(book chosen by Beau Dashington)
Once again Don Johnson’s novel follows a gimcrack bunch of bi-curious and homosexual lads on a paint-by-numbers adventure to find a dreamed up treasure. But through all of the poor editing, shit syntax, and plot inconsistencies there is still something special. That specialness comes from his uncanny ability to make the same jokes you would with your friends. Familiar inside jokes which came about through shared experiences and bonding. Reading Johnson is like waking up with a really bad hangover and reading through a transcript of the drunken conversation you had last night while binge drinking with your mates. You know, the kind of hangover where you are profoundly and spiritually exhausted and your beer shit could have passed through a tennis racket. One of those.