Dear Journal,

As you know, last year I bought an A-Team van.  In other words, I bought a GMC van and painted it black with a red stripe on the side. The van is kind of like my third-of-life crisis. Instead of waiting until I’m fifty and getting a Corvette to feel like I’m 35, I got an A-Team van, to pretend I’m a 38-year-old black man with a mohawk, gold chains and a crippling fear of flying.

Does this look like an inconspicuous way to run drugs to Canada?

Well, this month I was thinking about retiring the van, because quite frankly it seems like it’s falling apart. For example, when it brakes it pulls to the right—like Dennis Miller. Gas prices don’t exactly help the A-Team van’s cause. I don’t know if you’ve seen this, Journal, but the price of gas is like the price they charge you at a rental car agency when you return it on empty. It actually makes you consider taking your car to get a fill-up at the Hertz at the airport. $4.50 a gallon? We’ll take a full tank and a gas can for the kids!”

Going to the gas station these days is like going to the movie theater to stock up on soda or the airport gift shop for home furnishings. The other day I was driving and I saw a gas station with a sign for $2.25 gas and then I realized that the gas station had been boarded up and clearly went out of business years ago. I guess no other gas stations needed any leftover 2’s.

Well, my brother Joe and I took the van to the Montreal comedy festival for one last hurrah. And it had a hard time getting through customs. Frankly I think there was some racial profiling going on. I’d have to ask some black people who have a red stripe on their side if they’ve ever experienced this, but they asked us a great many questions.

The fact that Joe was driving didn’t help anything.

The woman asked him, “Who owns this van?”

And Joe says, “Me. Him. Us.”

In retrospect I feel like she was looking for a more concrete answer than “me him us” because she said, “Pull over to that building.”

So Joe made a right turn into Canadian customs, which the van does naturally already by braking and they asked us a series of even more questions like, “Why are you coming to Canada?”

We said, “pleasure.” Which is really kind of a catchall for any “why” questions.

No one can dispute that you’re at least attempting to enjoy your life in some way shape or form. I think if we had said “perfect contentedness,” they might have gotten suspicious and said something like, “Don’t you think that’s a little unrealistic?”

Well it was a great trip. I got to share the stage with comics like Larry Miller, Craig Ferguson, and Ron White. It was the first time I had met Ron and I had heard about his tour bus and he was so nice that I asked him—and maybe it was a rude question—“How much does a bus like that cost?” and I’m not going to tell you what he said, Journal, but I’m guessing that you could fit my van inside of his bus, as well as a hot tub, a grand piano, and the Washington Redskins.

It made me realize exactly where my career was and that maybe the van was a more realistic option after all. When we got home, Joe took the van into the shop and got the brakes fixed. It was a $2,400 dollar repair, and since the van’s worth $2,600, I think we really helped the resale.

For Me. Him. Us.

Dear Journal,

This week I visited my parents on Cape Cod for the celebration of 5 birthdays, including my own, my girlfriends, and America’s. We went to a fireworks celebration and a BBQ, which is my favorite kind of eating event because when I eat a hamburger I like to eat it with a hotdog, a sausage, and 4 other hamburgers. BBQ’ing really brings out a uniquely irrational type of eating because you’d never go to a restaurant and order a hamburger with a side of hamburgers. They don’t even offer that at Applebee’s: the 3 hamburgers and 2 hot dogs meal with a side of 15 pieces of watermelon and a squirt gun fight with a 7 year old boy with seemingly no parents.  There seems to be no better recipe for a heart attack than a 4th of July BBQ: plenty of high fat foods, 75-year-old men, and unexpected loud explosions.

As a matter of fact, when the fireworks started we had to take my niece and nephews home. My father asked, “Why do you think they’re afraid of the fireworks?” and I said, “I’m not sure but I think it’s because fireworks are intended to simulate bombs exploding in air and a lot of babies seem to have trouble distinguishing between real and fake bombs.” I’d actually be more worried about the baby who isn’t concerned with the miscellaneous explosions. You might want to keep an eye on that little fellow, or at least have his ears tested.

My brother Joe was in true America’s Guest form this weekend. When I told him I had an upcoming show in Nantucket, he said, “Might I tag along?” and I said, “Joe, these days when I show up at my shows, people always ask where Joe is and I have to explain that Joe only comes to exciting destinations like the Bahamas and the MVP Awards. Last week, he didn’t make it to Columbus, Detroit, or Cleveland, and frankly people are starting to talk. They’re starting to feel like if their town isn’t good enough for Joe Birbiglia, maybe they shouldn’t be so welcoming to Mike Birbiglia, Joe Birbiglia’s brother. I always have to explain that Joe has to be with his son, Henry, but lately that seems like a flimsy alibi:

“I’d love to but I have this baby…” only works when you consistently have to excuse yourself from fantastic events. But you never hear Joe say stuff like “I’d love to come to parasailing in Aruba but I have this baby.” It’s always like, “I’d love to spend my weekend at a strip mall outside of Albany but I have this baby.”

The baby also gets Joe preferential treatment when we’re visiting our parents. Because of Henry, Joe and his wife get the guest room in their house and my girlfriend and I get a pullout couch in a room with no doors. And my mom always tries to play it kind of innocent with the guest room accommodations, she’ll be like,  “Well Michael, guest rooms start with G. Do you know what else starts with G? Grandchildren.”

Staying on the hallway couch means lots of noise, not a lot of sex, and the 5th string set of sheets that only rarely make it out of the linen closet. You know, the sheets that have been in the family for 27 years and distinctly bear the scent of your worst smelling extended family member and urine.  Since we got no sleep at night, Jenny and I went to the beach in the daytime and slept on those same sheets except on the beach. It’s times like those when the beach takes on a kind of ambiguous vacation/halfway house identity. When you’re snoring and rolling over on the beach, you’ve crossed certain lines of decorum. I think if there had been trees instead of the ocean, people would have assumed we were homeless. Maybe that guy in central park isn’t actually homeless. Maybe he’s sick of sleeping on a pullout couch in a room with no doors.

Joe, of course, is coming along to Montreal next week for the comedy festival because there will be free drinks, barbecues, and comedy events that feature other comedians. This weekend my special premiered on Canadian TV, though it was renamed “What I Should Have Said Was Nothing…Eh?” So Joe and I are heading to Canada next weekend, Journal. You know, the weekend when Joe doesn’t “have this baby.”

Dear Journal,

We’ve just entered the season of summer, which is my favorite time to go to escapist films like “Indiana Jones and the case of the strange-and-never-explained-alien-skulls.” I saw Indiana Jones this week and found it to be misleading to aspiring archeologists. They show up to their first day of work with their whip and they’re like, “Where’s the cavern of jewels?” And their boss is like, “Actually, today we’re gonna start off by dusting thousands of miles of nothing”

But the thing I admire about Indy movies is the conviction and sense of self that Indy has. He’s an archeologist and an overly trusting action hero and he’s ok with that. Indy’s always like, “My long lost friend with a glass eye and a black suit needs a hand locating a crystal scepter that turns people into sand? Sure I’ll help, that sounds like it’s totally on the level!”

I’m not so sure I’m as comfortable in my own skin.

I make outdoor festivals even more awkward

Last week I performed at the Bonnaroo Festival. If you’re not familiar with these outdoor rock & roll festivals, Journal, they’re a great opportunity for musicians and comedians to share the stage and for teenagers to convert porto-potties into meth labs. Being at the fest brought me back to high school when I would attend these types of festivals with much enthusiasm and a deep search for my own identity. Large quantities of Schlitz Ice and hallucinogens aren’t very helpful for figuring out who you are. But they’re a great way to figure out who you’re not.

Here’s me on stage at Bonnaroo last week. I am not as blurry in real life.

Cowboy hat = good idea?

One summer when I was seventeen I decided I would wear a cowboy hat, not unlike that of Indiana Jones, to many of these summer concerts, not to seek out treasure and to put ancient curses to rest, but to prop up a hibachi in a tailgate parking lot and eat salmonella-laced chicken kabobs while drunk enough to befriend strangers. What I discovered by wearing this cowboy hat was that people would remember who I was. They knew I was “the cowboy hat guy.” And I was proud of that. I was like, “That’s who I am! I’m the cowboy hat guy! And no one can take that away from me, unless of course they took the cowboy hat, in which case, they’d be the cowboy hat guy.

The plot thickens for Cowboy Hat Guy

And one summer while wearing the silly hat to see the Steve Miller Band I met this girl and fell in love. Well, I thought I fell in love. I actually just found her physically attractive and attributed to her every positive quality I’d ever hope for in a woman in my life. So we end making out on the lawn of the Great Woods Center for the Performing Arts. For me, it was great. For the people watching, it was awkward, pathetic, or totally, totally hot. But I went home with her phone number and address and I proceeded to write love letters to her. Or I should say, elaborate fictional narratives that always had the two of us reuniting in some strange way that included one of my heroes like Jimmy Connors or Bill Cosby and somehow we’d get to the next Steve Miller band concert just in time for the encore of “Fly Like An Eagle.”

Cowboy Hat Guy Dies a Painful Death

Well, after a summer of letters, I built up the courage to call her and the worst possible thing happened. She was having a slumber party with all of her friends and so I spoke to them as a group. Now, I really like women. But for some reason I don’t like women in groups. And I really don’t like women in groups on the phone.

They proceeded to read excerpts of my letters and after each excerpt there would be an eruption of laughter like a Johnny Carson highlight reel. Except none of these were intended to be jokes. A few weeks later, I went back to my senior year fall and I hung up my cowboy hat. I didn’t know who I was. But I knew who I wasn’t.

Dear Journal,

Last week my friend Shelly had a children’s themed karate and pizza birthday party, and it was amazing- EXCEPT they cut the pizza slices in half like when you were a kid. Even as a kid I did not fall for this. I was like, “Yeah, I want the regular human being-sized slice, not this cocktail party appetizer version. Why don’t you get your cheap ass back in the station wagon, Mrs. Hargrove, and pick up a decent amount of pizza?”

Pizza Math = Hard

Sharing pizza with friends can be difficult, mostly because pizza math can be complicated. Often you’ve got 3 people competing for 8 slices. Now the proper etiquette is that everyone gets two slices and once those slices are consumed, stand by for further instructions. Most likely, one of the three people will volunteer to forgo their slice because that person is putting up a sort of “I’m not a pig” image campaign. But if no one gives on their slice, the only way to proceed is to cut the remaining two slices into thirds, giving each person 2/3 of the two slices. Also, be aware of the person cutting the thirds. He may have ulterior motives. Like, he wants more pizza.

This game is a lot harder than it looks.

Never let salad enter into pizza math. If someone says, “Well, you had more salad,” respond with, “I will kill you with this salad fork. And then we will see who ate more salad.”

Play Some Passive Aggressive Pizza Pool

If you really want to play dirty pool, make people self conscious about their weight. Say something like, “This pizza goes straight to your ankles” or,“I heard pizza gives you zits.” (Note: this last one is mostly for 7th graders.)

And whatever you do, don’t be fooled by the “pizza racer,” the guy who thinks that by finishing his two slices first he wins a third slice. In my book, all he should win is indigestion, and a trophy.

Pizza + Karate = A Moment of Reflection

Which brings us back to Shelly’s karate pizza birthday party. Though we were given these minuscule children’s slices. I held off from the “pizza race” mentality. And during the karate portion of the party, we ended with a confidence-building exercise where we broke an actual wooden board and they told us to pretend in our minds that the board is something we fear or wish to defeat. I think others probably picked their parents or racism or their 3rd grade gym teacher, but I picked people who take more than their fair share of pizza. There were no jagged edges on that board when I was finished with it, just two clean defeated slats lying on the blue gym floor.

Here’s me pretending to fight an all-veggie pizza.

And I took one of those little plastic houses that they use to separate the top of the pizza box from the cheese and tossed it on the floor next to the boards. It was a symbol that only I understood.

Dear Journal,

I’ve been off the road for three weeks now and I’m getting a little antsy. This week I went to Applebee’s in Times Square to remind me of what it’s like on the road. I have a great allegiance to chain restaurants, and I know that’s not the cool stance, but in my travels I’ve found that the greasy spoons of this country often have greasy spoons.

And it’s not like it’s your mom and you’re like, “Good ol’ mom’s grease on the spoon.” It’s like, “I believe the large man behind the counter whose stomach is peeking out of his undershirt placed some of his grease on a spoon that I am now expected to place in my mouth.”

I love chains because they’ll make exceptions and substitutions. You won’t offend them if you don’t want the special custard on the chicken sandwich. “No tomatoes? No problem, sir. I just want to keep my job.”

I actually fancy myself a chain restaurant connoisseur. And I’m not alone. My friend Greg Warren and I will text message each other whenever we’re at a chain. He’ll write: “Fridays is no Ruby Tuesdays but it’s getting there.” Or I’ll write, “If you’re at TGIFs, stay away from the Sicilian quesadillas. All hype, no execution.”

Chains also offer absurdly large portions. They’re like, “We could sell grilled cheese sandwiches for $1.50, or we could stuff a loaf of bread with three pounds of mozzarella and call it The Mozzarella Mountain.” Chains know that Americans are fat and want to keep it that way. Which is why I had a disconcerting experience at Times Square Applebee’s this week. I went in to feel at home, or away, and I order an appetizer and an entrée and my waitress said, “You’re gettin’ two things?” I said, “Yes,” and she said, “alright.” I was so mad. I was like, “You’re supposed to convince me that I want two things even though I don’t need two things. And it wasn’t as though the woman saying this had not not gotten two things herself. As a matter of fact, it seemed like two things had been a part of her diet for some time. Maybe this was her way of acting as a cautionary tale. Like, “this is what happens when you get two things.” Or maybe I misunderstood her. Maybe she meant to say, “You’re ONLY getting two things?”

But it made me realize something about myself I call “large portion shame.” The moment someone calls me out on how much I’m eating, it’s like being walked in on masturbating. I’m like, “Get outta here! Or stay and help out.”

So I ate my two things and then ordered dessert, bringing my grand total to three things. She didn’t flinch when I ordered my third thing. Maybe I was right in thinking that two things wasn’t enough…that maybe all good things come in threes. Red, white and blue. Cheese, meat, and sugar. Bret Michaels, strippers, and hair extensions.

Well I may never know what the waitress meant, but this month I’m heading to Raleigh, Nashville, Cleveland, Detroit and Columbus and I’m going to the Olive Garden, because when you’re there, you’re family. Plus, by bringing you bottomless breadsticks and salad with every entrée you automatically get three things without having to ask.

Dear Journal,

This week iTunes gave me my very own celebrity playlist which is very exciting because it gave me the opportunity to impress my girlfriend. Now don’t get me wrong, Journal, I know my girlfriend loves me for the right reasons but every once in a while when we’re watching “Bret Michael’s Rock of Love” I see this subtle look in her eye that if she had the chance to run off with the wig-wearing former lead singer of Poison, she might just take that offer. Now I don’t mean any disrespect to the man who wrote the lyrics “Every Rose Has Its Thorn…Yea it does” but I feel a little threatened by him, so in subtle ways I try to impress my girlfriend, but it always seems to backfire.

Where’s Bret Michaels?

Often when I’m on tour I’ll call her and tell her about the big crowds of people who showed up at my show, but then when she shows up to one of my shows it’s always the one where we’re competing with the world series or a local wing eating contest and the crowd is smaller than she expected. And I always have to explain, “This happens to a lot of guys.”

So this Fall when my CD came out, I hatched a plan to get my own celebrity playlist on iTunes and to further impress her I’d mention her in the playlist. It’d be like my very own Bret Michaels moment. It’d my very own, “Yea it does.” I knew it would be an uphill battle, as I’m not a household name, so the word “celebrity” is very subjective. For example I’m no Ruben Stoddard or even Clay Aiken or even that Asian guy they always put in the clip reels. But a lot of people buy my CDs, so I figured I’d have a chance.

I was very excited when I got the call from my record label that I could do a celebrity playlist. I spent a week putting together my dream mix of comedy and music tracks with descriptions of what I liked about each - the kind of stuff that if I were a regular person would be mundane but since I’m a celebrity is COMPLETELY FASCINATING.

Well, I sent it in and told my girlfriend the news and she gave me that look like she gives Bret Michaels each time he asks a part-time stripper the poignant question: “Will you stay here and rock my world?”

The point is, I felt fantastic.

“There’s plenty of women out there that you want to be friends with. And there’s a lot of women out there you want to have sex with. But if you can find one that you can be friends and have sex with, henceforth, rock of love.”
- Bret Michaels, explaining why he made the show “Rock of Love”

“I am an awkward, childish man. Henceforth, my secret public journal.”
- Mike Birbiglia, explaining the blog you get emailed to you

Then I got a call from my record label. They said that iTunes had reconsidered and they didn’t think I was enough of a celebrity to have a celebrity play-list. And I was like “I know. That’s why I asked first before I wrote it. Do you think if I were an actual celebrity, I’d have time to write a celebrity playlist? No way! I’d be eating chocolate hot dogs in Dubai!”

Well, a few months went by and I saw my chance to impress my girlfriend once again. I was headlining the Trump Plaza in Atlantic City. This would be perfect. Maybe if I did well enough she’d think of me like bad wig wearing Donald Trump himself. Why do all these celebrities have bad wigs?

When we arrived, there was a reception for me. It was for local press and there were appetizers and shrimp cocktail. And the organizer got up to a podium and said, “We’re very excited to kick off our comedy series with Mike Birbiglia. We’re trying to do something a little different than the other casinos in town. Some of the other casinos are booking the top tier comedians. But what were doing is having the middle tier comedians. Not the low tier, but not the top tier comedians. The sort of middle tier. And now let me bring to the podium, Mike Birbiglia.” I approached the podium and didn’t know quite what to say, so I said, “You know when I was a small child I dreamed that one day if I worked hard enough I could become a middle tier comedian. Frankly, I’m overwhelmed. Well, I’m underwhelmed. Um, I’m medium-whelmed.”

Well, this month after 8 months of deliberation and the release of my DVD “What I Should Have Said Was Nothing,” iTunes decided to publish my celebrity playlist. I’m thinking about buying a wig to celebrate. But I’m not counting my chickens, because maybe after they read this they’ll take my playlist down because, after all, they’re iTunes and I am a middle-tier comedian.

And that concludes this week’s entry in my secret public journal.

Dear Journal,

I just returned from Los Angeles where I shot a TV pilot for CBS.

What’s a TV pilot?

Well, no one’s really sure, but my best explanation is that it’s a sample episode of what a TV series would be. It’s like the first batch of pancakes where you decide, “These are going to be some good pancakes,” or, “Let’s not make pancakes.”

I brought my brother Joe, of course, because he loves pancakes and tends to come along for almost anything. I also brought my girlfriend and another friend who’s also a personal trainer and nutritionist to help me cut down on how “pudgy and awkward” I am. It turns out eating spinach salads for every meal helps cure pudginess—but not awkwardness. As Popeye once said, “I yam what I yam!”

I rented a house so that everyone had their own room and you know, Journal, having roommates was harder than I thought. Like for example, sometimes they wouldn’t do their dishes. And that felt really bad. It probably felt like they felt when I didn’t do my dishes. Bad.

The toughest thing about LA is that there are just too many cars—and it’s not like one of those places where everyone is good at driving, like…heaven. I think the reason people in LA are so bad at driving is that showbiz people are so used to lying that they tell people who are bad at driving that they’re good at driving.

They’re like, “You’re the best driver. You’re like the Johnny Depp of driving.”

And they’re like, “Really? Well I’m going to email all my friends and tell them you said that…right now…while I’m driving.”

Going on the freeway in LA is like going on an amusement park ride with consequences. You come off it and you’re like, “Whoa! That was CRAZY…I think I killed those people.”

Well, I made it out alive and my final task was to catch a flight at 6 in the morning- which meant that I had to stay at the airport hotel and wake up at 4. That is early. That is like earlier than the earth exists. I walked out the door of the hotel and they hadn’t set up the ground—like they hadn’t programmed that part of the Matrix yet. All these computer programmers were freaking out, like, “We need a ground stat and a postman walking by and…a rental car shuttle.” It was like Trinity and Tank in their Long-Johns going, “No one’s ever woken up this early!”

Well, luckily they programmed an airplane so I made it back to my apartment in New York after a month and a half and I woke up this morning and made pancakes. And I haven’t tried them yet, but I feel like they’re going to be some good pancakes.

And that concludes this week’s entry in my secret public journal.

Dear Journal,

This month I’m living in Los Angeles, preparing for my CBS pilot, and celebrating the release of my first DVD, “What I Should Have Said Was Nothing.” I’ve rented a house, and my girlfriend and my brother Joe have moved in as well. It’s a lot bigger than my apartment in New York, which only slightly bigger than my body. My place in L.A. is slightly bigger than Joe’s body, so it’s big.

This month I’m trying to lose weight because television makes normal people look fat, and makes fat people look like airplanes. I’ve actually given up pizza which is my favorite food. Giving up pizza has made me realize how much I crave pizza. I’ve realized that the time I crave pizza the most is the moment before I fall asleep. I think that should be a menu item: “pizza until you fall asleep” and you call and order it and then leave your door unlocked. And then you time it just right so the delivery man walks in the moment before you fall asleep with a pizza shaped like a travel pillow - This kind of calzone-y pizza that wraps around your neck and you just gobble it while doing neck rolls until you fall asleep.

So my life in Los Angeles is pretty similar to my life in New York. I work and sleep, and spend hours and hours wandering the Internet - which is sad, because it’s occurred to me that the Internet is an infinite well of nothing. When you’re there, you think it’s something. It’s like getting drunk. You’re like “I’m going to go here, and then over there- and then here!” and then after four hours you’re like, “I have no idea what just happened. I better clear my history.”

I always have these grand ambitions about when I’ll be online. I think- “I’m going to look up healthy recipes and gyms in my neighborhood.” And then I go on line and I’m like, “WHY DON’T I GOOGLE MYSELF AGAIN.” I don’t even Google myself anymore; I get “Google alerts.” Which means the Google Robot emails you when you’ve been mentioned on a blog or a website.

Last year someone came to one of my shows and said they enjoyed it but that I was “pudgy and awkward.” It was like, “Bam, you’re p’awkward.” I was like, “Thanks for the heads up, Google Robot!“ I wasn’t feeling great about myself already and besides, aren’t those adjectives a little redundant? How many people do you know who are pudgy and smooth? “Pudgy and really has it together - I like that Alan!”

You know who else is pudgy and awkward?

Bloggers.

I know because I am one. Which is why I’m sitting in Los Angeles finishing up this p’awkward entry in my secret public journal.

Hey Internet life partners,

I have great news. The secret public journal emails you’ve been reading for the last 20-25 years are being made into a comedy pilot (and ideally a series) for CBS!!!

Maybe it was the 93 comments you wrote after my last entry or Ted Kennedy’s endorsement, but they’ve decided to let me and my friend Andy Secunda make a show about a guy who does comedy, writes a journal, and kills polar bears for sport (not true). CBS has also assured me that if the show is a success, they will also green-light television shows based on all of your blogs and all of your friends’ blogs, even this one.

Now here’s the downside. (And I ask you to bear with me.) I’m going to have to postpone most of the upcoming tour, including Boston, DC, Raleigh, Atlanta, Nashville, Indianapolis, Cleveland, Detroit, Columbus, Minneapolis, Chicago, Kansas City, and Denver. I promise I will come to these cities. But right now we have to shoot this pilot to have a chance to become a series in the fall.

Also, with slight scheduling changes, I will be definitely be appearing this weekend in Cincinnati, New York City, and hopefully Tempe, Los Angeles, and San Francisco at the end of April.

Thank you in advance for your support and if you’re presently sticking a needle into a voodoo doll of my balls, I totally understand and - oh wow, that hurt. That too. Please stop.

Love-
Mike

Dear Journal,

I just got back from performing at Penn State University, home to a made-up holiday called “State Patty’s Day.” Apparently, because St. Patrick’s’s day usually falls on spring break, and the students at Penn State didn’t want to miss out on a holiday dedicated to binge drinking, they invented another one. However, this year St. Patrick’s Day didn’t fall on a their spring break, so they’re celebrating both State Patty’s Day (which does not exist) and St. Patty’s Day (which exists). Penn State students are nothing if not inventive, and great at peeing their names in the snow.

As soon as I arrived on campus I knew this fake holiday was a red flag and so I picked up their newspaper The Daily Collegian and the headline read “Victim Takes Partial Blame.” I thought that was a little vague, so I read on and discovered that there has been a widely discussed event on campus where a drunk driver hit a drunk walker. And I thought, “Maybe these people shouldn’t be making up holidays to drink more.” Maybe if they drank less they might be able to name their newspaper articles more specifically. For example, I would name this last article, “Drunk Driver Hits Drunk Walker Drunkety Drunk I’m So Drunk.”

Drunky McDrunkenstein

Well, I’m heading to my hometown of Boston in a few weeks and I’ve been getting a lot of emails since my special aired from my hometown of Shrewsbury. You see, journal, on the commercial for the special they air a joke where I’m describing how I performed for the U.S. troops and signed autographs for people who had been gone from America so long they didn’t realize I’m not famous. They’d be like, “Where do I know you from? And I’d be like, “Are you from Shrewsbury? Because I played backup right field for Economy Paint Supply, I don’t know if that rings a bell.”Well, it turns out that a guy who works at Economy Paint Supply has a television, and he sent me a MySpace message. And that struck me as odd. I didn’t realize the paint supply culture was so into social networking. So this guy Rich writes to me: “Hey Mike - I had to ask one of the owner’s if we ever had a baseball team and he said they used to sponsor little league. So you must be telling the truth. …It is cool when someone mentions something on national television (my wife says cable’s not national; yeah she sometimes hurts)”First of all, “she sometimes hurts”? Sounds like someone needs some Economy Therapy Supply, Rich.Second of all, the travesty of this situation is that my beloved Economy Paint Supply is no longer even a little league team. How did they back out of that?

Did they think that their team’s record reflected badly on their image as a paint supply store? Are people thinking, “There’s no way I’m trusting those guys with my low budget paint supply needs, they lost 42 to nothing to the Lithuanian War Vets!”

So this week I decided to sponsor my own little league team in Shrewsbury. It’ll be called, “Mike Birbiglia’s First Place Little League Team.” That way, no matter what place they’re in, they’ll always be first place.

This morning I got a “Google alert” that I had been mentioned in Penn State’s Daily Collegian. The headline read, “Comedian has crowd in stitches.” Which comedian? It’s not important. Because those readers are so drunk.