Best known for his darkly funny cartoons in The New Yorker, Bruce Eric Kaplan has also written for such TV shows as Seinfeld, Six Feet Under and Girls. So I was very excited when his new memoir, I Was a Child, hit the shelves. It’s neither a traditional graphic novel nor a memoir, but an utterly unique and hilarious combination of both.

I’ve never read anything like Get in Trouble and that’s exactly what I love about it. The long anticipated short story collection from author Kelly Link is so wildly original, even her reviewers don’t know how to categorize her. Are these nine stories fantasy, magical realism or speculative fiction? The answer is a resounding yes. From celebrity ghost-hunting reality shows, robot boyfriends or a superhero with the powers of Thomas Mann, Link’s worlds are strange yet grounded in the mundane.

The elaborate set sparkles, and the actors—gowned and bejeweled, Botoxed and tuxed—look to the host, who was paid $5 million to make fun of them. The audience pretends to listen, but really they’re mulling which after-party to attend first. Everyone usually just follows Jake Gyllenhaal, who plays humble so well. (Even he can’t help but wonder why Nightcrawler didn’t get more noms.) Already the show is running into overtime. But in the wings, last year’s best-actress winner gets ready to announce the first big award.

The final season of Parks and Recreation starts tonight, and its devoted fans are heartbroken. Leaving forever are the endearing and quirky characters of Pawnee, Indiana, but there is a silver lining. NBC has wisely let the show’s creators Michael Schur and Greg Daniels “end it on their own terms.” Historically, those terms have included, but are not limited to, fart jokes, bitch slaps, pratfalls and getting drunk on snake juice.

I was sitting at a bar, sipping a manhattan and reading Lena Dunham’s new collection of essays, Not That Kind of Girl, when I noticed the woman next to me, at least 20 years my junior, doing the exact same thing. Glancing sideways, she looked up and said, “Hey! You’re reading my book!” To be clear, this was not Ms. Dunham, yet the young woman’s claim was almost territorial, as if I’d stolen the book from her generation. I suppose I had.

What struck me first about Anna D. Shapiro’s revival of Kenneth Lonergan’s 1996 off-Broadway play, This is Our Youth, was how young the audience was. What I imagined to be a topical time capsule of the early 1980s, reflecting the cocaine-addled Reagan era of wealth and self-indulgence, is in fact a poignant take on the confusing transition from youth to adulthood, a subject as germane now as it was two decades ago.