North Bay is strange

Still home, not for much longer. I think four days is the optimum here - not too much, not too little. Anyhoo. North Bay is strange. I went out with my brother last night, met his much nicer new girlfriend and his crazy but funny neighbour who told some quaint old off-colour jokes. Then I woke up super early still kinda drunk in my brother's motorcycle room, went to Twiggs with him on his way to the firehall, and went home.

North Bay is strange. North Bay is a troggy Dundas and Jarvis with a low enough population density and high enough purchasing power that people don't shoot each other. And then the 5% of the population that isn't troggy has the room to breathe, and the landscape is breathtaking. Still. People fucking gossip. Trogs or not. They talk about each other here. They talk. They invent the wildest rumours. I had a safe childhood here but I don't think I could do North Bay to a child . . . I don't know . . . I don't know what kind of mother I'd be . . . I think I need lots of money so I can buy the fruit of my loins a much nicer woman from the Philippines to take care of it. My point is, North Bay is strange.

Quick plug - James Sroga, an amiable and adorable punk from my highschool, has a tattoo parlour in the arcade between Main and Oak. If you're ever passing through North Bay, don't omit to have him physically manipulate you somehow.