When I found out that the 15th Annual Los Angeles Art Show is taking place at the LA Convention Center this year, I immediately flashed back to the last time I was there, about 5 years ago, getting sworn in as an American citizen. Instead of being surrounded by fellow foreigners awkwardly waving our tiny American flags as a video George Bush, wheat fields, and smiling children played on a large screen, this time I was surrounded by rich old people, hipsters, and hungry reporters.

“Who’s here? What celebrities? Who’s checked in so far?”
“Tatyana … hm… something,” the publicist was a bit taken aback by his ferocity. “Let me look it up, I’m not good with celebrity names.”
“Honey, if you can’t remember the last name, they’re not important.” BURN.

All I was hungry for was pasta and possibly champagne. Journalism is usually an individual sport, lonely, cold and demanding, like curling, so when fellow reporter Tommy Tung, a freelancer for Juxtapoz, suggested we wander the art show together, I was excited to have a partner in crime. Especially when it came to snagging a drink and food at the same time – teamwork was of the essence.

The LA Art Show is vast in size and scope. Kim Martindale, the Director/Executive Director of the show, had a very clear vision for utilizing the space to its maximum advantage, including giant live painting installation Vox Humana, the Downtown Gallery Association, and the Sister City Los Angeles International Art Exhibition. “The great thing about the convention center versus any other facility in Los Angeles, is that you have the potential to do these things. When we moved the show here we were at 70,000 square feet, this is 150,000 square feet.”

The size of the space is important, since Kim’s view of the LA Art Show is encyclopedic, “We have [everything from] very historic work to really cutting edge. This show is about showing all the different types of art.” That may account for some overheard grumblings at the show about Holly Hobby art, or declarations that the LA Art Show is no Art Basel. But for every complaint, there is a gallery or an artist that has a chance to show its work to an outside audience. Be it the art of Uruguay, the debut country for the brand-new Guest Country Program, or the graffiti of Retna and El Mac, this convention center is a site where many unlikely matches of artist and art lover will occur.

Tommy and I were most excited for the Vox Humana Art Performance, which is curated by Bryson Strauss of LA ART MACHINE. There are two separate 12’x12’ murals for Mear One and Kofie, and a joint mural that’s a collaboration between Retna and El Mac. It is a black and white photorealist portrait of a woman, a universal mother figure with pained eyes and a wrinkled face – El Mac’s contribution. Her face touches something primal inside, a nostalgic guilt that is so familiar to every kid who’s ever upset his mother. Starting from the top left corner, Retna has begun to cover the background in his signature calligraphy, beautiful in its fluidity and grace. By the end of the show, he will complete the Spanish quote, which so far reads “I am your mother, who gave you the earth that bore you, now my tears…” I can’t wait to see the finished product.

A featured spot at the LA Art Show brings a certain legitimacy to an art form that is illegal in its natural environment; a fact that’s easy to forget with artists like Shepard Fairey and Banksy having become pop culture staples. Kim Martindale is proud to aid this shift in perception with Vox Humana, marking the first time a prominent art fair has featured street art: “Graffitti art is part of that latest movement that has gone through transitions, where people pushed it aside, saying it’s an evil thing for our society, and in the last 5 years you start hearing a lot more about those artists, and they really are artists.”

Just as the live graffiti art installation is a first of its kind for any art fair, not just the LA Art Show, it is a first event of its kind for the artists as well. Retna tells me he’s excited to paint here, “It’s nice to be able to be in an environment like this and be able to produce the pieces that we would normally do on the street.” For El Mac, the ability to paint on a 12’x24’ canvas is another bonus – he says his work has a lot more impact large, in addition to minimizing a perfectionist streak that can run wild when he is working on a small scale.
Retna and El Mac are glad to expose a different kind of audience to their work, seeing the difference between this gig and what they usually do as merely a difference between the private and public sector. “We kinda do it for everyone, it’s a universal thing, there’s stuff we give away to the people and there’s stuff we give away for a commercial purpose, but the meaning is the same,” says Retna.
For El Mac, creating the giant murals under the watchful eyes of an ever-changing crowd goes hand in hand with the exhibitionist nature of being a graffiti artist, “The more the better. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? Wanting people to see the work, whoever they are, whether they are little old ladies, or rich Italian people. Whoever might like it, whoever it might do something for.” Both artists hope that the exposure will lead to new opportunities and new investors.

After taking some video of Mear and Kofie working their magic with aerosol cans, acrylic paint, and rulers, I head over to the giant Hershey kiss that has been beckoning to me throughout the evening; even more than the pomegranate martinis.

The 20’x12’ kiss is one of several delightful offerings of CA mosaicist Jean Wells, presented by Timothy Yarger Fine Art. Its Oldenberg-like oversized playfulness draws people from all around the show like a shiny silver beacon, and its little paper flag flies a promise of something fun, silly, and sweet. It does not disappoint – inside there is a little bench, where videos of silent movie kisses play on a loop. It is an escape pod from reality, a giant piece of brain candy.

Elizabeth Yochim, the Director of International Exhibitions for the gallery, shared what she thought made Wells’ work so popular internationally in the last couple of years, and so attractive to serious collectors: “It seems very simple, but it is very highly crafted mosaic works, each piece is hand-cut glass. [And] they find her work refreshing, whimsical, funny, nostalgic – which can be a trite word, but it truly does remind you of a innocent happy time, and also [attracts] people who are just drawn to objects of pop vernacular.” Ah yes, Jeff Koons fever.

Other pieces include a ritzy gold teddy bear in a hilarious brightly patterned vest – it has the expensive look of the Damien Hirst diamond-encrusted skull but it comes with a sense of humor. As I let a giggle escape, I catch an older man frowning at me and the bear, which reminds me that a lot of people do not consider this art. Elizabeth is used to hearing that. “Whether or not the art world accepts it as art, or fine art, it touches people. Everybody who looks at that teddy bear smiles,” says Elizabeth. “Is that art? Is it an expression of the human condition? Of course.” As I watch people interact with the bear and the kiss, I see their emotional response, and the whole argument becomes moot.

On our walk back to the parking lot, I overhear a formidable-looking gentleman with neck tattoos tell his friend with a shiver, “That painting sucked the life right out of me.” I want to recommend that he check out the Hershey’s kiss, where his vigor would be surely restored, but he heads straight for the bar. That works too.

I leave the LA Art Show feeling excited and inspired by what people are trying to create here, the city that Kim Martindale believes is the new epicenter of the art world. He tells me that there is a far greater purpose to the obvious desire for the commercial success of the show: “You are trying to develop an interest in art, in the community. It’s about uniting all those non-profit, for-profit, institutions large and small so that more people talk about art, and create an excitement about art, because without that, my soul is lost.” Couldn’t have said it better myself.

Anticipation better not get the best of me. An hour before my partner in XXX crime arrives to pick me up to go to Sardo’s Grill & Lounge, the so-called home of the San Fernando Valley’s Tuesday night Porn Star Karaoke, expectations are flying around, having a heyday. We have both been assigned to check out where the valley’s living exhibits go after a long, hard day at work to relax and hang loose, no pun intended. I repeatedly tell myself there’s no point in all this anticipating, that thinking too much about what will be will kill it. But in all fairness to myself, fantasizing about it is half the fun. All I can think about is having to sing “Physical” or “She’ll Be Cuming ‘Round the Mountain” to a crowd of drunken adult film stars while my arm is draped around Roxanne Hall and the new Jenna Jameson. Singing our favorite songs, no one caring what an atrocious singer I am, and the 2 a.m. bar curfew becoming null and void in a world of mastacious women, swinger parties, roller skates, and pre-1980s sexual disease phobias… Damn! I’m anticipating again. Staring blankly at my open wardrobe, I’m hoping something will jump out as the obvious attire to help me blend in, but I am having no such luck and I’m running out of time like the Rabbit. Now a little panicked, I circle around my options and eventually throw on a t-shirt, purple leather vest, some 60s-ish pants and my worst enemy, a pair of heels.

Marco picks me up because he knows I’m a lightweight. Two drinks and I’ll be telling anyone who will listen stories that should be told with reservation. I’m used to talking a lot and not being heard, but I’m starting to think Marco is actually listening which both relieves and frightens me. I’m given the task of navigating, but I’m having such a good time already that I forget to pay attention to the map. Road construction detours and MapQuest hell leave us screaming to the lords of Burbank urban planning for help. Where the hell is this place? Right when we think it’s time to go home, Marco pulls into a strip mall. Next to Vons, a neon sign illuminating Sardo’s is sandwiched awkwardly between ill-fitting businesses, as is typical of strip malls. We give each other a deadpan look, laugh, sigh, and unbuckle. The air feels seedy, which sets me in the mood. I get a waft of donuts, sex and mist. Delicious.

It’s still early, so there’s no one outside with the exception of the bouncer and a man I recognize as the owner (I watched his interactive tour on Sardo’s website so he was easy to spot). He is welcoming and gestures for us to walk in. As we do, I notice a sea of red patent leather covering all the booths and the bar stools. It’s calm and collected for what I imagined. The tone-deaf have definitely arrived, but where are all the big boobs? The tanned skin, the peroxide-bleached hair? The gangly men with long, curly man-locks? Ah, yes, there’s one. You have to really search for him, but he’s there. Marco and I look around, sussing out the premises of this should-be-but-isn’t house of debauchery. There appears to be a VIP area where an older woman with a backbreakingly enormous chest sits, alongside a blonde and a brunette. This must be where the “stars” congregate. We count about four who could pass as porn stars, although we aren’t quite sure; we are in Los Angeles after all. The mic is handed over to the MC for the night, who announces the recent release of her new DVD and proceeds to call out tame dirty names to the boys in the crowd begging for a free t-shirt. She selects one up front, makes him turn around and bend over, and gives him the kind of spanking we all predict.

It’s getting more and more crowded, which feeds me with a morsel of hope. I very much want it to be a secret gold mine of a dive bar, with locals I want to chat with, music I want to sway to, outrageous live acts I want to witness. But it’s not; porn has gone limp. Actually, it feels as if it has nothing to do with porn. If I came without prior research, I would never guess that it’s a porn star karaoke night. The bar does have some redeeming qualities: it’s funky, relaxed, well lit, and serves healthy-portioned drinks. But we are here late and not one “porn star” has graced us with his or her voice as far as we can tell, so I’m left thinking the label has been put on the wrong bottle. It’s simply karaoke in Burbank, which naturally, being the porn capital of the world, has a higher than normal chance of being frequented by a few porn stars.

Bad karaoke fades into the background as Marco and I comfortably settle on bar stools in the corner, familiarizing ourselves with local regulars and self-medicating with Heineken and Diet Cokes. One such local, a man by the name of Ken who smells of Marlboro Reds from the table next to us, wears a leather cowboy hat and boots, and clanks glasses with us in celebration of his birthday. We learn he’s been coming for many, many years and thinks it’s the greatest bar around. I must add to that statement that Ken and his wife live one block away. Marco and I had committed to singing if it meant we would experience more of what Sardo’s PSK has to offer, but given the less-than-mind-blowing vibe, we decide to pass.

I never expected Sardo’s to be a live and breathing dictionary of all things pornographic, but I did expect something slightly entertaining. I can safely say that Marco, my delightful and funny partner on this PG-rated night, was 10x more engaging than what was going on in the corner of the VIP booth. So what do I think of Sardo’s? I think it’s a bar in Burbank with good drinks. Period. Do you need to venture across town for it? No. Is the allure of porn stronger than porn itself? Probably, but I’ll leave that for the experts to debate.

Anticipation turned out to be the most efficacious act relating to porn of the night, as it is quite masturbatory in itself. But if my expectation of tonight was my mental foreplay, I’m pretty sure Sardo’s gave my dear friend Marco a bad case of blue balls.

Side B: by Marco Mannone

Topanga Canyon twists before me in pitch darkness. One wrong move, and I’ll have a healthy ten-second free-fall to let my life flash by before exploding on the jagged rocks below. Keep it steady and let Nick Cave croon “Moonland”. I’m venturing into this perfect slice of darkness to pick up Forth writer/online editor Sophie Kipner. She lives in the lush heart of Topanga, and it feels thoroughly nice to be off The Grid.

When I pick Sophie up she is surprised at how punctual I am – and I must say, I am as well. It’s a long haul through the winding wilderness before we make it into the Valley and jump on the 101. Our destination: Sardo’s in Burbank to listen to Porn Star Karaoke. Why? Because it has become an L.A. tradition. In Italy, you ride in Gondolas. In Spain, you watch a bull-fight. In New York, you go to Broadway. And here in Los Angeles, you see people who get paid to have sex belt out their favorite 80’s rock ballads in a grimy little bar in a strip-mall of a Von’s parking lot. Who says L.A. doesn’t have culture?

We veer off at the Pass Ave. exit and the evening is going swimmingly until we realize that Pass Ave. doesn’t feel like cooperating and ends prematurely at Olive. We back-track, only to end up in the parking lot of a dry-cleaners and MapQuest has failed to clarify Burbank’s impossible infrastructure. Construction and poor city-planning drives us in circles, and we come to find – over much laughter – that there is no feeling quite as despairing as being lost in Burbank, CA.

Eventually, Sophie calls the bar and we get a new set of directions that circumvents the construction detours and lands us at Sardo’s. Since 2003, the establishment has been hosting Porn Star Karaoke, a novelty that has caught on as a must-see local experience. The lounge is small and modestly crowded at 9:45pm. We saddle up at a free corner of the bar and Sophie gets a Jack & Diet Coke while I get a Heineken. The clientele is typical for the Valley: a strange mix of frat-boys, middle-aged divorcees, Nascar cowboys and, oh yeah, a few porn-stars thrown in for good measure. But the image of a “Boogie Nights”-style disco scene is quickly erased as we settle in and absorb the average, blue-collar atmosphere.

An aging gentleman in a 2006 Nascar champion jacket and cowboy hat (I wasn’t kidding) introduces himself as “Ken”. It’s Ken’s birthday tomorrow and he’s out celebrating with his wife over some chicken-wings and cocktails. They’ve been coming to Sardo’s for years, much like a majority of the people here, and he swears by it as a good time. The meager collection of porn stars are sequestered into a modest “VIP” booth by the stage and they don’t appear obvious in any way – save for the giant breasts on one worn-out woman which look as if they might go down like the Hindenburg.

Waiting to be impressed – or even vaguely amused – Sophie and I turn to each other for drinks and conversation that turn out to be far more entertaining than anything the evening could present. When I catch the dark wing of a bird sticking out of Sophie’s shoulder-blade, I inquire about the tattoo and she pulls her sleeve back to reveal a magnificent crow frozen in glory. She explains that when her grandfather was dying in England, that a crow had perched itself on his hospital window-sill for an entire week without moving. Moments after he passed, the crow squawked and flew away leaving Sophie enchanted. Despite her general fear of birds – stemming from a hilarious “Emu incident” in Australia when she was nine years old – she decided to brand herself with this bird as a symbol of her grandfather and, perhaps, a reminder of fears that need to be overcome in this life.

Excusing myself to the bathroom, I am nearly molested by a crowd of people as I squeeze myself across the bar. There is a line to the men’s room, which plants me squarely between porn-star Julia-Anne singing “Rebel Yell” and a fortune-teller’s glass bowl with a plastic witch head floating inside of it, cackling obnoxiously. This could either be a decoration for Halloween, or the very spirit of pornography: a fake woman trapped in a bubble, stimulated by electricity and doomed to a bar in Burbank.

Inside the claustrophobic commode, a Mexican gentleman is busy mopping the floor with a bucket of dirty water, and I make a mental note to burn my Converse when I get home. A white yuppie uses the urinal next to mine — the kind of guy who wears a silk, burgundy button-down tucked in his jeans. Julia-Anne can be clearly heard through the wall behind us, and the Yuppie breaks my personal bathroom etiquette by engaging me in conversation.

“Oh my god, these girls sound like HORSE-SHIT!”

“Well, what did you expect?” I respond.

“I don’t know man, but of all the places we could have gone, I am regretting coming here. Vegas, New York, shit – even Tucson for Christ sake!”

He is drunk and the Illusion men across the country must have of L.A.’s porn scene has been efficiently soiled by his visit here.

“Well hell,” I tell him, “Keep your sense of humor intact, and go down laughing.”

When I make my way back to Sophie, the evening’s host – adult actress Nikki Hunter – is making a man pull a free T-shirt out of her manufactured cleavage with his teeth.

“What’s this?” I ask Sophie, who watches the scene unfold with a wry smile.

“They’re handing out free stuff to whoever makes the biggest fool of themselves,” she responds.

A free DVD is waved around and the drunk apes in the lounge roll around and beat their chests for a chance at “earning” it. One lucky hominid is singled-out and Nikki asks him, “So what will you do to get this?”

“Anything you want!” he grins.

“So I can spank your ass as hard as I want?”

“Sure!”

The man – presumably apart of the work-force, a relative to some family, a tax-payer and quite possibly a patriot – bends over with his elbows planted on his table, and endures the brutal hand of Ms. Hunter as she WHACKS his buttocks.

“So what was your introduction to porn?” Sophie asks me, a not-so-typical work-related question.

“Like most red-blooded American males of the 20th Century: the glossy pages of Playboy. My best friend’s father had boxes full of every issue dating back to the 1960’s.”

We both agreed that was innocent stuff compared to today’s brand of gonzo porn.

“In essence, you were apart of the last generation of men who had a classy introduction to the opposite sex,” Sophie tells me, “Playboy Bunnies were modest, playful and respected.”

“True,” I elaborate, “And the act of appreciating them required effort. Back in those days, you had to be covert to sneak magazines around. Not like today, where kids can say they’re doing their homework and surf the Internet. Christ, I can’t imagine what it’s like to be a kid these days. They can see and hear things that most adults can’t even comprehend at the push of a button. We’re gonna have a generation of sexual deviants on our hands soon, and a good deal of them will become teachers and politicians.”

I ask Sophie what her introduction to porn was, and she confides it was at a girlfriend’s father’s house when she was at the edge of puberty. She and her girlfriends would watch the father’s VHS collection and proceed to prank-call random boys by emulating the breathless dialogue of the women on TV.

“Shit, where were you when I was 12?” I ask her, “All the prank calls I got were insulting.”

Sophie ponders the future of pornography, “How could it possibly get any more graphic? At what point will we be unable to push the envelope any further?”

“I agree,” I tell her, switching an empty Heineken for a full one, “On one hand, it’s desensitizing us, necessitating more and more elaborate fetishes. On the other hand, and I think this is the optimist in me, but I think that at a certain point the sensory overload of the Internet will hopefully re-establish the need to have a meaningful, connected and loving relationship with the opposite sex. Because at the end of the day, an orgasm without love is as empty a physical gesture as sneezing.”

We’re just two young writers for an arts & literature magazine, philosophizing about human sexuality and relationships in the 21st century, all the while a woman with thousand-dollar breasts croons “Pour Some Sugar on Me” in a way that Def Leppard probably never imagined.

Not too long after midnight, we decide we’ve had enough and head out to my car and jump back on the 101 – where we continue to laugh all the way back into the sweet heart of darkness that is Topanga. At the end of the night, the tacky lure of drunk sex objects singing cheesy music pales in comparison with the genuine connection I end up enjoying with Sophie. Connections in L.A. are hard to come by (regardless of their platonic or romantic nature) and when two members of the opposite sex create one, it’s in the same ballpark as a tiny miracle. As much as Burbank seems designed to confuse, L.A. seems designed to alienate, and I am thankful I have gotten to know this girl with a bird on her back a little better. After all, Sophie is proof-positive that it’s not where you go in this strange city we call home, but who you go with.

Ass-spanking optional.

During parties, especially ones in designer-conscious downtown Los Angeles lofts, the couch is coveted territory. People have just spent twenty minutes making polite non-committal remarks around the kitchen island, and all anyone wants to do, at this point, is rest on the cushions and maybe squeeze an end pillow. However, the same competitive drive that applies to every other aspect of life in the city is amplified here. The people on the couch are ruthless motherfuckers. They’ve earned that seat; when a choice spot opens up, you be better be ready for conversational battle, or you will be booted back out into the unfinished concrete of the renovated hallway.

Recently, despite my better judgment, I attended such a party. Weary from exchanging platitudes near a collection of Rocky memorabilia, I decided to sit down on the couch, and found myself engaged in a conversation about conspiracy theories with a bankruptcy lawyer. Clearly, he had sat on this couch before. Not only was he was able to cite specific book titles, but he was making insightful comparisons between presidential assassinations and major terrorism events.

However, he had not consumed nearly as much of the champaign punch as I had, and therefore was unprepared for my counterattack. I began to cite my Basic Theory of Human Nature, drawn from my experience running businesses and running from other people in business environments. My central argument, that incompetence always triumphs over organization, caused him to finally blow out his cheeks in exasperation and get me another drink. No matter what Sun Tzu tenet he may have been trying to employ by getting me another drink, he did legally leave the couch to get me the drink, which officially won me the conversational match point.

Energized, I quickly bested a pleasant woman in a green vest, whose tales of blowing off her friends in order to pass the Bar Exam, although interesting, did not technically qualify as couch material. Self-sacrifice, when paired with heart-warming achievement, is more suited to personal memoir than the sharp-tongued volley of urban happy hour. I felt bad, but this was the couch after all: she would undoubtedly be happier leaning up against the refrigerator while eating some celery sticks.

Now, I was ready to face the alpha couch denizen, the man whose eyes watered only for smoke. I could tell, as we shook hands and settled into our corners, that human emotion meant nothing to him. He had sat on a thousand couches at a thousand different parties, eaten innumerable hors d’oeuvres, listened to tales of prestige and woe with formidable indifference. I was dealing with a master. The only question was: what technique would he employ?

After a quick warm-up, in which we plied some test digs and light undercutting banter, he went for the throat: genuine racial invective! It was a surprise move, cloaked naturally in an ironic tone, but unmistakably a slur. Who calls who a ‘sandnigger’ on a scotch-guarded piece of furniture? It’s a little like lighting somebody’s cigarette with a flamethrower. I began to realize, at that moment, that I no longer wanted to sit on the couch, if I had to sit next to this giant asshole.

It felt like a big moment. He had certainly breached couch etiquette, but who was there to enforce the policy? It fell to me to call him out, and what did I do? I went home. Blame it on the drinks, the late hour, the culminating fatigue of facing down conversational opponents. The point is: I may have lost this couch battle, but I’m still fighting the war.

Don’t let its title deceive you, Irish Girl, Tim Johnston’s latest book is a collection of eight short stories that explore life and happenings in small town USA. Hailing from Iowa, Johnston knows a thing or two about the ugly secrets that can often exist buried within the confines of a seemingly sleepy, small town. While the stories within Irish Girl vary in plot and theme, they do share similar small town settings in which such things as murders, love affairs, and lies are uncovered and dispersed from one gossiping townsperson to the next.

Upon arriving at Book Soup on Thursday, December 10, I was quickly greeted by the man of the hour himself, Tim Johnston. I had traveled to the trendy bookstore on Sunset Boulevard for a special night of readings from Johnston’s Irish Girl. The event was hosted by The New Short Fiction Series with Sally Shore. Shore, a spoken-word artist and actress, began this series 14 years ago and it continues to be a creative showcase for not only authors and their works, but also for actors. On this particular evening, Shore read an expert from “Water,” the second story from Irish Girl. As producer of the series, Shore picks works of fiction that possess a “voice that jumps out” from the page. As an actor, Shore’s job is therefore made easy as this voice is able to articulate her motivation. A second reading was given by Matthew Thomas Lange who read from “Dirtmen”, the first story in the collection which tells the morbid tale of a group of men who uncover the remains of a woman while working at a Biopark. What’s perhaps more disturbing is the way in which it is alluded to how the body came to be there. The suspense, intriguing characterization and descriptive imagery of Johnston’s writings were brilliantly portrayed through the two readings.

For Johnston, writing fiction is all about creating a story that “sentence by sentence, makes you pay attention.” The sometimes carpenter, other times award winning author, is pleasant and laidback as he fills me in on his work process. It all begins with reading, Johnston informs me. Before he sits down to write anything he gets “charged up by language” by re-visiting some of his favorite novels by authors like Cormac McCarthy and William Trevor. To read is in fact the answer Johnston gives when I ask if he has any advice for young writers. “Don’t try to be a writer without reading” he says, along with “be willing to fail” and “hang in there if you do.” When I ask what serves as inspiration in order to start the creative juices flowing, Johnston reveals that most of his ideas come from a visual scene or scenario that pops into his head. From this visual, the author is able to develop characters and gain a sense of setting and situation. Personal experience often comes into play in terms of setting as seen by the many rural locales in Johnston’s stories. Growing up in Iowa City Johnston knows first hand the kind of mentality that can exist within small towns and how tragic events can seem that much more dramatic on a small scale. Often tragic events are depicted in Johnston’s stories, though he does not necessarily set out with an exact storyline. Forgoing the confines of outlines, Johnston usually has a sense of where the story is going, but admits that it often doesn’t get there as different characters or plots can take precedence midway through. Sometimes writing just a paragraph a day, other times hammering out a completed short story in two and a half days, Johnston’s writing schedule fluctuates. Always writing one story at a time however, Johnston’s use of language is perfectly crafted by his attention to even the minutest detail. Irish Girl is surely a testament of success in Johnston’s original goal of making readers pay attention sentence by sentence.

Lucky for us, Johnston is in the midst of writing a new novel which tells “the story of the Courtlands, a young family from Wisconsin who, while on vacation in the Rocky Mountains, suffers the unthinkable when a teenage son and daughter go up into the mountains, but only the son comes back down.” Until its debut on a bookstore shelf, one can enjoy Johnston’s Irish Girl, and also his first novel Never So Green. To learn more about Tim Johnston visit his website at http://www.timjohnston.net/ or to catch a sneak peak excerpt from his next novel go to http://www.narrativemagazine.com/issues/stories-week-2009-2010/two-years. As for The New Short Fiction Series with Sally Shore, look for more readings next year at their new location at Barnsdall Park (http://www.newshortfictionseries.com/). I know I look forward to Johnston and Shore hopefully teaming up again in the future to produce another event ripe with both literary and theatrical flair.

Quick Look:

What: Tim Johnston Reading hosted by the New Short Fiction Series with
Sally Shore and Book Soup
Where: Book Soup 8818 West Sunset Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90069-2125
When: Thursday, December 10, 2009 7pm
Websites:

www.booksoup.com

www.timjohnston.net

www.newshortfictionseries.com