad cast of weird-ass characters.
With Llewellyn as a lightning rod for these fucked up people and places, the stories do achieve the sort of irreverent humor Clowes seems to be going for. It’s not as funny as Wilson or even Pussey if we’re talking about that style of his work, but it’s still pretty funny.
I believe all the LL stuff is amongst his first published work, and he’d mature enough afterwards to mix real emotional stakes with his bizarre tales, making him one of my favorite writers and comic artists ever. At this point in his career, however, he’s just getting warmed up.