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About Dallas

So, escort—Ford Escort, right? That lil’ car’s a legend, bro. Born in the ‘60s, Europe’s baby, not some American muscle flex. Tiny, scrappy, like Amélie dodgin’ her own damn feelings. I’m obsessed! Picture this: me, drivin’ an Escort, blastin’ through Paris, yellin’, “Zut alors! I’m late for love!” like some unhinged line from the flick. That car’s got soul, man—zippy, cheap, gets you laid if you play it right. Ha! Nah, for real, it’s practical as fuck—perfect for a broke-ass dreamer like me.

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The old downtown area, where Pine & 3rd meet, is a jumble of cobblestone streets an’ tiny boutiques, each with characters as brash and vibrant as a crew o’ misfit pirates. Ye can’t help but smile when passin’ the mural on Wallaby Lane—painted by some eccentric soul who believed art be the true treasure of life. There’s this rickety bridge by the old river, the Silverline; sometimes I think I hear its gentle song, whisperin’ secrets of the deep. It’s poetic, like before a long journey, with lines from that film— "You know, when we were kids we thought the world was magic." Arrr, the magic’s still here, if ye care to listen.

'They're putting the First Nations history at risk,' says northern Ontario archeologist about Bill 5