Last year’s Luminato experience, at least for me, consisted of a giant red ball, a pricey half pint of beer, and a few moments with Disco Inferno. I didn’t quite know what to make of the festival then and, to be honest, I still don’t really have a handle on what it’s supposed to be.

On the one hand there are events such as live theatre, literature, and artsy staples such as painting and photography, but on the other hand many of the free family-friendly events would be difficult to classify as anything other than pure entertainment.

For a hardcore art experience, Nuit Blanche is a safer bet, and free outdoor entertainment can easily be found, well, just about anywhere during the summer. If you like meaty literature, it’s not tough to find, and getting your live action fix is easily doable too.

But for a festival that seems to be trying to be all things to all people, they do sometimes succeed in breaching the niche in a very satisfying way.

Last night, for example, Luminato had The Moist Towelettes throwing down on the main Yonge-Dundas stage as part of the J-Pop Divas thing.

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I was just on my way home last night when I overheard this heartwarming tune being performed at Yonge-Dundas Square (part of Luminato).

In lieu of good audio quality, here are the lyrics to the snippet I recorded:

…she’s a sex machine, yeah.
She just turned 18.
And she buys me methamphetamines.

That’s why I’m dumping you, biatch, that’s why I’m out the door.
Go on an close the dumpster cuz you’re still a skanky whore.

A skanky skanky skanky skanky whore.

You spend the night at truck stops,
and at the tattoo shops,
and it don’t make you an actress just because you’ve been on Cops.

And sure you finished college,
well whoop-di-frickin-doo,
If I blew all my teachers I’d finish college too.

That’s why I’m dumping you, bzatch,
that’s why I’m out the door,
She told me she’s your sister but you’re still a skanky whore.

She’s a little skanky too, but you’re a whole lot more,
You creepy, cranky, stinky, stanky,
skanky, skanky whore.

Imagining ride-the-rides-till-I-puke fun, and fully intending to top this off with the closing performance of Luminato,  I decided to enjoy a sunny afternoon on the Toronto Islands yesterday.

No sooner had I left the docks than nature decided to go on her rag:

Kudos to all of you who spotted Bobby Lee in this photo.

Despite the ominous ceiling and ravenous  seagulls at Centreville (Toronto’s lumberjack-inspired answer to Coney Island), I managed to scarf down a funnel cake with “the works” consisting of a light dusting of icing sugar (childrens’ cocaine), early-season strawberry goop (later in the year, the storage barrel’s accumulated fly droppings adversely affect the flavour), and ice cream (childrens’ meth). The eight-dollar price tag (four bucks for the pointless, barely-dusted variety), seemed a bit steep, even if they import from Colombia.

The few rides that seemed like they could support an adult man were overrun with coke-crazed kids, and the others were closed down for repairs. Shame. But I did get to wander around, fondle some goats at the petting zoo, that sort of thing.

The northern part of the island has some interesting, less-traveled areas like the hedge maze where children come to do drugs in private and then run around screaming incoherently, presumably because of the hallucinatory insects crawling on their skin. Note for you parents: this is a good opportunity for you to suddenly and permanently “lose” your kids. Well worth the trip.

The beach at the very northern end of the island is surprisingly syringe and condom-free, but the fishy smell and the looming clouds didn’t inspire a dip. Instead, I got a good gander at the cormorants that are re-populating (and defoliating) the Leslie Street Spit, from the pier that juts out into lake Ontario. For a dollar, the coin-operated binoculars provided three minutes and twenty seconds of nude trees and hardcore bird sex.

Sexy. But not as sexy as Toronto’s very own haunted phallus, the Gibraltar Point Lighthouse:

Despite the awesomeness of this photo, the structure is barely four storeys tall. Well, maybe six. You could probably see the light out at a distance on the lake but the tree line would block it out near the island, the only place you would really need it. Most of the trees look pretty old so I can only conclude that they must’ve Agent Oranged the hell out of the place back in the day.

If you were thinking of peeking through that red gate at the base, you would be rebuffed by a Dr. Evilesque voice saying, “You will find that quite im-possible. It’s a very solid door … with lay-zers.” So outside with the mosquitoes, cell towers, and lost/urinating tourists you stay.

The building certainly looks authentic enough, and chunks where cement has patched the masonry are visible but executed very cleanly. The grey and white morning-salute to Toronto should be around for ages to come. I bet it’s breathtaking at dawn.

Alas, the day was growing dark so I returned to the docks, shoved aside a bunch of old (weak!) people and made my way to the front of the boat.

The final Luminato show was an hour-long delay with people in the crowd shouting, “What the fuck? This fucking sucks! Where’s the cock-sucking show you assholes?” Sophisticated art lovers all, just not my type of crowd; plus my dogs were barking something fierce, so I decided to call it a day.

Suckers.

It’s not that I forget about giant red balls or apartment hunting, it’s just that I take a relaxed attitude to writing TCL. Some have described it as procrastination. Others, laziness. Others still, too much banana leaf. Who knows?

Sometimes it’s just because the big red ball needs a day off. That was yesterday. Today, it was up bright and early at the Ryerson campus Podium.

The location was perfect because it allowed the sunlight to hit the ball’s sumptuous, silky surface in the most striking way:

Clearly the glorious red vision was designed to attract because, like flies, children were soon buzzing around it, touching it in inappropriate ways:

I’m sure you’re asking, did I meet the genius behind this wonder? No, I did not. In fact, I don’t believe he was there. The same guy that had crushed my spirits two days ago was the same guy now in charge of the current display. He had a female assistant, but please trust me when I tell you that neither one of them was the artist. They just weren’t Caucasian enough. No, that guy’s probably sitting on a sailboat lighting cigars with hundred-dollar bills.

But I did get an attractive brochure:

I’m gonna wax a bit here and posit my own personal belief as to the ball’s purpose. That would be to highlight sections of the city that you may pass daily but wouldn’t otherwise notice if a giant red ball wasn’t wedged in there. It’s a sort of way of saying, take back your city, explore those strange little alleys between buildings, have another look at something you pass every day. And for God’s sake, you can’t see it from over there! Come closer! Come!

It draws attention. Gets noticed. Not afraid to show it’s ass in public. I mean, that’s the very definition of “photogenic”.

So if this was the artist’s aim, I give it two thumbs up. The ball has shown us sacred ground. Maybe it’ll even be visible from a satellite. Maybe it’s a Google marketing ploy. Who knows? I’m still glad it came and allowed me to bask in it’s glory for one brief moment before I had to trudge off to work.

*sigh*

Oh wait, it’s still around all weekend!

The crumply tin chairs and crumply tin tables at Dundas Square were again available tonight and I finally got to sit at one with a crumply six-dollar Stella.

The main show on stage was Disco Inferno who’s name left so little to the imagination that I couldn’t think of a word to write. I sat there certain that the scary security guard, who’s goatee alone would be considered a weapon, was peeking over my shoulder. It just wasn’t an environment conducive to concentration.

I gulped back the uninspiring lager and left the boozy oasis, seen here at back under the red umbrellas:

Note that Disco Inferno did actually have people doing the pushin’-up-the-sky dance (hold palms up and pump skyward – ooi! ooi!). If you can make out the detail above, there’s even an old lady getting out of her wheelchair in the middle of the crowd. Cured!

Here are the Inferno; numerous Bar Mitzvahs, weddings, birthday parties, and corporate events having tuned their act to this singular moment of perfection:

Far too many people were hurting themselves trying to re-live their youth and I didn’t want to join them. I wandered off to the pedestrian part of the square where there hung a bunch of photographs on triangular mounts. I guess these were intended to allow for quick juxtaposition of adjoining images, allowing us to more broadly grasp the photographer’s vision, to understand the underlying narrative that they’re trying to convey, but they were still mostly boring. Here they are being ignored:

To be honest, there were a couple of cool crowd photos. But not many.

A friend notified me that a giant red ball is being moved about Toronto to various spots and I discovered that it will be in my neck of the woods soon.  Giant red ball wedged into city crevices. That just kinda writes itself.

So far Luminato at Dundas Square hasn’t been the outlandishly artsy event it’s been billed to be. Unless you count the L’Oreal makeup tent as art. But maybe I’m not giving it a fair shake. Maybe the ball will silence me with it’s glory.

I decided that I was going to take a stroll down to Dundas Square with my wee little PC, the camera, and sit down at one of those tin little tables on one of those tin little chairs. Aluminum, really. But what’s the difference? When I plunk my ass on them, they both crumple in the same way.

I’d hoped to gawk at the tourists at the Hard Rock across the street and provide a second-by-second reportage of greasy food consumption. I was also looking forward to spotting inattentive parents and in their periphery, infant children as they put their tiny, inquisitive hands in pigeon poo. Then to experience the flavour for the first time in their lives. Magical.

Instead, the entire square was being hogged up by this:

That illegible blue banner says “Luminato 2009“.

I wasn’t yet living in Toronto at this time last year and spent most of the festival in rush-hour traffic. But I have to say, now that the sun is shining more brightly, I’m extremely glad I don’t follow the Toronto social scene too much because if I tried to, I’d be DEAD. JUST DEAD.

Luminato itself has quite a few moving parts, and the city is already packed to the rafters with stuff to do. If I’m sitting on a patio somewhere sipping a beer and snapping candid photos, that’s quite enough excitement for me, thank you!

It’s fairly certain that pedestrians will be tripping over Luminato-related events on almost every corner and, if they miss those, something else will be happening two feet further. There may not be that frenzied, singular density that Nuit Blanche has, but I’m expecting to not be able to find any tin seats or tin tables for me to sit at any time soon.

The pavement hurts my bum so.