Tonight on my way home, I spotted Toronto’s mental, scary, unpaid, un-musical answer to New York’s Naked Cowboy. That’s right – Zanta.
I got my first glimpse at everyone’s favourite nutbar, in his trademark Zanta hat, camo shorts, running shoes and socks, and a jacket over his bare torso.
Only he wasn’t behaving nuts.
As I passed him on Front Street, by Union Station, I saw him talking to a couple of people in his really quick, I’ve-eaten-a-jar-of-coffee-beans way of speaking he has. But he was … calm.
No push-ups. No grabbing his own butt and pretending to make farting noises.
I saw him on Front Street, near Union Station, on my way to the bank.
Very un-Zanta. Maybe he actually is normal …