Last night's recipe using Pacific Village chicken from New Seasons and local celeriac, rutabaga, parsnips and beets.
Bacon-Butter Braised Chicken with Garlic and Celeriac
Ingredients
3 lbs. chicken parts (breasts, thighs or drumsticks with skin and bones)
1 head of garlic, minced
1 medium to large celeriac (About 1 1/2 lb)
5 strips bacon, cooked crisp and chopped finely
1/2 stick of unsalted butter, room temperature
2-3 cups of chicken broth
2 TBSP chopped fresh sage
2 TBSP olive oil
Salt and Pepper
Directions
Peel skin of celeriac with a paring knife. Slice into potato-chip size portions. Set aside with minced garlic.
Combine chopped bacon, sage and butter in container. Incorporate well. Set aside.
Rinse chicken. Pat dry. Carefully separate skin from meat. You can probably do this with your fingers but you might have to start it with a paring knife. Do not completely take skin off. Rub meat under skin with bacon-sage butter. (Call me Paula Deen, but you can't overdo this). Salt and pepper outside of chicken lightly.
Heat olive oil in 12 inch skillet on med-high.
When ready (You'll know it's ready when you splash a bit of water on the oil and it sizzles), place chicken skin side down into skillet. Fry up, about 9 minutes.
Remove chicken and place on plate.
Add garlic and celeriac to skillet. Fry for 8 minutes.
Return chicken, skin side up. Add chicken broth, reduce heat to simmer and cover. Dark meat takes about 23 minutes, white meat requires about 28.
You should have a lot of excess broth the chicken is done. Save this for stock! Place in container, let cool to room temperature and skim fat off before refrigerating.
Roasted Root Vegetables
Ingredients
2 carrots
2 parsnips
2 beets
1 rutabaga
1 butternut squash
Salt and pepper
2 TBSP balsamic vinegar
2 TBSP olive oil
Directions
Preheat oven to 425.
Peel and chop all vegetables to similar sizes except butternut squash. Cut slightly larger, as it'll roast faster.
Wash all chopped vegetables.
Place in large baking pan.
Douse in oil, vinegar, salt and pepper. Mix with hands.
Make a tent with aluminum foil over the pan, making sure there are no air gaps.
Roast in oven for 45-60 minutes, depending on preferred tooth. I found that 55 minutes was perfect!
Plating
Pile middle of plate with celeriac (Use slotted spoon to plate)
Scoop roasted vegetables onto one side of celeriac.
Place chicken resting perpendicular onto both vegetables.
If desired, spoon 2 TBSP of garlicky-chicken stock over chicken and onto plate.
Dig in!
Showing posts with label television. Show all posts
Showing posts with label television. Show all posts
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Hump Day
Today has been a rough day. For no real reason in particular I haven't been sleeping all that well and today was definitely a result of the four hours of sleep I've managed to wink in over the past two days. It's not a case of the Mondays but rather, as the rest of the working world calls it, a case of the Humpdays.
No. I'm not talking about anything pornographic or icky (I hate the word hump with as much passion as I do the word horny. They both just sound so gross).
Allow me to pull some definitions:
Ala Urban Dictionary:
1. The middle of the work week; used in context of climbing a proverbial hill to get through a tough week.
2. Wednesday, the middle of the week, implying you have to 'get over the hump' before you can anticipate the weekend.
3. The middle of the week or the beginning of the weekend, depending on your level of addiction to alcohol.
Ala Dictionary.com:
1. The middle of the work week, usually Wednesday.
Sadly, since I no loner have access to the Oxford English Dictionary since I graduated UP 13 months ago, I can't dive into the serious etymology of Hump Day.
So I Googled instead (Yes, I know...I am indeed a giant dork).
Apparently Wednesday is just a mediocre middle day in most worlds...real and fictional.
There's AE Bray's nursery rhyme, "Monday's Child," that decries Wednesday's child as full of woe (IF...yes, big IF, I ever have kids, I'm sure my mom will hope I have a Wednesday child since, as she and my father have told me numerous times, if I were the first child, I would have been the only.). Solomon Grundy was married on a Wednesday, fell ill on a Thursday and was buried by Sunday (I DO plan on getting married someday but definitely NOT on a Wednesday).
In Winnie the Pooh, the cruddy nature of the "Blustery Day" is attributed to it being "Windsday" (a play off of Wednesday, just in case you didn't catch that). And in Richard Brautigan's "In Watermelon Sugar," Wednesday is the only day the sun shines gray (Considering his troubled life and eventual suicide, it's probably best he was a Montana boy who didn't know that in Portland, the sun shines gray every day).
But it's not even in literature and poetry where Wednesday is a crappy day (PS as I write this the once-sunny day is vanishing under a sheet of heavy, heavy rain). In astrology, the planet Mercury represents Wednesday. Mercury, a/k/a Apollo, is simply the messenger (Maybe there's a reason for that adage, "Don't shoot the messenger" because it sucks to be the proverbial bearer of bad news.), noted for his swiftness and speed...a flat out lie considering the length of the modern day Wednesday. I think that the first century poet Manilius probably had it right when he called Mercury inconstant and vivacious.
If we shoot over to the Bible, we get Ash Wednesday (Caveat: This is all coming from a non-religious individual who attended a private Catholic university so take the commentary with a grain of salt). Yes, of course, it's a wonderfully spiritual day on the whole but it comes with the confessing, fasting and the promise to not eat meat for FORTY WHOLE DAYS. Plus as it was at my college, most people are hungover from going nuts the night before on Fat Tuesday.
So, as one can see, Wednesdays are blah all around. For me, Wednesday's few saving graces are all modern-day guilty pleasures like the Willamette Week (Of which I only read the Dish section. I pick up the free weekly paper solely because it means I get a THIRD crossword puzzle to work on), America's Next Top Model (WGN is rerunning the Petite Model season, fyi) and no boyfriend until later at night to make fun of me for indulging in either (Quarter Orange duty calls). On my cross country team in college Wednesdays were always an easy training day; no practice and either a light run, cross training or a total day off.
Considering my lack of sleep and the fact that my body feels more zombie-like and less humanoid, I'm going to pay homage to my cross country team training schedule and take the day off from running (I've gone a solid 12 days in a row!), kick back with an IPA and watch ANTM while doing the crossword puzzle.
Of course, that's after I finish this ginormous internal project that's due...oh...today.
Hump Day indeed.
No. I'm not talking about anything pornographic or icky (I hate the word hump with as much passion as I do the word horny. They both just sound so gross).
Allow me to pull some definitions:
Ala Urban Dictionary:
1. The middle of the work week; used in context of climbing a proverbial hill to get through a tough week.
2. Wednesday, the middle of the week, implying you have to 'get over the hump' before you can anticipate the weekend.
3. The middle of the week or the beginning of the weekend, depending on your level of addiction to alcohol.
Ala Dictionary.com:
1. The middle of the work week, usually Wednesday.
Sadly, since I no loner have access to the Oxford English Dictionary since I graduated UP 13 months ago, I can't dive into the serious etymology of Hump Day.
So I Googled instead (Yes, I know...I am indeed a giant dork).
Apparently Wednesday is just a mediocre middle day in most worlds...real and fictional.
There's AE Bray's nursery rhyme, "Monday's Child," that decries Wednesday's child as full of woe (IF...yes, big IF, I ever have kids, I'm sure my mom will hope I have a Wednesday child since, as she and my father have told me numerous times, if I were the first child, I would have been the only.). Solomon Grundy was married on a Wednesday, fell ill on a Thursday and was buried by Sunday (I DO plan on getting married someday but definitely NOT on a Wednesday).
In Winnie the Pooh, the cruddy nature of the "Blustery Day" is attributed to it being "Windsday" (a play off of Wednesday, just in case you didn't catch that). And in Richard Brautigan's "In Watermelon Sugar," Wednesday is the only day the sun shines gray (Considering his troubled life and eventual suicide, it's probably best he was a Montana boy who didn't know that in Portland, the sun shines gray every day).
But it's not even in literature and poetry where Wednesday is a crappy day (PS as I write this the once-sunny day is vanishing under a sheet of heavy, heavy rain). In astrology, the planet Mercury represents Wednesday. Mercury, a/k/a Apollo, is simply the messenger (Maybe there's a reason for that adage, "Don't shoot the messenger" because it sucks to be the proverbial bearer of bad news.), noted for his swiftness and speed...a flat out lie considering the length of the modern day Wednesday. I think that the first century poet Manilius probably had it right when he called Mercury inconstant and vivacious.
If we shoot over to the Bible, we get Ash Wednesday (Caveat: This is all coming from a non-religious individual who attended a private Catholic university so take the commentary with a grain of salt). Yes, of course, it's a wonderfully spiritual day on the whole but it comes with the confessing, fasting and the promise to not eat meat for FORTY WHOLE DAYS. Plus as it was at my college, most people are hungover from going nuts the night before on Fat Tuesday.
So, as one can see, Wednesdays are blah all around. For me, Wednesday's few saving graces are all modern-day guilty pleasures like the Willamette Week (Of which I only read the Dish section. I pick up the free weekly paper solely because it means I get a THIRD crossword puzzle to work on), America's Next Top Model (WGN is rerunning the Petite Model season, fyi) and no boyfriend until later at night to make fun of me for indulging in either (Quarter Orange duty calls). On my cross country team in college Wednesdays were always an easy training day; no practice and either a light run, cross training or a total day off.
Considering my lack of sleep and the fact that my body feels more zombie-like and less humanoid, I'm going to pay homage to my cross country team training schedule and take the day off from running (I've gone a solid 12 days in a row!), kick back with an IPA and watch ANTM while doing the crossword puzzle.
Of course, that's after I finish this ginormous internal project that's due...oh...today.
Hump Day indeed.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Writing Fitness
I already know I’m not in running shape. The 20 and 30 minute walk jogs of huffing and puff lace my Nikes up for every other day for are pretty substantial evidential proof of that.
I’m surprised to find out that I’m out of writing shape…mainly because I didn’t think that was possible.
Yet, here I am, sitting at home with a bag of Trader Joe’s frozen petite peas nestled on my right wrist and forearm (I have to save the ice for cocktails with the world’s worst vodka, after all), nursing what I’m certain is developing tendonitis.
A quick medical lesson for those of you aren’t familiar with tendonitis: As my oh-so-scientific-looking picture shows (And no, I didn’t draw it), tendonitis occurs when a tendon is inflamed from overuse. For the wrist, that means the thin, little muscles and tendons that move these texting, typing, dishwashing hands of mine up, down, left and right are probably throwing little temper tantrums from repetitive keyboard typing and mouse usage.At first I was a bit afraid I was developing carpal tunnel syndrome after just eight days at my new job but realized, after a bit of Google searching, that since I’m not experiencing any numbness or tingling in my palm, thumb or index finger, that I can luckily rule that secretarial injury out the window.
But then I realized I could be developing tendonitis since my wrist and outer forearm are aching like a beeeeeeeyotch. I first noticed the pain during the final hour of my day at the office (Goodness, how American and adult and suburbanly mature do I sound saying that?!) on Monday but it subsided by the time I was drinking a beer and watching ‘Secretary.’ On Tuesday I noticed that the pain began a little bit earlier in the day and didn’t subside; it was so annoying that I couldn’t bring myself even to Facebook after getting home and carrying the basket at the grocery store was a wee bit more than my tiny wrist and skeletor forearm preferred to carry. Then yesterday the pain began around noon and didn’t go away – probably because my ‘office’ is actually a room equipped with a 24/7 cooling vent that won’t shut off which means it’s freeeeeeeeezing (Yes Mom, I’m imitating you), making me cold to the bones – and working at PB, even for the short time I did, made it worse. Cooking dinner? A nightmare. Changing the radio station while driving my car? Yowch. And don’t get me started on the anguish I had while texting.
It throbbed as I went to bed, even after washing down ibuprofen with the last dregs of my Bridgeport Hop Czar.
It throbbed as I woke up this morning, still zombified. It hurt in the shower while washing my hair, in the car while banging my steering wheel with curses at traffic.
And it hurts now, after sitting for the Channel 13’s hour of The Office with frozen peas on arm.
Hmm. Maybe I should go to the doctor (Or suck it up and stop being a wimp?).
And, from the looks of my condensation-laden bag sweating on my arm, to the grocery store to pick up some non-mushy pods.
Friday, January 15, 2010
The Status Update
I just very recently updated my Facebook profile for no reason other than the fact that I felt like it and, like most 20-somethings who grew into almost-adulthood with Facebook (I was a freshman in college when Facebook first came to be the social phenomenon that rules the world of college students, post-college students, pre-college students, siblings of college students, parents of college students and even parents of parents of college students), part of my identity is tied into what my Facebook profile states about me.
Just this week, for example, I've let people know that I'm simultaneously living like a preschooler, taking mid-morning naps, while toiling away like an adult workaholic who puts in 52 hours within five days. I've also posted three fairly-well written and exciting blog posts (Okay, so I know that my tax blog was haphazardly thrown together and is more of a rant than anything else, but what are you going to do?). And I've also, as mentioned in the previous graf (Ooooh look at me using journalism lingo like I'm a real, live journalist), updated my profile: I added my receptionist position at Whole Family Wellness under my jobs, updated my favorite TV shows, added Neighborhood Notes into my web sites box and, without much hesitation or thought, changed my relationship status from "single" to "in a relationship."
All I can say is holy cow. As someone who produces reading content for other people, I like to think that I have some grasp on what people find enjoyable to read. I mean, a person can fundamentally be a great writer -- he can have such beautiful sentence structure that it makes you weak at the knees (That person for me, by the way, is T.C. Boyle) or she can be such a master of grammar and punctuation that any deviation from the technical rules of writing is unbelievably powerful (I know I'm a parentheses and dash abuser, thus making my favorite punctuations almost annoying at times) -- and produce boring content that people still read. Other writers can have really interesting subjects but have such awful writing abilites that attempting to get through a sentence makes your ears and eyes bleed (Ahhh memories of editing articles at the Beacon and during my stint at the Writing Center). I think that I'm somewhere in between those polarities; I think I produce flowing sentences with enough wit and interesting content but still struggle with organization and, as this blog post is evidence for, random rambling.
Or so I thought. For all of the articles I find in the New York Times or Oregonian or OPB, all of the blog posts, all of the status updates about both wonderful and awful things that have happened to me, I have never, EVER received as much feedback as I did when I changed my relationship status. Who knew that my love life was so interesting to others? I most certaintly didn't; in fact, my status hadn't been changed for 30 minutes before I had three comments and a friend Facebook chatting with me about my new beau. The response befuddled me, to be honest.
But then I slept on it and thought about this so-called phenomenon a bit more. People like romance and love and happy endings. As humans, we crave companionship and enjoy watching or reading about others going through strife, whether it's serious or comical (Yes, I'm differentiating between your typical chick flick and romcom) and still finding each other in the end. Heck, most of my favorite novels are about two people falling in love: Pride and Prejudice, The English Patient (Okay so they don't end up together; whatever) and Walk Two Moons, to name a few. I think that we enjoy being a part of romance because it makes us forget about the less-than-great things in life (death and clowns in my case) because we know that somewhere out there, two people are happy.
I'm figuring that's what the 14 people who have since commented on my relationship status update are feeling anyway. And that's okay.
Just don't expect gushy details any time soon. A girl doesn't kiss and tell, after all.
Just this week, for example, I've let people know that I'm simultaneously living like a preschooler, taking mid-morning naps, while toiling away like an adult workaholic who puts in 52 hours within five days. I've also posted three fairly-well written and exciting blog posts (Okay, so I know that my tax blog was haphazardly thrown together and is more of a rant than anything else, but what are you going to do?). And I've also, as mentioned in the previous graf (Ooooh look at me using journalism lingo like I'm a real, live journalist), updated my profile: I added my receptionist position at Whole Family Wellness under my jobs, updated my favorite TV shows, added Neighborhood Notes into my web sites box and, without much hesitation or thought, changed my relationship status from "single" to "in a relationship."
All I can say is holy cow. As someone who produces reading content for other people, I like to think that I have some grasp on what people find enjoyable to read. I mean, a person can fundamentally be a great writer -- he can have such beautiful sentence structure that it makes you weak at the knees (That person for me, by the way, is T.C. Boyle) or she can be such a master of grammar and punctuation that any deviation from the technical rules of writing is unbelievably powerful (I know I'm a parentheses and dash abuser, thus making my favorite punctuations almost annoying at times) -- and produce boring content that people still read. Other writers can have really interesting subjects but have such awful writing abilites that attempting to get through a sentence makes your ears and eyes bleed (Ahhh memories of editing articles at the Beacon and during my stint at the Writing Center). I think that I'm somewhere in between those polarities; I think I produce flowing sentences with enough wit and interesting content but still struggle with organization and, as this blog post is evidence for, random rambling.
Or so I thought. For all of the articles I find in the New York Times or Oregonian or OPB, all of the blog posts, all of the status updates about both wonderful and awful things that have happened to me, I have never, EVER received as much feedback as I did when I changed my relationship status. Who knew that my love life was so interesting to others? I most certaintly didn't; in fact, my status hadn't been changed for 30 minutes before I had three comments and a friend Facebook chatting with me about my new beau. The response befuddled me, to be honest.
But then I slept on it and thought about this so-called phenomenon a bit more. People like romance and love and happy endings. As humans, we crave companionship and enjoy watching or reading about others going through strife, whether it's serious or comical (Yes, I'm differentiating between your typical chick flick and romcom) and still finding each other in the end. Heck, most of my favorite novels are about two people falling in love: Pride and Prejudice, The English Patient (Okay so they don't end up together; whatever) and Walk Two Moons, to name a few. I think that we enjoy being a part of romance because it makes us forget about the less-than-great things in life (death and clowns in my case) because we know that somewhere out there, two people are happy.
I'm figuring that's what the 14 people who have since commented on my relationship status update are feeling anyway. And that's okay.
Just don't expect gushy details any time soon. A girl doesn't kiss and tell, after all.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Neighborhood Notes
As though working two jobs at 60 hours a week wasn't enough for me, I've gone ahead and taken on a new freelancing gig. I mean, what's the point of busting my butt at two non-writing jobs if I'm not going to pursue writing in all of my free time (You know, the few hours I have in between Pottery Barn, Whole Family Wellness, trying to have a social life now that I have the means to do so and that most-sacrificed past time I like to call sleep)?
Right, there is no point. So bring on the writing.
Here's the new gig: Thanks to Walker, whose company, Quarter Orange, is on a full-on marketing barrage to promote their very own short-film night at Radio Room, located on NE Alberta St. this coming Monday from 9 pm to midnight (If I'm not a good girlfriend promoting them on my sometimes-read blog, I don't know how one can define 'good girlfriend.'), I got in touch with a web site, Neighborhood Notes. On my free half-day Saturday morning I uploaded my resume as well as three writing samples (including my blog post about the Annex and some of my restaurant reviews) and by Tuesday afternoon, I was contacted to become a writer.
Talk about a quick hire. It's funny; I looked for MONTHS during the end of graduation to end up at Pottery Barn (which I of course, love but there's no denying the fact that my $130,000 piece of paper that says I graduate from UP is worth $8.50 an hour) but a whim of an application lands me a new freelancing position within four days. The world definitely works in weird ways.
Anyway, about the site: Neighborhood Notes started as a blog by a regular Portland citizen, Lynnette Fusilier, who joined the Pearl District Neighborhood Association (I love me some neighborhood associations) in 2002 and, being what I am sure is an overachiever (Hey, I've only Gmail chatted with her once), took on being a coordinator for everything Pearl District. Her blog grew in readership (which makes me think that maybe, just maybe, blogging isn't as ridiculous as it seems) and quickly bloomed into a Portland-wide phenomenon, covering every teeny tiny neighborhood that makes Stumptown the quirky city it is.
And now I get to write for the site.
I'm pretty stoked because I get paid and some pretty sweet perks too (Insert Steve Carrell as Michael Scott at the paper conference bragging about SWAG here). The pay is...okay...ranging at about $.10 a word but the perks are pretty neat, mainly because they include free tickets to shows (ballet, theatre, opera, concerts, you name it) as well as happy hour invites and hopefully, if my food writing skills come to fruition, free meals, too. I get to conduct interviews, meet new people over coffee and tea, write drafts and work on a deadline.
Deadline. I love that word; both syllables emphasize such an importance of finality. Dead -- as in, that's it; no more. Line simply brings up a myriad of cliche sayings: "No going past this line," "Crossing the line," "The finish line" or thanks to my stint at Clara's two Tuesday's ago when I watched The Biggest Loser, the dreaded Yellow Line.
Gosh, it's like I'm a real, live writer again. I've been in such a slump lately, with my column for the Regence Group all finished for the 2009 year (I'm semi-patiently awaiting the content calendar for the 2010 year), that I've felt less college-graduated-freelance-writer and more minimum-wage-worker. It's nice to know that I'll be paid for my writing from here on out (At least some of it) and that I'm about to have a much larger audience.
Anyway, expect my first article to appear on Neighborhood Notes in about two weeks; I've been handed a doozy of an assignment that's going to take some real research...
...which reminds me; the site's Writer's Guidelines instructs the writer to "write what you know." If that isn't a sign that this site is a good fit for me, I don't know what is --- Writing what I know is all I know! is one of my most basic tenets of writing after all.
Right, there is no point. So bring on the writing.
Here's the new gig: Thanks to Walker, whose company, Quarter Orange, is on a full-on marketing barrage to promote their very own short-film night at Radio Room, located on NE Alberta St. this coming Monday from 9 pm to midnight (If I'm not a good girlfriend promoting them on my sometimes-read blog, I don't know how one can define 'good girlfriend.'), I got in touch with a web site, Neighborhood Notes. On my free half-day Saturday morning I uploaded my resume as well as three writing samples (including my blog post about the Annex and some of my restaurant reviews) and by Tuesday afternoon, I was contacted to become a writer.
Talk about a quick hire. It's funny; I looked for MONTHS during the end of graduation to end up at Pottery Barn (which I of course, love but there's no denying the fact that my $130,000 piece of paper that says I graduate from UP is worth $8.50 an hour) but a whim of an application lands me a new freelancing position within four days. The world definitely works in weird ways.
Anyway, about the site: Neighborhood Notes started as a blog by a regular Portland citizen, Lynnette Fusilier, who joined the Pearl District Neighborhood Association (I love me some neighborhood associations) in 2002 and, being what I am sure is an overachiever (Hey, I've only Gmail chatted with her once), took on being a coordinator for everything Pearl District. Her blog grew in readership (which makes me think that maybe, just maybe, blogging isn't as ridiculous as it seems) and quickly bloomed into a Portland-wide phenomenon, covering every teeny tiny neighborhood that makes Stumptown the quirky city it is.
And now I get to write for the site.
I'm pretty stoked because I get paid and some pretty sweet perks too (Insert Steve Carrell as Michael Scott at the paper conference bragging about SWAG here). The pay is...okay...ranging at about $.10 a word but the perks are pretty neat, mainly because they include free tickets to shows (ballet, theatre, opera, concerts, you name it) as well as happy hour invites and hopefully, if my food writing skills come to fruition, free meals, too. I get to conduct interviews, meet new people over coffee and tea, write drafts and work on a deadline.
Deadline. I love that word; both syllables emphasize such an importance of finality. Dead -- as in, that's it; no more. Line simply brings up a myriad of cliche sayings: "No going past this line," "Crossing the line," "The finish line" or thanks to my stint at Clara's two Tuesday's ago when I watched The Biggest Loser, the dreaded Yellow Line.
Gosh, it's like I'm a real, live writer again. I've been in such a slump lately, with my column for the Regence Group all finished for the 2009 year (I'm semi-patiently awaiting the content calendar for the 2010 year), that I've felt less college-graduated-freelance-writer and more minimum-wage-worker. It's nice to know that I'll be paid for my writing from here on out (At least some of it) and that I'm about to have a much larger audience.
Anyway, expect my first article to appear on Neighborhood Notes in about two weeks; I've been handed a doozy of an assignment that's going to take some real research...
...which reminds me; the site's Writer's Guidelines instructs the writer to "write what you know." If that isn't a sign that this site is a good fit for me, I don't know what is --- Writing what I know is all I know! is one of my most basic tenets of writing after all.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
When all else fails, there's always public access television
Although I have lived in my studio for nearly three months now, I only recently plugged my television into the cable hanging deftly from my wall to connect to the myriad of local channels that non-Comcast apartment dwellers can receive. Now, while I was screwing the cable into my tv, I won't deny that I would magically receive the full-blown Comcast line up of channels I mean, it happened to my friend Meghann who lives in California; but then again, she believes its because her TV is so awesome that it just picks up on the digital signal from her neighbors. I don't think my 28 inch Sylvania that I got as a high school graduation gift is quite as good as hers but I was, nevertheless, hopeful.
I flipped through the channels that were more than just static fuzz and tallied up that I have the usuals -- ABC, NBC, Fox, CBS, a couple of random NW/Portland-are local channels and of course, two public access channels. I never really cared much about public access television until my final semester at UP, thanks to my Communication Law class where I learned all about the greatness that is public access television. Thanks to Oregon's incredible support and protection of the First Amendment (There's a reason why Portland has the most strip bars per capita than any other city in the United States), Portland's public access television shows can be (almost) basically about anything. I recall my professor telling us about a guy who had a 'naked hour' show.
While I have yet to see any naked hour shows on our public access television stations, I have, thanks to my Shingles which have simulatenously kept me apartment-ridden and up at random hours, watched no fewer than five times, a show called "Nos vivamos en Portland" on Portland's Spanish public access channel. It is, hands down, the worst show I have ever seen. Now, I know that by watching public access channels that I am setting myself up for bad acting, bad editing and bad production, but this show takes the award for Worst Public Access Show hands down (If there was a Razzie category for public access shows, 'Nos vivamos en Portland' would be a consecutive winner). The actors are a bunch of English-native speakers who must have, at one point during their community college Spanish education, must have thought during a study session (drugs probably...almost hopefully involved) that producing a television show where they could practice their Spanish would be a good idea.
It is not a good idea. Giving babies plastic bags to play with would be a better idea. Letting Sandra Bullock make yet another RomCom with Hugh Grant would be a better idea. Heck, letting Sandra Bullock make another movie, period, would be a better idea.
Granted, they've got guts to produce a show that has at least a few viewers every now and then and for that, I applaud them. But maybe, just maybe, they have too much time on their hands. Perhaps they could put their efforts into say, learning a third or fourth language.
Then they could start a tv show and confuse the heck out of everyone. Now that's a show worth watching.
I flipped through the channels that were more than just static fuzz and tallied up that I have the usuals -- ABC, NBC, Fox, CBS, a couple of random NW/Portland-are local channels and of course, two public access channels. I never really cared much about public access television until my final semester at UP, thanks to my Communication Law class where I learned all about the greatness that is public access television. Thanks to Oregon's incredible support and protection of the First Amendment (There's a reason why Portland has the most strip bars per capita than any other city in the United States), Portland's public access television shows can be (almost) basically about anything. I recall my professor telling us about a guy who had a 'naked hour' show.
While I have yet to see any naked hour shows on our public access television stations, I have, thanks to my Shingles which have simulatenously kept me apartment-ridden and up at random hours, watched no fewer than five times, a show called "Nos vivamos en Portland" on Portland's Spanish public access channel. It is, hands down, the worst show I have ever seen. Now, I know that by watching public access channels that I am setting myself up for bad acting, bad editing and bad production, but this show takes the award for Worst Public Access Show hands down (If there was a Razzie category for public access shows, 'Nos vivamos en Portland' would be a consecutive winner). The actors are a bunch of English-native speakers who must have, at one point during their community college Spanish education, must have thought during a study session (drugs probably...almost hopefully involved) that producing a television show where they could practice their Spanish would be a good idea.
It is not a good idea. Giving babies plastic bags to play with would be a better idea. Letting Sandra Bullock make yet another RomCom with Hugh Grant would be a better idea. Heck, letting Sandra Bullock make another movie, period, would be a better idea.
Granted, they've got guts to produce a show that has at least a few viewers every now and then and for that, I applaud them. But maybe, just maybe, they have too much time on their hands. Perhaps they could put their efforts into say, learning a third or fourth language.
Then they could start a tv show and confuse the heck out of everyone. Now that's a show worth watching.
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