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(You can read about my playlist-making methodology and philosophy here.)

I didn’t find as much great new music this month as I usually do; this month’s playlist is less than 20 songs and one hour long.

But this playlist does kinda stretch in many different directions, including a variety of country music (a rare duet from Beck, weird folky country from Angela Autumn, pretty sad honky tonk from Hannah Juanita, gay cowboy longing from Andrew Sa, and funny novelty country from Michael Prewitt;) slow jams from Mary Sue and Yaya Bey; some good Afrobeat funk from Owelu Dreamhouse; and a couple of certified bangers (“BOOMPALA,” “Kia Boy.”)

And it must be said that I am positively on tenterhooks waiting for Carly Rae Jepsen to come to my rescue this September with her new double album.

I hate myself, but I read Regime Change, the Trump tell-all from Maggie Haberman and Jonathan Swan. I usually try to avoid these kind of books because I don’t believe newspaper journalists should “save” their best scoops for months and years, until after the sweet book-deal check cashes. And also, I think books about Trump administration palace intrigue are the lowest form of #resistance-bait, a lurid soap opera for liberals desperate for shocks.

But I chose to read this one because I genuinely have no idea what it’s like behind the scenes of the White House in this second Trump administration. They all behave so oddly, and seem so divorced from reality, that I was hoping Haberman and Swan might have some insights as to what the fuck is going on, because I sure have no clue.

The answer, I guess, is they did have some insights. But Regime Change is still not a good book. And it’s probably not worth your time—it’s just as disposable as all the first-term Trump books were.

One of the few insights this book delivered is the fact that JD Vance is an Extremely Online Conspiracy Theorist. In the days after his friend Charlie Kirk was shot and killed, Vance reportedly fell down such a conspiracy rabbit hole that his wife had to intervene. This is truly bizarre—I can’t understand how a man so close to the levers of power somehow still believes in shadowy, elaborate conspiracy theories. Either Vance is a total idiot, or he’s experiencing a mental health crisis.

But in the end, Regime Change is just more of the same. Did you know that the president is an addled, moronic narcissist surrounded by some of the most damaged and evil human beings living in America right now? If you didn’t know that, welcome to Hell and here’s your copy of Regime Change to get you up to speed.

Everyone else: Please disregard. As you were.

At the Seattle Times, I wrote about some of August’s most exciting new paperbacks.

Frank Miller is an important figure for nerds my age. He created dark Daredevil and Batman stories that changed superhero comics forever. And look, it’s not really Miller’s fault that his influence changed superhero comics for the worse. Lesser creators took the wrong lessons from his work, assuming that people wanted nothing but cruelty and cynicism in their comics.

But more importantly, when Miller moved into creator-owned work, he pulled a lot of us superhero fans away from Marvel and DC and into independent comics along with him—a genuine change for the better. So it was crushing to see Miller swerve into conservatism with 300 and, most of all, the Islamophobic hate comic Holy Terror. In a handful of decades, he veered from young punk cartoonist to a champion of anti-corporate comics to a moral monster who seemed irrevocably broken by 9/11.

So I’m sad to report that Miller’s new memoir, Push the Wall, isn’t as introspective as I’d need to change how I feel about the man. He addresses Holy Terror a bit, but I found his reasoning shallow and ineffective. And in fact the book is remarkably shallow—Miller’s thoughts on his old work feel bland and perfunctory, and his recollections of important life events are vague and anodyne.

Miller is most alive when he’s talking about the process of making the Sin City movies with Robert Rodriguez, which is to me perhaps the least interesting part of his career. I’d rather hear more than a handful of sentence about the making of the Martha Washington series of comics with Dave Gibbons, or some thoughts about his contemporaries and how their careers have panned out.

Sadly, this book isn’t even a good resource for artists looking to break into comics. Aside from a few observations about the utility of tall vertical panels and the controlled chaos of using a toothbrush to spray the page with ink, there are not enough artistic lessons here to be useful. The whole time, Miller feels reluctant to share his story, giving the impression of a fawning convention panel with a tired old professional who just desperately wants to get back to his hotel so he can leave San Diego and get back to what he was doing before all this bullshit pulled him away from the drawing board.

I’m a big fan of Ben Fountain’s novel Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk, which was a political satire that understood exactly what it was targeting and how to target it for maximum efficacy. So I’m immensely disappointed to report that Fountain’s newest novel, Rasputin Swims the Potomac, is maybe the worst political satire I’ve ever read—and I’ve read John Lithgow’s anti-Trump poetry.

This sputtering cough of a novel is about the Trump administration. Many of the names of principals including Elon Musk are tossed into the narrative unchanged, but Trump himself is presented in the prose with a censor bar (“*****,” or “bleep” in the audio version) in place of his name. But the loping cadence and psychological hangups are clearly, unmistakably Trump, so the name gimmick feels too cute by half.

The premise is that Trump becomes intertwined with a professional wrestler who is mentioned as a VP pick or perhaps a potential opponent for Trump’s fourth presidential campaign for his third term. And I guess the joke is that only a professional wrestler can beat Trump at his own game? Except the wrestler also believes he’s a reincarnation of Rasputin and he talks in a Russian accent. And there’s a former country star in there, and a Black reporter named Clarence Thomas (no relation,) and some other stuff. But it just kind of thrashes around for a while until it finally ends in the middle of nowhere, and it ultimately feels so impotent and pissy.

Maybe the only other political novel that’s disappointed me this much in my lifetime is Nicholson Baker’s Checkpoint, which was a furious little novel about two guys having a conversation about whether it would be a good and moral idea to assassinate George W. Bush. That book similarly sputtered, feeling powerless and lost. It hasn’t been mentioned by anyone in decades, and rightfully so. I suspect Rasputin Swims the Potomac will meet a similar fate.

Wallace Stegner’s novel Big Rock Candy Mountain has always hovered at the edges of my attention. I recall stocking it as a bookseller at Elliott Bay Book Company, and I liked the title. (The song of the same name, about an imaginary hobo paradise “where they hung the jerk who invented work,” is one of my favorites.) I always figured I’d read the book one day, and last month I found a nice copy sitting in a Little Free Library on Beacon Hill. This, I figured, was my sign.

I’m glad I finally read Big Rock Candy Mountain, but it is by no means an easy or enjoyable reading experience. In fact, it is 500+ pages of beautifully composed misery porn, telling the story of an American family on the edges of society in the dawn of the 20th century. The husband is an abusive loser who keeps coming up with and abandoning get-rich-quick schemes, and his family helplessly orbits around him as he travels from North Dakota to Saskatchewan to Utah, leaving nothing but heartbreak in his wake.

I learned near the end of Big Rock Candy Mountain that it is loosely based on Stegner’s own life and childhood, and that made me appreciate the book more. As an act of processing the misery that he experienced, writing Big Rock Candy Mountain must have been a consequential experience. But it’s not the first Stegner book I would recommend to anyone—Angle of Repose or Crossing to Safety are both better for neophytes. But if you’re looking for an American saga full of desperation and hope and heartbreak, you’re in the hands of a master with this one.

Local cartoonist and comedian Brett Hamil typically produces comics in two styles. First, he’s a gag strip artist: Hamil has a pair of comic strips in local media, one dealing with parenthood issues and one satirizing local politics. And second, he has published a series of clever, inventive slice-of-life comics that are typically quieter, more contemplative, and wide-ranging than his other work.

My favorite Hamil comic is in the second register. It’s called Bald Knob, and it’s a series about being aimless and young and wary of anything resembling potential. It’s one of my favorite graphic novels of the last ten years and I think that the primary reason that Hamil doesn’t get the attention he deserves is because he illustrates all of his comics in the same style—a cartoonish simplicity.

I think if Bald Knob was illustrated in the style of, say, Adrian Tomine, it would be published by one of the major graphic novel presses. But nobody knows what to do with books that are drawn in a funny style that touch on serious topics. For myself, I love the juxtaposition. The only thing better than taking a dumb joke very seriously in my estimation is approaching serious topics with a sense of humor.

Anyway, Hamil has a new book out, and it’s in the second register, though it’s also pretty funny. It’s a collection of three short stories called Front End Loader, and it’s about secrets and religious experiences and what happens when a mundane life bumps up against the unexplained. If you’re intrigued by what I wrote about Hamil above, this is probably the best introduction to his experimental, literary side. My favorite story is the second one in the book, a tiny absurdist sex farce with a great punchline. But all three of them are worth your time and attention, if you like a little comedy in your pathos (or vice versa).

During the early days of pandemic lockdowns, I interviewed a librarian who was trying to find fiction set during the 1918 pandemic that was published shortly after the pandemic. He said that basically there was almost no contemporaneous fiction written about the Spanish flu or its impacts on society. Once that pandemic had passed, it was almost as though everyone just silently agreed to move on and forget what had happened, he said.

That’s happening now with Covid. You can feel institutions and individuals shoving the experience of the pandemic and lockdowns down the memory hole. Politicians want us to forget that government quickly acted to effectively get money into the hands of people who needed it, employers want us to forget that many people could easily work from home, society in general wants low-wage workers to forget that they were ever termed “essential.” Masking and free vaccinations and everything else is swirling down the drain of our collective memory.

As for me, I love reading about how the pandemic and pandemic-era lockdowns impacted people. In particular, I was a daily reader of Roger Langridge’s excellent five-year diary comic experiment, which overlapped with Covid. And now I’m a big fan of Seattle cartoonist Joe Alterio’s Covid diary comics, It’s Never Easy.

The book is beautiful, printed using a three-color risograph press that makes the colors on each strip look hand-applied. The comics are deeply observational, as though we’re seeing out of Alterio’s eyes. And because everyone is busy staying six feet apart from everyone else, there aren’t a whole lot of people to fix our gaze upon. A limp flag, a roof pelted by rain, a flight of stairs with no one on them. Each three-panel strip feels like a complete thought, a moment.

These comics put me back in the days of lockdowns, and I mean that in the most pleasant way possible—the silence, the contemplation, the sense that something important had changed forever. The fear and loneliness is there, too, and that’s important. Alterio captures all that nuance—the quietness and the way some things felt amplified to the point of incomprehension.

This is a book I can pull out to bring me back to those weird, unique days. While everyone is so desperate to pretend that the pandemic never happened, I’m glad to have this gorgeous book to remind me that not only did it happen—it mattered.

The Poet Empress by Seattle area author Shen Tao is not the kind of book that I traditionally read. Fantasy, particularly fantasy involving royal families, is really not my bag. I don’t like stories about destiny and preserving bloodlines and other determinative nonsense. But the book came highly recommended by Lost the Plot mobile bookshop, and so I gave it a try, and I’m glad I did. The closest comparison to a book that I can find for this one is The Hunger Games, in terms of a likable protagonist thrown into a life-or-death system that she doesn’t fully understand.

Tao’s world building is at once expansive and restrained: We’re not bored to death with acres of lore before the story starts. Instead, we’re thrown in and Tao parcels information as it’s needed as the narrative unfolds. Our impoverished hero unwillingly becomes the concubine to a sociopathic prince who can magically control knives, and she must find a way to survive and to provide for her family.

After I tore through the first two hundred pages, The Poet Empress slowed down a bit for me as the story began to follow some well-trod paths. But I’m eager to read whatever Tao writes next—if she can inspire me to eagerly read a fantasy novel, she can do just about anything.