Bugging out: Porcellino remembers. photo: © John Porcellino 2005 Diary of a Mosquito Abatement Man By John Porcellino La Mano, 110 pp., $12 more books most popular most commented Welcome to New York Comic Con by Carol Cooper A Voice Poetry Roundup by Alan Gilbert Etgar Keret's Short-Story Overload by Michelle Orange David Samuels' Doubleheader by James Hannaham Keith Gessen and Nathaniel Rich: The New-Gen Pen Men by ALEXANDER NAZARYAN NYPD Inaction Over a Missing Black Woman Found Dead Sparks a Historic Racial-Bias Lawsuit by Sean Gardiner Why Can't I Leave My Boyfriend Tied Up While I Go the Movies? Savage Love by Dan Savage Speed Racer by J. Hoberman The NYPD's Secret Crusade Against Marijuana Furthers a Racist Agenda by Nat Hentoff The Gospel According to Dolly Parton Down in Front by Rob Harvilla Former Scientologist Actor Wants his Confessional Files Back (8) Tony Ortega Dirty Blonde: Brooklyn, a Place to Impress Strangers (4) Dirty Blonde: Annie Fischer David Mamet: Why I Am No Longer a 'Brain-Dead Liberal' (3) David Mamet Mr. Roboto: Fits to Print (3) Mr. Roboto: Brendan I. Koerner Runnin' Scared: Deep South of Houston: Is a Soul-Food Restaurant Too Black for Soho? (2) Runnin' Scared: Chloe A. Hilliard

Call it this summer's buzz book. In his twenties, Porcellino worked mosquito abatement—tramping through marshes, ladling out larvicidal Bti (his boss claims that it "would be totally harmless for a human to eat"). He also drove a spraying truck for long shifts, at a maximum speed of 12 miles per hour. Life in the slow lane perfectly describes this artist's m.o.—in a typical King-Cat story, patient observation shades into epiphany or hallucination. In the hypnotic "Chemical Plant/Another World," our hero drives his spray truck into a bizarre, hermetic machine-city, through "weird streets with names like 'Technology' ?"; a jungle of pipes and steam surrounds him as reality slips away.

Porcellino often provides dates of occurrence and composition, and the gap is beguiling; in its modest way, this Diary becomes a meditation on memory and creation. (See the hilarious, untitled series of blank panels, sparked by a pencil from a Holiday Inn and written while drunk.) Another pleasure is watching his style and sensibility evolve, from early Panter-esque scratchings and an aggro persona to a perfectly controlled minimalist line and eventual empathy for all living things. This final sentiment might seem corny if "The Owl" weren't so haunting—the bird glides above his truck "like a ghost," weirdly beautiful. Only later does he realize it's dying from the poison, and he puts his career to rest.