Originally written in 1994, Charles Bowden’s, The Red Caddy, is the first biography of Edward Abbey to appear for some time. Like the stark beauty of the desert Abbey defended, Bowden’s lucid prose tells the truth about the man, whose racist, misogynistic image so many biographers and followers alike have tried to expunge. Instead of trying to make Abbey palatable, Bowden trusts that the power of his friend’s life, warts intact, merits an honest depiction. Caddy is freshly relevant given the recent #metoo movement. Bowden demands that readers address the question: Can we separate the art from the artist? Recommended by Kelly

Barbara Ehrenrich’s latest offering, Natural Causes: An Epidemic of Wellness, the Certainty of Dying, and Our Illusion of Control, adds to her benignly cranky repertoire of cultural critique. This contribution to the recent bestsellers about Americans’ unnatural relationship with natural aging—namely Gawande’s Being Mortal—distinguishes itself because she writes from a place that “could not be euphemized as ‘middle-aged.’” Ehrenreich bravely translates the latest science that debunks the comforting idea of the body as a whole rooting for eternal life, arriving instead at a transcendent view of death that enfolds the illusory self into the longevity of the universe. Recommended by Kelly.

"Just because you don't remember a place, doesn't mean its not in you." A fantastically illustrated journey of remembrance--the whole country, which sounds like the inside of a drum-- beach poems, and 'bats like blankets' fly off each page, as Lola explores her own history. ​Lovely story. Recommended by Jenna

Just listen to the conceit of BK Fischer’s amazing poetry collection Radioapocrypha: it’s a novella in verse explaining what would’ve happened if Jesus had appeared as a smart-alleck chemistry teacher in Maryland in 1989, the year Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus” came out. Of course, it’s good for laughs: the last supper is KFC takeout, water gets turned into boxed wine, and wisdom gets dispensed like “If a girl is wearing cut-off shorts with peace signs on her butt cheeks, make friends with her.” But Fischer’s most impressive feat is pulling a John Hughes and mining real pathos from the comic premise. Her gospel of the suburbs is ultimately an affecting and original meditation on sexuality, grief, rage, and the universal desire to get out: after all, “No one needs to stick around to find out if they open a Subway.” Recommended by Danny