Chip Butties: Underground snack phenomenon, or further proof that the Irish shouldn't leave Ireland? Discuss.

It's midnight, and do you know who's in your parking lot?

There's a pack of roller hockey players tresspassing on the lot of the office building next to where I live. The place is lit up like an arena 24/7. What a great idea.

On the CanWestGlobal kerfuffle: Owner. Own-er. What about that word does the Canadian public not understand? The Asper family "owns" the Ottawa Citizen. For those of you missing huge portions of your cerebral functions, that means they control its functions, its content, its employees, and every damn thing about it. That includes editorial content, as much as private journalists enjoy the illusion of independence.

Conrad Black, a man who made a business of hating the Federal Liberal party, staffed his Southam newspaper chain with similarly minded people (and made a habit of removing those who disagreed). When Black lost his stomach for the news game, he sold the Southam chain to my hometown's Asper family, who can't get enough of Little Jean and his merry band. Instead of firing the Southam editorial staff like any sensible owner, Izzy & Co. kept them around, likely as a labour relations move.

The publisher of the Ottawa Citizen was fired, not for running viewpoints that opposed those from head office, but for not clearing said article, which is a different kettle of fish. The Aspers love the Liberals, and if they wish to use their newspapers to show that, that is quite literally their business. If you do not agree, leave. Get a job with a newspaper that maintains an editorial stance more in keeping with your mindset.

I'm not a fan of concentrated media ownership, but if you allow it, you will get concentrated editorial opinions, and you've got no right to complain about it.

If you're still having trouble with the concept of ownership, try this mental exercise: Imagine the editor of Now magazine ran an editorial calling for a fascist police state. How long do you think Now's owners would uphold the concept of journalistic independence? Four seconds? Five? This whole situation is a tempest in a teapot, stirred up by annoyed Black loyalists, and seized upon by an issue starved national media.

When confronted with pressure, some people buckle down get the job done. Some people slack. Some people do anything but the task at hand.

I, apparently, cook. Two midterms and an assignment due this week, and instead of neat folios of carefully scribed notes and exercises, I am the proud owner of two lasagnas (one Asiago, one Feta), and a batch of some nice dry shortbread cookies.

Once, just freakin' once, I'd like a SummerFest that doesn't involve my getting rained on, and looking like crap for the rest of the night. Is that really so much to ask?

Or failing that, how about a fucking tarp to cover the completely artificial line that FEDS has decided to create, apparently suffering from the delusion that it will draw more patrons...

"Look Sally, a line outside the crappiest club in town...Gee Willikers, it must be all kinds of good tonight!"

SummerFest is made or broken by the turnout, so all y'all best be in full effect tonight, so to speak.

When I was younger, I used to get the most incredible nightmares...pit of your stomach terror-inspiring, paralyzed with fear kind of nightmares. There wasn't really anything in them that would qualify for an article in Rue Morgue, but they managed to scare me completely silly nonetheless. I remember, even as late as first year, being able to bring out the same feeling just by trying to recall the imagery. But it was hard, even then, and these days I can't remember the first thing about the nightmares themselves, only the effects.

So fast forward to last week, when your hero started teaching himself to write with his left hand (Three cheers for RSI!). Half-way through his daily exercises (a page full of 'd's), his foot starts to tap, his stomach drops, and a vague urge to close the window and sit with his back to the wall creeps up...so cool. I'm not sure what brings it on, maybe exercising portions of the brain that aren't used to being worked, but it's all kinds of interesting. I used to have a few different recurring dreams back in the day...hopefully this will set them off again, and I'll have the sense to write them down this time. If not, at least ambidexterity will be pretty sweet.

"At the concert when the band comes on

I am in the ring where I belong

On my last leg just gettin' by

Halo round my head too tough to die"

It's a sad day today folks. I wasn't a rabid Ramones fan, but they set off something that defined a huge swath of my adolescent life, and I have to respect that. Everybody break out your combat boots and leather bracelets tonight.

Good Lord. I think time itself slows down when summer rolls in around here. Where I grew up, we had hot summers...30, 35 degrees. But I don't live there anymore. I live in Waterloo (a.k.a. Toronto's armpit). It's almost as if the world goes into Super Slo-Mo as of the first heat wave...a fifty minute class stretches into eternity, a half hour work-out becomes a sticky two hour odyssey, your feet drag on the walk home, and once you're in the door, the only thought that doesn't boil off before you can finish it is how nice it would be to sit in front of the fan for a couple hours...anyone with a spare AC is more than welcome to pretty much anything they want in exchange.