Tag: Pie

SaturDATE

by piefolk, posted in Uncategorized

It’s Saturday, and I’m asking you on a date.

Come see my show?  My comedy band is doing a show at UCB Theater this Thursday April 28th at 6:30 pm.

The show is directed by the hilarious and talented Pamela Murphy.

Here’s a video where I ridicule a straight guy and make him think he’s contracted Hep C.  It explains everything:

If you come to the show, we’ll all go out for drinks afterwards.  Maybe I’ll drink to much and make out with you.  Let’s be honest.  I’ll probably do that even if I don’t drink too much.

Won’t that be fun?

The show co-stars Marcos Sanchez, Ari Scott (who took this photo)  and Daniel K. Isaac.  They are beautiful and much more charming/likable than me.

Thank God.

Just kidding.  There’s no God.

Prove me wrong, Easter.  Prove me wrong.

Just kidding.  That would be weird to have zombie Jesus walking around Williamsburg.  Actually.  Would anyone  even  notice?  Doesn’t a zombie Jesus just resemble a hungover hipster?

I love you guys.  You’re beautiful and perfect.  Come to the show and call me a Jerk.

Jerks.

Mysterious Stranger

by piefolk, posted in Uncategorized

I was visited by a Mysterious Stranger.  A few weeks ago.  It was surreal.

He had a secret agenda that he revealed to me.

He wanted to bake a pie.

What?  You look disappointed.  Did you expect the sort of ominous, post-apocalyptic cloak and dagger that I was hinting around at?

C’mon…  Don’t be naive. I bake pies, give advice, and talk about my cringe-worthy dating life.

So as I was saying, the Mysterious Stranger wanted to make a Lemon Custard Pie.

(Ominous Film Noir Sound Cue)

That’s right.  He held me hostage.  I was his prisoner, and he wouldn’t leave until his hunger for Lemon Custard Pie had been sated.

What?  What’s your problem?  Why are you rolling your eyes?

Well, knock it off.  I’m just writing in a genre.  In this case the genre is new-future post apocalypse film-noir.  Get into it.  Everyone is doing it these days.

Sometimes people want to come bake with me, but they don’t want to show their face on my blog.  For whatever reason.  In this case the guy who wanted to bake with me is a prominent politician who affects real change in the State Government of New York.  Also, I’m lying.

Anyhow.  What makes you think I’m going to drop a dime on my baking partner?  We got a good thing going on here, see?  I ain’t about to jeopardize that for some skinny pipsqueak who’s rolling his eyes at me.  So wipe that look off your mug and listen up…

I never tried this custard type before, capiche?  It was a squirrely kind of recipe – kind that bakes in the oven, instead of the stove top.  You follow my gist?  Good.   It’s more difficult this way, because the custard tends to separate.  I’m not sure lemon was  great choice either, owing to the high acidity rate of lemons.  Then again, I ain’t no science egghead, so maybe the acidity and the custard separating ain’t got much to do with one another.   I can’t say.

Man.  Writing in this genre is difficult.  I should have watched His Girl Friday a few more times.

What am I talking about?  I got a whole life to live.  I’m supposed to watch iconic old movies more than ONCE?

Oh stop it.  Stop with the silent treatment.

I’m not going to tell you who it was who came over.  He’s famous.

He’s a wealthy Persian.  His family pretty much own half of Iran.  It’s ridiculous.

Also.  Again – lying.

Anyway.  I decided to try piping the whipped cream onto the pie with a pastry bag I improvised out of a Ziplock.

I need practice.  After a couple of  ugly whipped cream towers I decided to just smash them all together and do my normal, rustic whipped cream look.

Rugged.

We had a good time, even though the custard separated, and I really need practice piping on whipped cream.

What?  No.  I’m not going to tell you.

Because.

It spoils the fun.

Okay fine.  He’s a high powered lawyer.  Isn’t.

He’s a professional assassin.  No.

Retired Yakuza, now runs a bingo hall in Canarsie.  Nope.

He’s a middle school teacher with a heart of gold that isn’t yet embittered by the New York public school system.  He really wants to help those kids.  Not at all.

He’s a cowboy.  He’s a hunter.  He’s a sailor.  He owns a cannery.   He provides  home health care to the elderly.  He’s a boatswain.  A tailor.  He is Cheryl Crow.  He’s left handed.  He’s right handed.  He doesn’t have any hands due to a freak accident that occurred on an Artic expedition.  He’s a wedding photographer.  He’s a jerk.  I’m a Jerk.  He wanted me to tell you that we all are Jerks.  He wants you to love him, but he’s a total Jerk and he wants you to eat all the pie.  He wants us all to be Jerks together.  He thinks the iPad should run Flash.  He’s a cruise director for Carnival Cruise lines.  He’s a big ol’ softie.

This has devolved into madness.

Enjoy the Mysterious Stranger.

Jerks.

ThursDATE: Flash Back

by piefolk, posted in Uncategorized

Place: Inverness Florida, a Rural Town

Time:  My Senior Year of High School

Him:  Thanks for coming over.

Me:  It’s just so weird.  It was a weird phone call to get, in the middle of the day.  Just some guy asking if I’m gay.

Him:  Was that the first thing I asked?

Me:  You asked if I was Michael Martin, and then you asked if I was gay…

Him:  And you said yes.  I can’t believe you said yes.  Just like that.

Me:  Yeah.  Well.  I don’t lie about my sexuality.  It makes me feel uncomfortable.  I stopped lying about it a few years ago.

Him:  How many people know about you?

Me:  Whoever cares to ask, plus all of the people that my friends just mention it to.

Him:  Do you think your friends are telling people a lot?

Me: Well, yeah.  I’m friends with all the actorly types.  They love to talk.

Him:  Yeah.  I hate that about actors.  They’re always talking about other people.

Me:  It’s kind of our job.  To find out about people, what they’re like.  We’re not usually judging.  Just perceiving.  We’re interested.  But yeah – my actor friends like to talk.  How did you know to call me?

Him:  One of your actor friends told me about you, and gave me your phone number.

Me:  Weird.  So weird.

Him:  So I looked you up in the yearbook to see if you were cute.  Then I called you.

Me:  Such a strange way to meet somebody.

Him:  So what do you think of my place?

Me:  I like it.

Him:  I kind of live here alone.  It’s a long story.  My mom got a good job in Orlando.  So I’m here by myself about 5 days a week.

Me:  Sounds like a bunch of trouble.

Him:  I keep busy.  My friends are here a lot.

Me: I’ll bet.

Him:  Hey can I kiss you?

Me: You’d better.  How else am I going to prove that I’m as gay as my friends said I was?

(He kisses me.  It’s good.)

Him:  I couldn’t do that.  I can’t tell people I’m bi. 

Me:  You’re bi?

Him:  Don’t laugh.  It’s a real thing.

Me:  I know it is.  I just always thought a kiss from a bi guy would only feel half-interested.  But as I say that out loud I realize how ridiculous it sounds.

Him: But you tell people when they ask you.  Inverness is small.  It’s a small town.  People must hate you.

Me:  You know I’m class president, right?

Him:  Yeah.  But still.  I asked around.  Some people don’t like you much.

Me:  I suppose some people never will.  This is a redneck town.  There’s only what?  400 people in our High School?   In the only High School in town?  I think I’m doing okay, being openly gay here.  I think things are going  better than I expected them to when I started telling people.  Lots of people like me a lot.  Some people really can’t stand me.

Him:  You’re controversial. 

Me:  You’re hot.  I’m not controversial.  That makes me sound important, or something.  I’m just getting by, and trying to play by my own rules.

Him:  Maybe that’s what pisses people off. 

Me:  It might be.  Any chance I can get another one of those bisexual kisses?

Him:  Every chance.

(More smooching.  It’s good)

(There is a sound of a car pulling into the driveway.)

Him:  Oh shit.  That’s my friends.  Shit.  My friends are here.  Will you hide in the closet?  I’ll get rid of them.

Me:  Will I what?

Him:  Hide.  In here?  Please.  PLEASE.

Me:  Yeah.  Fine.

(A long time goes by as I hide in his closet.  I lay down on a pile of his dirty clothes.  I can smell him in his closet.  I feel comfortable and angry at the same time.  Eventually I hear the car noise again.  He comes back.  I debate whether or not to fake having slipped into a coma while he fucked around with his friends in the living room.  I decide I’m classier than that.)

Him:  Sorry about that.

Me:  You should be.  You made me feel ashamed.  I don’t like being made to feel ashamed of myself.

Him: I’m sorry.  They know you’re gay.  People kind of know that you’re gay.  It wouldn’t look good.

Me:  This isn’t going to work out.  I’m going to leave.  You can’t be wanting to date me, properly, if you’re going to shove me into a closet when your friends come over.

Him:  Come on.  Stick around.  I really am sorry.

Me:  I know, but now I don’t feel comfortable here anymore.  It’s not you.  I’m kidding.  It is.  It’s you.  But I’m not angry.  I’m just not interested in starting a relationship like this.  On these terms.  I have too much self respect.  It really gets in the way.  I’m not being sarcastic, or joking.  It really gets in the way of things, my pride.

Him:  That sucks.

Me: You’re cute.

Him:  You are.

Me:  Can I get one more of those kisses before I leave?

(We do.  It’s great again.)

Him:  (Under his breath) Fuck…

Me:  Yes.  We should probably do that.  Just so you know what you’re missing.

(We do.  Now he knows what he’s missing.  We lie there for about 20 min.)

Me:  Okay.  I’m going.  This was not the best date in the world.  You need to work on your dating skills, okay?

Him:  Okay.  I’m sorry.  I don’t know what else to say…

Me: It’s okay.  You’re nice.  It’s fine, really.  You’re good at sex.

Him: Thanks.  Will you come over again?

Me:  Probably not.  You’re cute, but I don’t let anyone make me feel ashamed.

Him:  Well.  Thanks for coming over.  You’re a great guy.

Me:  You’re not so bad yourself.  Just get over that shame business, and you’re kind of a catch.

Him:  Well thanks again for coming.

Me:  Well thanks for having me.  It was a wonderful time.  Except for that one part.  Thanks for the make outs.

Jerk.

People Send Me Stuff

by piefolk, posted in Uncategorized

Okay.  So, I never claimed I wasn’t strange.

I’m pretty weird.

That’s a given.  You’ve been to my site.  You’ve poked around.  You get it.  Weirdo city, right?

Still.  The things people send me…

Sometimes it’s pretty straightforward.

Like this:

So no pies this morning. But I did make muffins. Banana yogurt walnut. Pic
attached.

If I’d known there was a pie lifestyle (piestyle?), I’d have signed up
sooner.

5’8″ 150 45 neg vers smart creative prof type. Also pics attached.

Matt

Matt,

I’d love to have you over to bake.  You seem like a nice guy and your letter mentioned baked goods, and you included a face (omitted) pic and a torso shot.  What a gentleman.  I love that you are not afraid of using a floral speedo as underwear for your internet torso photo shoot.  Shows you have a real sense of humor, and you don’t take yourself too seriously.

Now, when you say you’re a ‘smart, creative, prof type’ do you mean what I hope you mean???

‘Prof’ means Professor, right? Not Professional?  Please say you’re a ‘Professor.’  Like Charles Xavier or Emma Frost? Someone who trains young mutants to cope with their staggeringly overwhelming super powers? Just say that you run a school for gifted youngsters, please?   If that’s true, you can plan to have me as your husband and baby daddy for the rest of your life, or until a Legacy Virus makes us make hard choices and really examine who we are…

If ‘Prof’ means professional:  I will still bake with you.  I am just less excited.

Know what?  I just realized something.  You, more likely than not, meant ‘Professional’.

Hm.  Well… I look forward to baking with you at least.  Just, uh….

Stay out of my THOUGHTS Professor!!

On to the next internet weirdo!!!  He didn’t sign his letter, so I’ll just call him Klaus.

wow – PIEFOLK looks like an amazing project,
I´m really curious to see what you are doing in your kitchen,

(You don’t have to be, Klaus – I’m pretty open about what I’m doing in my kitchen.  I photograph it and broadcast it)

I have no experience with making pies and meeting guys
but like the way you present yourself on your blog
and I´m willing to learn more about it

Here’s the drawing that Klaus sent me.


Obviously this old man should NOT stop smoking opium.   He’s simply been accosted by a young boy with a pail full of clear gelatin….  Uh…  Right?  I think that’s pretty clear.  In any case-

Thanks again for writing in, Klaus…

Next internet weirdo, please?

so you handle cock and the handle food, thats gross

bloe me

Thanks for your feedback, Bloe Me.  I can see you’ve taken the time to cultivate the image of who you are, when you enter the internet world.  Your internet identity is Bloe Me.  Wow.  That’s so important. I can tell you want to really be the change you want to see in the world.  I love you for that. I really do.

Here’s my comeback.  Ready?

I bake in my own home.  I wash my hands, stupid.

But there’s really nothing stopping me from working in any of New York’s commercial kitchens, or restaurants…  I mean – I’m certified…

AREN’T YOU EXCITED???  You’ll never know if it was secretly ME who made your food!!!  Yay!!!  We both win!!  But really just me.

You’re welcome.

Next. Internet. Weirdo.  Please?

Strength Training.  Chapter one:  Involve yourself in a horrible accident.

Thanks for your letter!!!  It makes total sense!

Guys.

As much as I make fun of you for sending me weird shit? I’m pretty grateful.  It’s pretty cool to be communicating with you weirdos, even if I don’t always understand it…

Like I said at the top of this post – I’m a weirdo myself.  I live by the weirdo code.  I have respect for you weirdlings, even if it seems like i don’t.

So, thanks, weirdos, for writing in.

And please.  Have a good week.

Jerks.

SaturDATE

by piefolk, posted in Uncategorized

Him:  I didn’t like it.  You called me an imp.  You said I was drunk and negative….  You made me really mortified.

Me:  I didn’t like it either.  You were hammered.  I expected you to be more functional… We chatted for a long time online.  We video chatted… I had high hopes you would treat me better than you did.  You were really kind of mean, and you don’t even know it…

Him:  You have a lot of nerve.  To say that stuff about me, so publicly.

Me:  I’m pretty sure I said: you are mischievous when you’re drunk, and you have a lot of emotions that have to be dealt with immediately.   That’s not completely unflattering.  That’s actually semi-mundane.   Lots of people act like that drunk.

My mistake was, I was too nice.  I should have said exactly how much of a jerk you acted like…

Him:  I was mortified.

Me:  I was mortified. Some of your friends were hostile to me, for no reason.  One of them stuck his hands down my pants.  EVERYONE seemed way drunk or coked out.  It was a lot of energy.  And you were breaking up with your boyfriend.  You put me in the middle of that, and I don’t know you very well.  You threw a tantrum about wanting to go home, and then got alternately maudlin and flirty with me on the train. – IN FRONT OF YOUR BOYFRIEND.  Then you insisted that you wanted to go out some more.  I had an awkward evening that got more so at every turn.  No.  That’s not accurate.  I got my feelings hurt.  It was more than awkward.  You treated me like some sort of dog and pony show you were trotting out.

Him:  You should have left and called me out on it.

Me:  I should have not come.

Him:  Maybe.  Take down the post.

Me:  If I’m hurting your feelings I’ll take it down.  I hate that I hurt your feelings.  I thought I made you seem like a charming guy that got a little too drunk one night.

Him:  Good.  Take it down.  Take it all down.

Me:  Hm…  I dunno.  This is my blog.  My online diary.  I don’t want to be censored.   I’ll take down your pic.  How’s that?

Him:  Okay.  Take it down.

Me:  Sure.  Just say one more thing.

Him:  What do you want to hear?  TAKE. IT. DOWN.

Me:  I know but…  ‘Take it down,” and then what do we say??  What do we do?  When we want our friend to do us a favor?  We say what?

Him:  Take it down or hear from my lawyer.

Me:   We say please. I’ll take it down if you ask me to.  But you don’t bark orders at me.  Just say please.

Him:  Take it down.

Me:  If you say please.

Him: I won’t

Me:  Neither will I.  We’re still not showing respect for each other.  I’m big on that…

Him:  Then hear from my lawyer.

Me:  Okay.

(long pause)

Just know that it came down to just one word.  You could have said one word.  Please.

Jerk.

SaturDATE: I’ve Already Figured You Out

by piefolk, posted in Uncategorized

Sometimes people ask me on dates.  They tend to go horribly.  These are their stories.

(Law and Order Sound Effect)

Him: Come home with me.

Me: No.  Do you think this sweater is too heavy for the springtime?

Him:  Come on.  Come home with me.

Me:  No.  It’s late and you’re drunk and I’m not and I’m tired.

Him:  Come home with me.  We’ve been flirting with each other for a long time now.  Come on.

Me:  No.  9 months is a long time?

Him:  Come on. (hails a cab)  Get in the cab.

Me:  No.  I’m going home.

Him:  Yes.

Me:  Okay fine.

(Montage:  Snuggly cab ride.  Surprised cab driver.  Deli visit for food and beer. Fumbling with keys.)

Him:  Do you want a beer?  I’m having a beer.

Me:  Yes.  I’m going to start drinking at 3 am.  Good idea.

Him:  Great, I’ll open you one.

Me:  No, wait.  I changed my mind.

Him: Fickle.

Me:  More like, sarcastic.

Him:  I like that.

Me:  I like you.

Him: I know.

Me:  Don’t worry.  I don’t get weird.  I let things develop naturally.  We’ll have two kids, one Korean girl named Ellen, and one African boy, named Sh’Africa.

Him:  Sounds like you’re telling Africa to be quiet.

Me:  I’m not.  I like the names Sean and Africa.  Sh’Africa. If anything, I think Africa should be louder.

Him:  Why?

Me: All that suffering?  Isn’t there a lot of suffering and economic inequality?

Him:  I’ve never been.

Me:  Me neither.  I’m operating on what I’ve read in liberal news media and what I’ve seen in movies like Congo.

Him:  Take your coat off.

Me:  Certainly.  I’ll just throw it on the floor here.

Him:  You’re funny.

Me:  You’re pretty.

Him:  Make out with me.

(We do.)

Him:  Take your shirt off.

Me:  Yessir.

(We take our shirts off.  Bitchin’ make out session.)

Him:  Take your pants off.

Me:  Yessir

(We take our pants off.  Bitchin’ make out session.  It’s getting hard to contain ourselves.  Get it?)

Him:  Let’s get naked.

Me:  How dare you.  No, wait.  I changed my mind again.   That’s a great idea.

Him:  Are you a bottom?

Me:  What?  Oh.  Sex?  Oh!  Sex!  Okay.  Yes.  No.  I’m versatile.  I’m the opposite of whatever your favorite thing to do is…

Him:  Then you’re a bottom.

Me:  I am indeed!

(We get naked.  Bitchin’ make out session.  Then, suddenly – he loses interest entirely. The evening goes limp.)

Him:  I was afraid of this.

Me: What?

Him:  I was afraid that this would happen.  My penis stops working after a while.

Me:  No!  Stop it!  It’s okay.  Cut yourself some slack.  You had a lot to drink.  I watched you.

Him:  No.  What?  No.  I don’t have whiskey dick.  Hahaha.  No.

Me:  What?

Him:  I have a thing that happens.  Once I get someone naked and it’s obvious that I can sleep with them, I lose interest.

Me:  Heh.  You’re funny.

Him:  Please don’t make fun of me.  It’s a real problem.

Me:  I was going to say, why don’t we just go to sleep and give it a shot in the morning.

Him:  Ha.  Right.  No.

Me:  What?

Him:  I think you should leave now.

Me:  WHAT?

Him:  It’s like this.  I already got you naked.  You already said you’d give me what I want.  It’s kind of like I’ve already figured you out.  I’m not going to be interested anymore.

Me:  What?  Heh.  Ha.  I uh…  hm…

(He starts putting on clothes.  He starts handing clothes to me.  I start putting on clothes.)

Him:  Yeah.  It’s best if you just go home.

Me:  I’m much farther away from home now than when you talked me into the cab.

Him:  I’ll call you a car.  You should go home.

Me:  No.  I’ll take the train.  I should never have come here.

Him:  Oh stop.  I had fun.

Me:  Yeah it was a blast.  You’re a real great host.  Thanks for having me over.

Him:  It’s a real problem, okay?  I have a problem with sex.  I’d appreciate some sympathy.

Me:  Awww… Sweet baby…  Hey.  I’m going to say something – please don’t take it the wrong way, okay?

Him:  Okay.

Me:  You’re an asshole.  I don’t mean like self-absorbed like me and my comedy friends.  I mean for real.  You’re a real, true, asshole.  I’m going to leave my card.

Him: What is this?

Me:  I want you to check out my site, but wait a few days…

Him:  Why?

Me:  Because when people act like assholes on dates with me, I put it on the internet.  Is that my coat?  Thanks.

Him:  What?

Me:  Yeah!  You’re famous!  Congrats!  And hey.

Enjoy playing mind games with someone else, Jerk.

(Surprise ending:  I laughed about him the whole train ride home.  I didn’t feel bad about myself.)

Feel Better, Japan

by piefolk, posted in Uncategorized

Oh Jesus.  Are you kidding me?  A BENEFIT?  I have to make and DONATE a pie?  Why?

Oh.  Japan.  That’s right.  Sorry.  I’m self absorbed.  It’s a real problem.

Of course I’ll make a pie for a benefit for Japan.  What am I a monster?   Yes.  But I’ll do it anyway.

My friend Kirk pretended to go to Japan.  About four or five months ago he started telling everyone in the New York sketch and improv communities about how he booked a show in Tokyo.  He was going to play a role in Picasso at the Lapin Agile.  It was an elaborate ruse.  He stopped coming to The Upright Citizen’s Brigade where he performs regularly while he was ‘in Japan.’  He even set up a sham tumblr where he photographed food and tried to convince people that breakfast can talk.

Sidebar:  This is Corey.  I know, right?  DOING!!  He’s a really nice guy and he helped me make the pie for the Kettle of Fish Benefit for Japan.

He’s a dancer.  He just got back from doing a dance show in Pennsylvania, and now he’s traveling around the country, judging dance contests.  That’s what he does for a living.  Pretty cool right?  He’s been asking to be on the blog for a while, and what am I stupid?  Of course he can.  He’s successful and beautiful.  (doing!)

So, back to Kirk – he claimed to have a friend from school who runs an ex-pat theater company in Tokyo.  Also, he claims that the show was written by Steve Martin, which doesn’t make any sense because why would Steve Martin write a play about a guy who’s obsessed with cake puppets and female roller derby.?? But we all went along with it.  We joked to each other things like “Oh me too!!  I’m going to Afghanistan to star in Sylvester Stallone’s performance art installation piece about British Colonialism.  He’s not even known as a movie star there!  It’s where he gets the real work done.”

We made a triple berry pie.  It had Strawberries, Blueberries and Raspberries.   I found all of them cheap and ripe at the local Korean market.  People always ask me to post recipes, but I don’t.  Mostly because I improvise a lot of my pie fillings.  Here’s what I did:  An assload of strawberries.  Like, Two big things.  A titload of blueberries: two small things or whatever.  and a little penisload of raspberries.  One tiny thing.  They’re tart and they can take over. I stirred all that together with a couple of tablespoons of corn starch, and a couple of heaping tablespoons of sugar. I put some powdered ginger to brighten up the tartness of the berries.

“Oh, I’m leaving town too!!  Me too!!  Carnie Wilson wrote an opera and we’re doing it in Dresdin in this huge bomb shelter that’s been converted to an ampitheater.   It’s about the Irish Potato Famine and Feminism.  She’s real down to earth. I hear she might bring her dad, Brian Wilson, but that’s just a rumor.”

We dotted the filling with butter.  About two tablespoons, give or take.  I eyeballed it.

I put an egg wash on the pie too – just the whites, because I’m racist.  Then I sprinkled it with cinnamon sugar.

There was a really funny improv team that performed at the benefit.  They’re called Thank You Robot.  They had a great set.  I kept mentioning to one of the team members (who I don’t know at all) that Kirk was the absolute wrong choice to host a show, and didn’t anyone realize how he was just milking this earthquake benefit to call attention to his tumblr about his fake trip to Japan.  The guy kept talking about how great Kirk is and asking me if I’d been drinking a lot.  I told him that I was totally sober and didn’t anyone realize that Kirk keeps bidding on the prizes where you get to be alone with girls?

Anyway.  I was just joking, guy from Thank You Robot.  I think Kirk was a funny, charming host.  I just like to break balls.  It’s the only real way I can show affection.  Well, that, and…  ‘pie making.’

That’s Kirk and Poupak.  Poupak runs the UCB Difference Tumblr.  They both helped organize the benefit.

Corey was fun and easy going.  It has been a while since I’ve seen him, and we had a good time together.  I’d have him back anytime.

And guys, listen.  Kirk’s not a bad guy.  He’s funny and charismatic and charming.  So he made up a theater gig in Japan, and created an elaborate hoax to support that theory – so what?  He’s my friend.  And listen, if you’re in the New York sketch/improv comedy community – I say, let’s just humor him about it, huh?  Let’s all pretend that he actually went to Japan, and actually lived through the earthquake there.  What’s the harm?  Becasue the end result was a great, fun, funny benefit.  A good amount of money was raised to help Japan, which is a real place (I checked).

I mean look at that face.  You’re not a monster are you?  Yes, of course you are, but why spoil Kirk’s fun?  He doesn’t read this blog (he thinks it will make him gay), so if we all agree, we can just pretend that he went to Japan.  That will make us kind, benevolent friends…  Because what are we, without our delusions?  We’re nothing. Artists are nothing without their delusions.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go back to being an internet superstar.  Jerks.

Advice

by piefolk, posted in Uncategorized

People have been writing me lately, asking for advice.  I’m not exactly sure why. It’s not like I’m some shining beacon of wisdom.  I don’t exactly have human relationships nailed down, either.  But people are asking, and I thought I’d answer some of the questions people ask me from time to time.

Disclaimer:  Don’t take my advice.  I’m not a doctor, or anything.

Henry, from New York City writes:

Ok so heres my deal. Theres this guy I knew from a friend in college. They went to high school together in New Hampshire. We met like ONCE, and barley spoke, became facebook friends and of course never spoke again after that. I wasn’t interested or anything at the time. But then about a month ago, he “liked” one of my comments. I was surprised because I basically forgot all about this person who I hadn’t heard of or spoken to in 5 years. I messaged him asking how were we facebook friends? He said I was super sexy for liking a certain british SciFi show, this obviously started a stream of convos. I got to the point where I felt “why not meet the fucker?” He’s good looking, nice, funny, and tall as hell. But heres the thing. Hes alil aloof most of the time and weve only talked online so far. He told me about how hes dying of an illness of a name I cant recall and may not live to 40. Now, Im one to give the benefit of the doubt and I guess I did in this situation but something tells me it could be a lie. We didn’t talk for awhile after that and then we did today, most of the day when I was at work doing nothing. He enticed me like no other, saying he wants to fuck me with elaborate detail. I was more then intrigued to say the least. But again he flaked after he said he wants to meet tomorrow. Excited as I was I realized I don’t have his number nor he has mine. When I brought that up and how id like his number, no answer. So now I have no clue what to think and I expressed these very fears to him on meeting up and he said I had nothing to worry about. Well, I can be an anxious person, so I am worried now. I feel this is not a good idea to pursue, almost to good to be true. Am I right? Does this sound totally bonkers? I don’t know what to do really. Im sure nothing but I cant stop thinking about him and it.

Thanks for your letter, Henry.

It seems like you’re dealing with a nut bag.  Let’s break down the components of his story, shall we?

1) He says that he’s going to die by the time he’s 40.  Okay, let’s assume this is true, even though it sounds like something a weirdo online would make up.  If he’s going to use this illness as an excuse to be flaky, not give you his phone number, not follow through on plans – then you don’t need to be starting a relationship with him.  Even if it’s just a sexual relationship you two are starting, it needs to be based on mutual respect for each others time an feelings.  Sounds like he has neither for you.

2) HE SAYS THAT HE’S GOING TO DIE BY THE TIME HE’S 40.  C’mon.  Ostensibly he contacted you online for the purpose of flirting?  That’s not a flirty way  of going about things.  Something about it smells fishy to me.  You don’t start off a conversation with a stranger like this:

‘Hey sexy, how’s it going?’

‘Good.  Feeling horny – I guess it’s springtime.  Or, it could be a side effect OF MY LUPUS.’

Again.  Not how it’s done.

I think you’re probably dealing with a closet case, or an attention seeking weirdo.  The great thing is – he’s let you off the hook.  If he doesn’t trust you enough to give you his phone number, then you have zero obligation to him to see him through this ‘illness’ that’s going to claim his life prematurely.  That’s my rule of thumb.    You don’t trust me with your cell number, I don’t have to care about your rare, imaginary illness.

Block his IMs.  It’s New York.  There’s plenty of prospective partners out there, no matter what kind of relationship you’re looking for.

Thanks for the question Henry.  I hope you enjoyed my advice.  And like I said – don’t take it.  I’m not a doctor.

And hey.  Enjoy living past 40, Jerk.


DOUBLE FEATURE!! Blueberry Double Crust Pie and Feta Quiche!!

by piefolk, posted in Uncategorized

I think we’re getting Blueberries from Southern California.

There are all these fruit carts in the city – just out on the sidewalks.  You can almost always find seasonal vegetables and fruits there.  My favorite time of the year is in the summer, where you can get loads of fresh berries – strawberries, blueberries and blackberries for super cheap.  They’re so ripe and fresh and they’re so abundant that they practically give them away.

But something strange happened recently.  The price of fresh berries went down.  At the end of winter.  I was skeptical, but I bought a pint.  They were fresh and delicious.

Most of the time I’m pretty conscientious about eating local grown whole foods.  But it’s the end of winter, and I’m fatigued and under sunned.  FRESH BLUEBERRIES, y’all!!!

I coudn’t help myself.  I made a Double Crust Blueberry Pie, plus a Feta, Red Pepper, Mushroom, and French Tarragon Quiche.

I put an egg wash on the pie.  Just whipped up some egg whites and rubbed it on the top crust.  Sprinkle it with cinnamon sugar, and It will make a very glossy, professional looking crust.  Wash your hands first, dummy.

The quiche came out great too.

Here’s a recipe for the Blueberry Pie Filling:

Take 3 pints of blueberries and put them in a large mixing bowl.

Add 3 tablespoons of granulated sugar.

Add 3 tablespoons of cornstarch

Zest one lemon over the bowl

Mix.

Put the berries inside the pie shell and cover with the top crust.  (egg wash optoional – WASH YOUR HANDS, DUMMY)

Bake at 425 for 15 min.  Turn the heat down to 350 and bake for another 35-45 min.  Use your head.  You’ll be able to see and smell when it’s done.

Let it cool for two hours and then refrigerate over night.  The cornstarch will firm up the runny berry juice.

What’s that?  How do you make the crust?  Funny you should ask.  I’ll be offering classes in that very thing, shortly.

You’ll be able to come bake with me at different locations around New York City.  Sorry to be mysterious, but if you’re really dying for a lesson, I offer private baking sessions too.  Email me at piefolk@gmail.com

Enjoy the Pies, Jerks.