Katchor is the curator of the petty grotesqueries of urban life and capitalism (The Brotherhood of Immaculate Consumption). Almost awkward, his trembly lines encase a sedate wash of darker colors. Nothing is truly bright and shadow is king. I'm impressed by his diction (mallow-pink) and his background tongue-in-cheek smart-assery. But his artifice, and modern pretense, is stripped down via his over-the-top jokery to the downright lie. Each gambit in his metaphors is built on real emotion - a curmudgeon's hate of uselessness, a nail-biter's fear of betrayal, and the lazy lackadaisical adventure seeking dreams of those in white collars - or receiving retirement checks. Throughout the book, the power of architecture is held up, ridiculed and worshipped - even as he mocks it, the syntactical translation of artistic an historic beauty cannot be denied.
My favorite strips (or vignettes?) are: The Miniature Trash Can, The Body Heat Snatcher, The Tragic History of the Oversized Magazine, Fayoum's Finger, Peabald's Field Guide to Air-Conditioners of North America and Forbidden Rooms.