Of those that happen upon Receiving Me?, there are a select few who read the content. Those who read the content give way to an even slimmer masochistic minority who revisit our foe magazine. This piece is for the edification of that slim readership.

Revisiting our beloved site, in search of good material you did not ... [continue]]]>

Of those that happen upon Receiving Me?, there are a select few who read the content. Those who read the content give way to an even slimmer masochistic minority who revisit our foe magazine. This piece is for the edification of that slim readership.

Revisiting our beloved site, in search of good material you did not find the first time, is a natural part of the human condition. No matter how troublesome the compulsion may be, you are not alone. Akin to the futile act of manically checking the same pocket you usually put your car keys in after you know the pocket is empty, scouring this site will not cause readable content to materialize.

If you are caught in a cycle of periodically checking our site, here is a helpful hint that may dissuade your Pavlovian tic: We, the writers of Receiving Me?, use only our best material. That’s right, we choose these articles from a handful of even worse ideas flitting about in the backs of our heads.

Here is an example of one such thought I aborted moments ago:

thguartsiD sredaeR :sdrawkcaB detnirP elcitrA

.efil ym detsiaw ev‘I hO .esrever ni krow ton seod kcehclleps ,eton edis a sA .gniniatretene eb dluow siht thguoht ylnekatsim dna rettam tcejbus on dah eh esuaceb rettel yb rettel sdrawkcab etorw reggolb eno ,emit detsiaw fo yalpsid gninnuts a nI

How can subjecting you to the placenta of our publication help steer you away from the site once and for all? Because, it proves that you are getting only the best of our ideas, the cream of the crop, the very first time you visit the site. There is no great “funny” lurking in the shadows. No enjoyable read hidden behind a lesser piece. This is it. Your search is over. The pot at the end of the rainbow is empty and always has been. Now you are free to spend your time playing on Wikipedia.

Cincinnati, OH. After fumbling and throwing three interceptions, Eagles quarterback Donovan McNabb has brought a long overdue tie home to Philadelphia. The NFL itself has not seen a tied game in six years. Surprisingly, McNabb did not seem elated.

“I’ve never been part of a tie” said McNabb with ... [continue]]]>

Cincinnati, OH. After fumbling and throwing three interceptions, Eagles quarterback Donovan McNabb has brought a long overdue tie home to Philadelphia. The NFL itself has not seen a tied game in six years. Surprisingly, McNabb did not seem elated.

“I’ve never been part of a tie” said McNabb with feigned humility. “I never even knew it was in the rulebook. I was looking forward to getting the opportunity to get out there and try to drive to win the game. But unfortunately with the rules, we settled with a tie.”

Such modesty is rare in today’s game, but that speaks volumes for both McNabb as a player, and the team as a whole. Rarely does a team so well equipped to win seize the opportunity to loose, or with sheer determination, tie. But this has been just that year for the birds.

This glorious tie, however inspiring, was not achieved on McNabb’s shoulders alone. His ability to put the ball in Brian Westbrook’s hands, only 17 times out of 58 total throws is a feat no quarterback could accomplish alone. As the team’s best player, Westbrook’s fourteen rushes and three receptions were as much good football as this game could handle without spilling over into an unsightly victory. To tie a team this inferior, the players needed strategic guidance. When touting the laurels of the Eagles, one must not forget the coaching staff. While Andy Reid is not directly responsible for McNabb’s daring throws 10 feet above the receiver’s heads, he does deserve a great deal of credit for this unprecedented tie.

With a final score of 13-13, Philadelphia has yet another rare achievement to covet. Now all eyes are on the upcoming Baltimore game, and the hemophilic Philadelphia fan base is ready to bleed green all over M&T Bank stadium. 

The CDC used to advise washing chicken before cooking it. They have reversed their opinion. 

Campylobacter and salmonella are both at greater risk of transfer if you wash your chicken prior to cooking it. Why is this? Cross contamination is much more likely if you take a raw chicken and run water over it. This ... [continue]]]>

The CDC used to advise washing chicken before cooking it. They have reversed their opinion. 

Campylobacter and salmonella are both at greater risk of transfer if you wash your chicken prior to cooking it. Why is this? Cross contamination is much more likely if you take a raw chicken and run water over it. This contaminates your sink. Rinsing your hands, or produce consumed raw, in a contaminated sink can easily transfer these bacteria to you. Fortunately both afore mentioned bacteria perish when the chicken reaches an internal temperature of 165 degrees. 

While we are on the topic of temperature, I suggest that you drop a thermometer in your refrigerator every so often. Bacteria thrive between 40 and 140 degrees; so make sure your chill box hovers around 37.

Truth be told, I was feeling pretty down about wasting precious Internet space with this piece until I saw that there is an entire blog dedicated to the campylobacter bacteria. I’m feeling much better about my life knowing that I’ve only dedicated 20 minutes to the horrors of raw chicken.

This leads me to an important side note for anyone who follows my column. I use writing as a way to sober up after a long night. Others take the dizzying trip down from weekend festivities lying in bed, snoring awake every few minutes. I would much rather take solace in knowledge that the imbecilic rant that is keeping me awake will keep some lonely blog reader company when he or she is trying to sober up. Ah the circle of life. So there you have it. Don’t wash your chickens, or when you’re drunk you may end up doing research and writing an article about how useless the practice is. Now I have to go bleach my sink and slip into some Kleenex box slippers. 

In a terrifying effort, Pates Baroni has begun a campaign to rid Receiving Me? of content worth reading. Bolstered by insomnia and low self-esteem, Pates’ scourge has pushed great articles by real writers from their place of prominence. Now when looking for those articles I never read by that guy who I don’t hang out with much, ... [continue]]]>

In a terrifying effort, Pates Baroni has begun a campaign to rid Receiving Me? of content worth reading. Bolstered by insomnia and low self-esteem, Pates’ scourge has pushed great articles by real writers from their place of prominence. Now when looking for those articles I never read by that guy who I don’t hang out with much, one will only find Pates Baroni.

But hope is not lost for those devout readers who have enjoyed the scarcity of Pates’ articles in all issues prior. The very act of writing an article about how many articles one has written is a sure indicator that the author must be running out of material. In this weakened state, one ill comment, one suggestion of grammatical ineptness, could unleash Pates’ inner critic.

This dreaded creature, like Kafka’s mice or Churchill’s black dog, is a force of great stagnation. So riddled with self doubt is this twisted conundrum that even the inner critic operates under a nom de plume. But “Ego Crushington” as it likes to be called, is still at bay, hidden in the shadows of food laden with saturated fats. Only time will tell if Pates will be stopped before our entire website is filled with this drivel.

Wichita, Kansas. A new study has found that depression is a waste of time. Students at Wichita State University are compiling a list of millions of activities more fulfilling than those most commonly associated with depression, namely sleeping, overeating and suicidal thoughts. 

You may be surprised to hear that blogging is on the list, as ... [continue]]]>

Wichita, Kansas. A new study has found that depression is a waste of time. Students at Wichita State University are compiling a list of millions of activities more fulfilling than those most commonly associated with depression, namely sleeping, overeating and suicidal thoughts. 

You may be surprised to hear that blogging is on the list, as is visiting a horticultural society. All these years I have been elbow deep in Ben and Jerry’s while there is an animal shelter only a few blocks away looking for volunteers.

When I think of all the money I could save if tea or coffee replaced alcohol as my morning pick-me-up it’s really pretty exciting. Just think of all the money I could have saved if I hadn’t been drinking every morning since my sixteenth birthday. Why I would probably have my own place right now. In fact, I’d probably have been able to keep a steady job all these years, maybe even a steady relationship.

Just thinking about all these great things I could have done really makes me want a fresh start. I should clean out my freezer. I’ve got all those half eaten pints of Chunky Monkey that could have been money toward a college tuition fund. I should really make a clean break and finish those off. I’ll finish this blog later, maybe after I take a nap. Tomorrow’s going to be great.

Philadelphia, PA. In an overcrowded bar, famous for it’s inordinate wait time to get a drink, Leslie Fox bravely took a punch meant for me. Mr. Fox had not intended to bravely take the punch, but take it he did, bravely.

The night had begun innocuously enough, a pre-game drink at my apartment, a story ... [continue]]]>

Philadelphia, PA. In an overcrowded bar, famous for it’s inordinate wait time to get a drink, Leslie Fox bravely took a punch meant for me. Mr. Fox had not intended to bravely take the punch, but take it he did, bravely.

The night had begun innocuously enough, a pre-game drink at my apartment, a story about the week’s failures and lifelong shortcomings. Nothing marked this as an evening for the annals. The cab ride to an unfamiliar bar was pleasant. Our mutual friend amused himself by cat calling girls in thigh high boots and taunting our patient cabby to up the volume on a remixed Michael Jackson hit. When we arrived, a harbinger of doom appeared. “Beware the ides of March,” said the couple exiting the club. Perhaps the warning was more along the lines of “you can’t move in there,” but it was equally as menacing.

Upon entering, Leslie and I knew we were sunk. Our friend, however, was in his element. Movement was limited to an ungraceful shuffle, and the floor quite literally bounced under the weight of the overweight patrons. The horror. The horror. As Les and I ducked off into a nook seeking shelter from the gyrating mass, our friend’s cousin, who bares the delightful moniker “Snot,” stood at the bar, cash out. Within a mere twenty minutes he had secured beverages for the lot. We shuffled through the ungodly collective to find our friend. Weak with the smell of people who’s only exercise was in this dance club, the decision was made to down our beverages and head somewhere, anywhere, else.

It was then that a large man dancing in a rowdy group turned to Les and accused him of spilling a drink on his shoes. Leslie calmly brushed off the man’s accusations, explaining it had been another guy who tipped his drink. I noticed the confrontation, and taking no notice of the tattoos and gangster apparel, decided to reason with the man. Let me take this opportunity to say that if you are going to wear a baseball cap, please remove the stickers and bend the brim. The “my cap is so fresh that it still has that for sale look” is really a poor fashion choice. At any rate, my gentle touch did not work as well as I’d thought. “It was another guy, just relax” I said. He kept up his antics. “Listen, the place is crowded and it wasn’t his fault anyway, so don’t bark at my boy” I continued. “What?” he asked. A warning bell that should have gone off did not and I repeated myself as I was growing sick of talking to this obnoxious tough guy. “I said don’t bark at my boy.” It was then that he asked who I was, expletive deleted, and touched my chin. I wasn’t sure what was happening as the gesture was markedly homosexual and awkward, but not intimidating. Stepping back he threw a punch. This is when Leslie bravely rose to the occasion and took a rather meek punch in the face that had been meant for me. The man veal had missed me and taken off Leslie’s glasses with a glancing blow.  At this point our friend also threw his hat into the ring and blocked a partial flail. As proof, yet again that I should speak to my optometrist, I didn’t see any of the above transpire. The big boy was ushered off by his friends as an obese tattooed girl from his entourage apologized to me for his behavior.

That’s it. The night continued, but without alarm. No shanking outside the bar. No drive-by. I simply took Les out for hot plate of tender mussels in a delicious chorizo garlic sauce at the Royal Tavern as my way of saying thanks for getting in the way of that punch with your face. We then followed that savory delight with cheese steaks at Pat’s, because there have been tremendous advances in pulmonary bypass surgery.

As we salvaged the night with our culinary exploits, Leslie imparted a few worldly tips. I feel it only fair that I share with the readership this modern Sun-Tzu’s strategy for managing such confrontations. “If some dude wants to fight about beer on his shoes, he is looking for a fight, so if you’re not, follow these simple steps. 1. Say it wasn’t me, but I’m sorry. 2. Use a nice tone of voice and give no orders. 3. If he continues, aim for the bridge of his nose.”       

Dubuque, Iowa. Millions of white voters have been disenfranchised due to a faulty “Bradley Effect.” All across America, the cries of injustice can be heard. Here in a small diner famous for it’s lemon meringue pie, I spoke to Dubuque’s shocked residents.

Henry Smith worked at the local aluminum extruding plant until it’s doors ... [continue]]]>

Dubuque, Iowa. Millions of white voters have been disenfranchised due to a faulty “Bradley Effect.” All across America, the cries of injustice can be heard. Here in a small diner famous for it’s lemon meringue pie, I spoke to Dubuque’s shocked residents.

Henry Smith worked at the local aluminum extruding plant until it’s doors were shut three years ago. With the town’s major source of employment shipped to the Philippines, Henry had to rely on his wife’s small pension from the high school where she had worked as a secretary for thirty-five years. It was then that the Smith’s began paying attention to the compelling voice of a young senator from neighboring Illinois.

“I thought we’d be safe listening to what Mr. Obama said, all that good sense he made” said Henry. “Me and my wife Gertrude thought there was no danger in our agreement with that fella’s political opinions. Never knew there was a risk of voting for him. I would have turned off the dang radio if I knew this could happen.”

Shunned from her church’s social club and weekly bridge game, Gertrude is now one of the town’s pariah’s. “It’s not our fault” sobbed Gertrude. “We’re good people, real Americans, like that Palin lady. We just believed what the news was telling us, that the Bradley effect would kick in as soon as we got inside that voting booth. Never thought white folks could vote for a non-white no matter how much they believed what he was saying. I don’t know what went wrong. God have mercy on us all.”

The head of Henry and Gertrude’s church, Pastor Blanton, seems to have no sympathy for their plight. “A lot of folks came here looking for forgiveness on the fifth, but they should have seen the error of their ways on the fourth. Not like this never happened before. That’s how we ended up with a school treasurer from Brazil.”

Though I love food, I am not one to frequent many restaurants. When I do, they tend to be large chains that specialize in salad entrees topped with fried bits of chicken and candied cranberries, or nacho dip cleverly renamed “South of the Border Three Cheese Soup.” That is not to say I’ve never enjoyed extraordinary food. ... [continue]]]>

Though I love food, I am not one to frequent many restaurants. When I do, they tend to be large chains that specialize in salad entrees topped with fried bits of chicken and candied cranberries, or nacho dip cleverly renamed “South of the Border Three Cheese Soup.” That is not to say I’ve never enjoyed extraordinary food. Rather, I’ve gathered my gastronomical experience outside the four corners of a white tablecloth. The best food I’ve ever eaten has come from home kitchens, outdoor markets, and any hole in the wall where a mother’s meal is recreated by sons and daughters far from home. This is how I like to eat.

It is for this reason I am leery about reviewing a restaurant. Right off the bat the establishment is at a disadvantage. The dish did not warm the server on a cold night in Peshawar. It was not cooked in the grandfather’s Schlemmertopf. If the food has history beyond the industrial kitchen, the story is hidden. Presentation too, unfairly sets the restaurant back a few paces. The look of the dish has to keep up with the times. If that means frothing grandma’s short ribs with light potato foam, so be it. Further, the décor of a restaurant has the uncanny ability to make a thin broth feel rich. I’ve often wondered if, when eating in Windsor palace or anywhere the Queen of England might host a gathering, the food tastes better. Would the same carrot taste better in such company? If not the company, would the carrot seem decadent in the context of an opulent grand hall? If the grand hall failed to make your carrot sparkle, would you at least try to taste the carrot’s subtle flavors you might have missed before placing it in your mouth with the golden utensils the crown, and professional tasters, favor over common silverware for gold’s non-reactive properties? I’m quite certain that would be the most exceptional carrot I’d ever eat, even though the English prepared it. 

The question, when reviewing a restaurant, therefore becomes; do I refashion my old and beloved method of gradation to fit all gastronomic experiences, or establish a fully new set of guidelines unique to dinning out?

I have never seen a couture garment proudly touted as “one size fits all.” As convenient as elastic waste-bands are, they rarely accomplish what is intended, to fit. In the battle of street food versus elegant dinning, one is left with only the most elastic question to answer: does it taste good? Fortunately, resources like Zagat and Michelin ratings exist to answer that question. The field of food criticism is dominated by people like Jeffery Steingarten, whose whit and creative questioning equally explore the complicated and overlooked aspects of food. Mr. Steingarten leads his devoted following, myself included, on a unique and delightful journey we might never hope to enjoy without suffering the rigors of his ungodly obsession for what we put in our mouths. With seemingly limitless knowledge of food, Jeffery The Rotund still snipes at fellow judges on the hit food network show “Iron Chef” for their Shakespearean analysis of the dishes before them. Hemmingway of the gastronomes, Steingarten asks, “does it taste real good?” He knows his job and executes it correctly. What then is my job if not to grade all food equitably by limiting my analysis to; was the dish successful? Are there stories, unique to restaurants, which have yet to be explored?

To sashay down the runway in Milan, a garment must be tailor made. So too must my scale for grading restaurants. With precepts and bias firmly intact, I will look for attributes unique to restaurants like El Vez, the chic Mexican restaurant I ate at Friday night. I was there for my friend’s birthday dinner. As a manager for a Steven Starr restaurant, he chose the establishment as it is under Starr ownership. People in the network of restaurants under the same ownership get discounts and complimentary dishes. Right off the bat I must strike cost from my review. The joy of getting free food is always palpable. What then of the next restaurant I patronize? Will it not taste as good because every bite of Kobe beef porterhouse equates to one degree lower on my thermostat this winter? No. Money cannot be a factor.

The atmosphere was fun, relaxed and stylish. The sort of place you can wear jeans, wear a blazer, or both. Around the table were friends I hadn’t seen for years. We rehashed high school memories and caught up on the latest wives and girlfriends over a fantastic blood orange martini. The frozen martini had a slushy consistency and perfectly balanced sweet and tart flavor. The pitchers were filled to the brim, and a friendly waitress with a sarcastic sense of humor was always ready to refill our glasses, rimmed either with salt or sugar, even if we were not. Sadly, I am again at the chopping block. Friends can make an unbuttered Idaho potato delicious. There is something salvageable here though. Is the restaurant conducive to good times? Do you feel out of place alone at the bar or in a rowdy group of 15? El Vez possesses that magical ability to make everyone feel welcome. The mood is light. The staff is friendly. It is located in an area loving known to un-PC Philadelphians as the “gayborhood.” Does this mean that granddad will feel uncomfortable with too many people embracing an alternative lifestyle, and each other?  No, this is a restaurant for all. Young and old, men and women, crotchety and flamboyant all blend seamlessly into the playful interior, and often find themselves stuffed in the photo booth memorializing their happiness. 

One of my favorite aspects of El Vez is the ability to sample many dishes even if there are not many in your party. Our table got a trio of their magnificent guacamole variations ranging from goat cheese to truffle oil. By the time our entrees rolled around I was worried I might not have room. The fear was short lived as I had ordered the succulent short ribs served with a fresh slaw and crispy taquitos. The presentation was elegant and the portion hardy. It was so filling that I hadn’t any room for the fear of no room for desert, let alone desert itself. Just the excuse I need to return to El Vez.

Still unsure how to grade restaurants, I’ll take a stab at what this wonderful Mexican establishment on 13^th and Sansom taught me about dinning out. El Vez is fun. The mood is light and the staff friendly. Whether it’s lone wolf at the bar or grandma’s 90^th you will feel at home. A romantic date makes as much sense here as a party of 15, and due to the seating arrangements and music, one will not impede the other’s progress. After dinning there are countless hot spots for drinks or dancing only a short walk away as the restaurant is nestled in-between Rittenhouse Square and Old City. El Vez has helped me to understand that restaurants may not preserve a family’s history through flavor, but certainly a good restaurant can lend great flavor to the moment you are living.

I am doomed. Trapped in the “making a comeback” genre. I’ve boxed myself in with lack of material and inattentiveness to the needs of the website. Now, rather than going for international appeal with a riveting analysis of the economic meltdown or staying close to home with a local piece about the mother daughter prostitution ring in ... [continue]]]>

I am doomed. Trapped in the “making a comeback” genre. I’ve boxed myself in with lack of material and inattentiveness to the needs of the website. Now, rather than going for international appeal with a riveting analysis of the economic meltdown or staying close to home with a local piece about the mother daughter prostitution ring in North-East Philly, I find myself flailing helplessly in the quicksand of reemergence. But then, there are dozens of resources for events that matter, and only one unwavering source for that which does not. Like Jackson Pollock before me, I’ve reinvented the medium of my choosing by staying belligerently drunk for extended periods of time, then slapping something down for the world to see without giving it too much thought. It’s really what sets me apart from the flock. I’d finish with something more concrete but… eh.