Ah, weekends; two days to remind you of how good life could be.

It’s not that I think Mondays are bad, per se. They’ve simply been relegated to being the first days to shatter happiness and joy, to be the harbingers of pain and sorrow. And so on.

The gosh-durn WordPress update never seems to go smoothly (it’s always one plugin after another, isn’t it?) and, well, the weekend was so interesting, I almost forgot that the War still lurked just around the corner — with a bat and a belief I owed it some money.

Sadly, our own local detention center has now moved off-court onto (I believe) wood-chip-covered earth:

Can you believe that it’s been almost a month now?

But luckily there’s a curious twist at this point, otherwise I’d just be regurgitating the same old war stories again. That’s gross.

If you look at the photo again, right at the back on the left are two guys in DayGlo-yellow shirts. They’re actually taking trash from people’s cars and hauling it in here themselves. Somehow, the 416/79 cavalry have managed to miss my little enclave; these guys were actually helping people get their trash in. Most excellent service too, if I may say. I’ll definitely have to ask more questions tomorrow.

But you know that even if they were strikers, which they were not (?!), it wouldn’t stop some kind of festival from happening. With genuine regret, I managed to completely miss the Festival of India parade, but at least managed to fill my crowd quota for the day with the big balls of Just for Laughs:

All the comics must’ve been on their smoke breaks because everyone there was definitely not funny. Well, there was this one funny part where a gymnast flew dangerously off course, and oh-so-close to the audience:

The look on his face as he lifted himself off the canvas was a masterpiece of raw human emotion; disbelief, horror, embarrassment, relief, self-doubt, and anger; the kind of face you make when you’re in the privy trying, grimly, to eject a particularly unrealistic log. OH, C’MON! WE’VE ALL BEEN THERE!

Anyway, it was funny.

Funnier than cleaning my sofa when I got back to my place:

Eureka, leave a comment and I’ll contact you about where you can send the royalty cheques. What? You didn’t think it’d be just one, did you? Just like foxes, you are.

Now, dear reader, before you berate me for the frequency of my house-keeping, I would like to point out that this is a week’s worth of collected Ollie hair and open-window city exposure.

Plus, we’re in the middle of a war! A dusty, dusty war.

The War rages on, Being Erica still makes no sense, yadda yadda.

I recognize that it’s been pretty monotonous around here lately, hasn’t it? It’s not like the combative strike by the 416/79 has paralyzed the city! Let’s see what else is happening around town.

–

And I’m back! Through the wonder of digital technology, I was able to perform the kind of modern miracle of science grandpa would have voided his bowels over: turn a hyphen into three hours.

I’d intended to head down to Ontario Place for the fireworks but in this day of have-nots, it seemed rather indulgent. That was just fine though because on my way I ran into a few interesting places like the Jazz Festival. Not so much a festival as an extended concert for really relaxed people:

I managed to sneak my slight frame behind one of the tent flaps to watch Brandi Disterheft pouring out a gentle “In my solitude”. Dave Brubeck was around somewhere too, just not where I was. In hindsight, I would have loved to cut a rug with Medeski Martin & Wood, but I won’t let regret rule my life. The if-onlys are the things that kill you: if only I’d heard of the festival sooner; if only I’d read the entertainment section more; if only I’d practiced safe sex and worn those damn shin guards. If only.

I wandered away from the square and bumped into my old buddy Steve Mann, hydraulophone guy and seemingly retired cyborg:

Steve is a hero; the only man who can get women all wet by touching his worm in public. I know it’s blue, but it’s better than the green one (yep, still down there – eww!)

Anyhow,  that subject is probably best left to sit in the sun and gather flies. Just as well because I was getting a bit weary of listening to Steve explain (for the third time) the inner workings of the instrument to two people (Mr. Whitey ensemble at the right + guest) who had asked the same question (verbatim) three times. No! The water doesn’t activate electronic actuators! What is wrong with you two?! He just told you it doesn’t! God!

I could actually taste the bitterness subside as I headed back home. I stopped at a lonely a la cart guy in front of Metro Hall to buy a lukewarm veggie samosa. At two bucks it was a greasy good deal, but not really much personality. That was a bit further uptown in front of Metropolitan where I found a bunch of chess players slapping clocks and talking trash:

One of them had a fist raised to the other, growling for “revenge!”. Perhaps jokingly, but I knew that full-contact Aussie rules chess was imminent. I got out of there fast, past overstuffed garbage bins and noticeable roadside litter, as fast as my little legs could carry me. What a night!

Maybe not in that exact order but … what a night!

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.