Hunter S. Thompson,�Screwjack�
From the inside jacket: �Hunter S. Thompson�s legions of fans have waited a decade for this book.�
Well, is that exactly correct? Sure, we like his books, and his offerings have been sparse. There was Better Than Sex in 1994, and 1998 saw the release of The Rum Diary, which was written in 1958. Other than that, we�ve had to placate ourselves with collections of his letter writings, and if we can remember, the fact that he writes sports columns for ESPN. So basically, we wait for ANYTHING to come out.
And we�ve been hearing about Screwjack for a long time now, though if memory serves, it was supposed to be about his trial for sexual assault. And so finally, Screwjack is released. Huzzah!
And in fact, though I felt like a traitor doing so, I found a cheap copy being sold through abe.com, rather than being a patient little minion and waiting for a copy to come through my place of employment.
Finally a package arrives, but it can�t be Screwjack, because it�s so small and puny. You can�t fit a book of any size in that, I thought, ripping over the package.
And a tiny book spilled out onto the floor.
What the hell? Thompson isn�t exactly known for his brevity. But here it was, a sixty page book that looked more like a hallmark inspiration quote book than another book by the gonzo journalist. Worse, it wasn�t even really sixty pages, as the actual story doesn�t begin until page 11. And if that wasn�t enough, the first and longest story, �Mescalito,� was already printed in Songs of the Doomed. What�s left is 14 mini pages of new material with huge type and large spacing both between the lines and within the margins.
Cover price: Fifteen dollars.
What the fuck? Who�s getting the screw here, jack? Thank Christ I found a copy as cheap as I did, probably only paying about a dollar more than I would have if I�d been patient.
Okay, yes, what few words we get here are golden, but again: what the fuck? If anybody should know about the danger of not feeding an appetite, it�s Hunter. I walked away from this book feeling like a high school sophomore who just bought oregano from the local burnouts.
