It’s 2:00pm, the appointed time to meet with our next interview subject, and my photographer is not at all where I’ve left him. He does this sometimes: wandering off after shiny objects; the glint of a window pane, or a strong silhouette can leave him helpless to his more artistic urges. His cell phone rings again, and again. Finally, he picks up on the third attempt. “Where are you?” I ask.

“We’re here!” he answers through fits of laughter.
“Here?” I ask.
“Here.”
It was the most shocking answers he could have given me; as surprising as if he had announced a decision to spend the rest of his days as a post box. I’ve known John for three years now, and the exact coinciding of him being in both the correct place, concurrently with the correct time, means I am missing something good. I sprint the last two blocks to Prince William Street’s Bourbon Quarter to find John already drinking his second beer amidst a mirthful crowd, and at the center of it: Johanne McInnis.

“You have to try this; it’s delicious,” she says, already signalling the waitress. This is why Johanne McInnis is so dangerous. Continue reading The Whisky Lassie: The Alter-Ego Of Johanne McInnis →