Turning thirty with zero dollars in the bank, no job nor prospects, sipping NyQuil and staring at the Los Angeles sky, at space, at nothing and everything-Johnny Future's cool with that. He knows he must do something in this life, but he doesn't know what. His grandmother, the only mother he's ever known, is stuck in a nursing home somewhere. He hasn't seen her in years. Inanimate objects, exterminator icons, street signs are all talking to him, telling him he's got problems. He's messed up, sure, but he's gonna do something about it. He's gonna get deep and go right to it. Self-styled "poem writer" of the L.A. vernacular, lover of all that exists, hopelessly unrepentant-because he doesn't even know what that means-Johnny Future tells us about his world, his Hollywood, his Los Angeles, his struggle, and our future. Steve Abee taps the well of broken hope and tattered heroism that sits beneath his nihilistic generation, transforming it into a heartening, hypersexual, punch-drunk tour de force ushering the drug narrative into the new American century.