Monday, July 21, 2008

mike birbiglia is sexy and manly...

The interwebs is apparently much smarter than me. Let's be honest, though. Most days I can't even remember to put my soda can down to the right of my computer. Yes, I am right-handed. I, for some reason however, insist on putting it down to the left of my computer. No, I don't understand it either, and yes, I do know that's where the fan output is on my laptop. That's my point. If I had a dollar for every time I have gone to take a swig of Diet Pepsi, only to find it's been heated to a temperature just shy of "Holy shit!", I certainly wouldn't be sitting here writing this blog. I'd be, well... doing something else with my $20.
On a related note... Starbucks: There is no need to test market the Steamed Diet Pepsi in poquito, venti or grande. I've done the field research. It ain't gonna sell.
Anywho, I recently learned there's some super secret stalker spy software out there that tells people when something has been posted about them or their company. This was the only rational explanation I could figure when I was contacted ON MY BLOG by the Customer Service Director of, and not via email, as I had expected, after I sent the same letter I posted here to them directly through the fancy "Contact Us" form on their website. (NEW Karma Burning Award: Longest Run-On Sentence in a Post That is Really NOT a Run-On Sentence!) As a matter of fact, I never did hear back from anyone at other than my new BFF Jason. (Waves to Jason!)
What does ANY of this have to do with Mike Birbiglia, you ask?
While I fully suspected this devil-ware existed, it was recently confirmed while reading Mike's Secret Public Journal. Apparently tired of Googling himself (is that even possible? I live to Google myself... if that's what we're calling it these days), Mike found Google Alerts. And he wrote about it. That brings me to this tale.
I have had a crap storm following me for the past several months. Every time the clouds seem to clear--nope. More crap. I feel like Forrest Gump... "One day it started raining, and it didn't quit for four months. We been through every kind of rain there is. Little bitty stingin' rain... and big ol' fat rain. Rain that flew in sideways. And sometimes rain even seemed to come straight up from underneath." It's like there is no escape.
This is a sucky place for me to be, because I very much believe we create our own experiences. If I'm stuck thinking, "Crap, crappity, crap, crap!" all day long, I'm bound to bring more, "Crap, crappity, crap, crap!" into my life. The problem here (which I have yet to bypass) is the whole Whatever-You-Do-Don't-Think-About-A-Pink-Elephant-With-Purple-Polka-Dots Phenomenon. Try to not think about something, and that is all you'll be able to think about! This, my friends, is where Mike Birbiglia comes in.
I turned 37 on Saturday. That should be awesome, right? I was going to have a big party and everything. It was to be the first of three "Countdown" parties... Three! (37), Two! (38), One! (39)... BLAST OFF! (40)! Great idea, right? (Word of warning--if you steal this idea and DON'T invite me to your party, I'm sending Biggie Smalls to haunt your bathroom. For reals.)
Here's the thing, though. It's hard to plan a party when you're covered in crap.
So, instead of hanging out with all my friends, celebrating the big day and "counting down", I laughed. I don't know why I decided on the anniversary of me gracing this world to finally check out Mike's Secret Public Journal (because I've been a Birbiglia fan for a llllloooonnnnngggggg time), but I finally did. And I laughed. And laughed. And laughed some more. Suddenly thinking about what a rapist's bed would look like made it a lot easier to stop thinking about crap.
If you, too, are caught in a crap storm (and even if you're not--lucky bastard), I highly recommend the Birbiglia Umbrella. You heard it first here. Mike Birbiglia is my umbrella. My sexy and manly umbrella. S'manly?
Rumor is he's already shot a pilot (the TV kind, not the felony kind) for CBS's fall line up. I'm hoping with fingers and toes crossed that it gets picked up. Word is I'm a shoe in to play his wacky next door neighbor/on-again-off-again love interest. I'll be the Maria-Bamford-meets-Rose-from-Two-and-a-Half-Men character with the kookie blonde swish at her bangs. Look for me.
(...moves Diet Pepsi can to RIGHT side of the computer.)
What I like most about Mike is not that he's funny (and trust me... he's hys-frickin'-TERical), but that he's real. This is a guy you want to hang out with and add to your Christmas card distribution list. He loves his family, he loves his friends, and he loves his fans. When there seems to be a veritable plethora of over-confident, not funny, mass-marketed comics out there who have forgotten who got them where they are and what made them funny in the first place, Mike is a BirBeacon in the fog, reminding us all what it is to laugh. For that, sir, along with all the aforementioned, I thank you.
And Mike, if you somehow managed to make your way here and read through all of this, I kept my word. That makes me more reliable than Jesus.


Post a Comment

Links to this post:

Create a Link

<< Home