Heather Donahue has come a long way since she starred in The Blair Witch Project—and that’s something she wants readers of her memoir, Growgirl, to know. The 500-page volume details her exit from Hollywood and her extended foray into the medicalmarijuana-production business in Northern California. In addition to learning about “hippie chicken,” we get an education in how exactly one goes about legally growing pot, how the prescription process works, indoor vs. outdoor, and more. Donahue is determined to be as independent as possible, yet she must rely on her ex and “the community” for tips on protocol, scrips, and more to make sure “the girls” (the term for the female plants she’s housing) flourish. While her filmmaking days make random appearances, there is nothing Hollywood about this book. Donahue’s prose reads like someone either stoned or extremely mellow and loose with language has written it—and at times it could’ve used a bit of trimming, like her plants. Still, her run-ins with men, the law, and her own neuroses laid bare against a flowery tapestry of stoners and weed farmers make for entertaining reading.

If you think your relationship is annoying, try George Gurley’s. He’s in love with his girlfriend, Hilly—who puts up with the New York Observer reporter’s all-night drunken outings—but he doesn’t want to marry her. This frustrates Hilly, so the two start couples therapy with a Dr. Selman, who gently mocks them at times, but gradually becomes a lifeline for their uneven relationship. An unflinching, intimate portrait from Gallery Books.

The Onion has plumbed humor out of a dizzying array of topics, from the near-impossible (9/11) to the fish-in-a-barrel-easy (Donald Trump), in its 23 years of existence. Now the paper’s satirical journalists tackle the holidays with a collection guaranteed to provoke a few eggnog spit-takes this season. Standout articles include “Jesus ‘Really Dreading’ This Next Birthday” (“It was such a great time—I don’t even want to tell you how much water we turned into wine that night”), “95 Percent of Opinions Withheld on Visit to Family,” and “Chicago Rolls Out Cold-Weather Prostitutes.” There’s a spot-on “op-ed,” in which an alcoholic receives a 12-pack of beer from her Secret Santa. “Ho, Ho, Ho! I Saw You Masturbating!” is one of the best offerings, perfectly mocking the Christmas spirit. Dare we say this would make a good Secret Santa gift?

Bookended by The Godfather, in which Marlon Brando creates his iconic turn as Vito Corleone, and The Freshman, in which Brando hilariously spoofs his famous role, this guide to the “100 Greatest Gangster Films of All Time” from Running Press will provide hours of conversation and debate for any gangster-movie buffs on your holiday-gift list. They may quibble all they like with the rankings (Casino ahead of Mean Streets?)—that’s the whole point, in fact—but urge them to dip into some of the lesser-known gems here, such as The Friends of Eddie Coyle (No. 38), Get Carter (the original, starring Michael Caine, No. 48), and Stanley Kubrick’s The Killing (No. 54), to name just three. —John Bolster

Rev Jen has been part of the Lower East Side art scene for more than a decade. In this collection from Gallery Books, the elf-ear-sporting artschool dropout reveals how she used sex, drugs, and Teletubbies to make her way. There’s also lots of sex, public urination, drugs, heavy metal, stalkers, politics, a film called Lord of the Cockrings, and a love letter to the freaks of New York City. If that sounds like good reading to you, pick up a copy. Elf ears optional.

In this new novel from AmazonEncore, Jimmy returns home to California’s Imperial Valley to take care of his dying father, but his dad’s wishes aren’t traditional last rites—he wants Jimmy to go to Mexico and find a stripper he once had a dalliance with. Jimmy does his filial duty, but events get complicated. The deeper he investigates, the more drama and guns are in volved. He plunges into a world just beyond the border, and over the edge of above ground society. It’s an action packed, gritty tale.

Think the suburbs, and fatherhood, are boring? Not in this novel from Harper Paperbacks, in which playground scenes are cover for discreet flirting and the seedbed of flings. Olear tracks the course of a single day in the life of a stay-at-home father of two toddlers who suspects his wife, who’s away on business, is cheating on him. The more he looks, the more evidence he finds, and the more free he feels to indulge his own wandering eye. Olear delivers a lively and keenly observed portrait of twenty-first century parenthood.

The Death-Ray
By Daniel Clowes
(Drawn & Quarterly)

This graphic novel by the man who created GhostWorld takes the trappings of a superhero story and applies them to an orphaned teenage outcast named Andy and his hilariously oafish only friend, Louie. The two pass their days either being bullied or ignored, until Andy decides to try a cigarette for the first time and—presto!—he becomes endowed with superpowers. He then receives a gun—the titular Death-Ray—from his grandfather, and his powers, which he’d sworn to use only for good, expand beyond his control. With Clowes’s ironic humor and vibrant artwork leading the way, this story—which has been optioned as a movie by Jack Black’s production company—makes for a fun read all the way through.

You wouldn’t expect a straightforward novel from the twisted mind of Nicholson Baker, and in this alternate-world fantasy from Simon & Schuster, anything and everything goes. The story opens with a man who gave up his right arm, literally, for a bigger penis; now said arm is its own entity. Sex is central to the characters’ bizarre encounters, and to fully enjoy House of Holes, you have to let yourself jump right into a world where tattoos can leap off one person’s skin and onto another’s, and no erotic fantasy is too outlandish.

Like countless women before her, McClear turned to stripping to make ends meet after arriving in New York City without a job. But her memoir from Soft Skull Press has the added distinction of being set in the last remaining Times Square peep shows. Adopting the nom de smut Chel sea, she strips with cowork ers who outshine her as characters, with their over-the-top outfits and bitchy attitudes. Readers might wish for more frequent police raids or other drama, as McClear shows just how mundane raunch can be.