When it comes to Maryland stoner rock, there is only one band that matters. And that band is Clutch. I’ve been listening to them for over a decade, and in that time they’ve moved away from their roots to their current all-encompassing, crock-pot-of-rock sound. They tour constantly, and their live show has made more than a few converts over the years. Of their recent albums, the blues-inflected Blast Tyrant is the one I’ll most often play all the way through, and "The Regulator" is the best song I know for taking a dusty walk at high noon, down a long and lonesome road.

I’m a big fan of Errol Morris, as much for his personality and obsessions as for any single work. I share a number of his interests (crime, the JFK assassination, epistemology) as well as the conviction that human beings are gloriously, irreducibly weird. First Person explores that inexhaustible weirdness with his trademark sympathy, profiling subjects as diverse as the Unabomber’s pen pal, an expert on the giant squid, and a master of disguise.

Ron Rosenbaum treads much the same territory as Errol Morris; in fact, they’re pretty good friends. But Morris uses a camera and Rosenbaum uses a pen. This tome collects 30 years of magazine reporting on everything from Tijuana cancer cures to underground atomic bunkers to the birth of hacker culture. Oh, and there’s a piece on the JFK assassination, too. All of it told with Rosenbaum’s signature wit and intelligence.

I’m a fan of cryptotaxidermy, and I make no apologies for that. Over the years my jackalope has acquired some pretty awesome accoutrements, including an eyepatch, a shark-tooth necklace, and a handsome fu-manchu. It’s gone from looking like something from an Outback steakhouse to a work of outsider art. Or, admittedly, something you’d find in a 1930’s lunatic asylum.

When it comes to internet mask memes, the Guy Fawkes mask probably wins for sheer ubiquity and political weight. But I favor the horse mask for its versatility: there’s no situation for which it’s inappropriate. And it’s a kind of Rorschach blot that, once it appears, everyone finds their own subjective meaning within. Except, hey, it’s also a bug-eyed horse! I keep one in the car and one in the bedroom. Just kidding. There’s no horsehead mask in my car.