I just got back from Chico, Modesto, and Albuquerque and I'm finishing up my tour this week in St. Louis. A cool thing started happening on this tour. People are starting to come to my shows on purpose. As a comedian, you mostly perform for drunks, bacholorette parties and passers-by and you hope that at some point people will show up who actually like your type of humor.

But I've noticed that the people who tend to like my type of humor are CRAZY. And maybe it's because I talk on stage about how my girlfriends all end up being crazy. "Everything seems cool, and then two months in she'll be like 'Maybe this weekend we could 'I'M CRAZY!!', and then she's blows away like a tumbleweed. And I'm like "Come back! I'm crazy too."

But on this tour I've seen some new breeds of crazy.

For example, some people have gone on my Myspace page and posted photos of themselves dressed as panda bears, beer bottles, and Mexican wrestlers placing my Two Drink Mike CD in various locations. Which is just fine. As a matter of fact, I'm thrilled about it, except I don't have any jokes about Mexican wrestlers. So perhaps that person actually is a Mexican wrestler. Perhaps he enjoys Mexican wrestling. Or perhaps that person is CRAZY.

The other thing people have been doing is making homemade tee shirts that acknowledge my jokes and/or their own boobs. This occurred in Albuquerque this week with two girls named Emily and Gretchen. Emily and Gretchen, as it turns out, are gorgeous women who had shirts embroidered that have my last name on them. And maybe they're huge fans. Maybe they sense a deep connection with my jokes about polar bears, cinnamon toast crunch and sleepwalking. Or maybe…they're CRAZY.

And then finally, I've noticed that people at my shows are rowdier than ever. And, as a comedian, that's not always a good thing. Last month I was in St. Louis and I was getting heckled by this drunk loud guy. He kept going "Hey Mike- you got a girlfriend?" And I'd be like "Well, drunk loud guy, yes I do. But could you stop shouting stuff at random because I have to talk to all of these other people too, not just engage the drunk one-on-one conversation you're having with me in your drunk brain." But he wouldn't shut up for the whole show. And the people around him are telling him to shut up. And by the end of the show, it just becomes so juvenile that I go so far as to call the guy a douche bag. And he has the saddest, most misunderstood drunk red face and he goes, "I'm crazy. Crazy girlfriend!" And I realize that the guy has simply been requesting the "I'm crazy" joke all along.

As it turns out, my fans are so crazy that they seem like they're heckling me even when they're trying to be supportive. So I ask you, Dear Journal, why must my fans be so crazy and incoherent? And I think the answer is that for every Mexican wrestler and drunk red-faced incoherent fool, there's a gorgeous busty girl with a shirt that says your name on it, even if that shirt is a not-so-subtle advertisement for her own boobs.

When dealing in crazy, beggars can't be choosers.

That concludes this week's entry in my secret public journal.

Last week I went to Los Angeles to be on Jimmy Kimmel Live. Our bus driver Ronney drove us through the night from Idaho and we rolled into the hotel at about 7 AM. The Kimmel Show has us staying at this very chic hotel. The kind of place where you definitely have to steal the shampoo, bath robes, comforter, fitted sheets, and small tables. So as we pull up at the hotel, I'm waking up in the back of the bus, realizing that we are riding in the most awkwardly oversized, gaudy bus that I LOVE, but in this context somehow feels like the worst most ugly sore thumb vehicle imaginable because we're parked in the middle of Jaguars, BMWs, and Bentleys. It was like being given a tee shirt with your name on it for your birthday and then being forced to wear it to the prom as if to say, "Hey, ladies, I'm Mike Birbiglia. If you happen to forget, take a look down at the shirt. Don't be shy. It's written in huge sparkly bubble-paint lettering. Where you goin' ladies? The fun's just begun. Maybe later I can drive you home in my bus that also has my name on it. Actually, I'm not driving. This other guy Ronney's driving. Also, my brother Joe will be there. He kind of shows up wherever I go."

So I wake up and Sleepy Karl (who is my sleep-addicted alter ego) says, "Why would you walk into a parking lot full of Bentleys when you could stay here and bake muffins in a parachute-tent with your mom?" But I walked to the front of the bus, assessed the situation, and decided to put on a costume. I threw on a hooded sweatshirt and sunglasses, thinking it better to be perceived as the Unabomber than as the guy with the bus that takes up 4 parking spaces with his own picture on it.

So I'm utterly embarrassed to be in my own skin, which really brought be back to ages 8-16. (Ages 3 to 7 I was oblivious to why I should be embarrassed to be in my own skin.) It brought me back to this era of deep-seeded insecurity. An era when only your parents think you're cool. You come home after a long day of humiliation and your mom is like, "Well, I think you're super." And you think, "If only the kids at school could think like my mom, I really would be super."

But this week I had gotten a phone call from my parents after they had watched my new half-hour special. Now my parents have never been big on me being a comedian. My dad has always said, "This comedy thing might parlay nicely into advertising." But after seeing the recent special, the exact quote was, "We enjoyed some of it," which, coming from your parents, actually means, "we enjoyed none of it." When I expressed concern at that their half-hearted support, my father said, "You know you shouldn't just listen to what we say, but also what we don't say." My father had successfully screwed me in the head in a way I had never thought imaginable. He had insulted me and then taken it a step further by keeping it open-ended. "Not only do I not approve of some things you're doing, but feel free to jump to conclusions about other things you're doing that I might not approve of." My parents had become the bullies that they had told me to ignore my entire life, except smarter, more well-informed super-bullies.

So I went to my hotel room dressed as the Unabomber and I snuck out the back of the hotel to the Jimmy Kimmel show. As it turns out, one of the other guests on the show was Regis Philbin, whom my mother happens to love. So I do my set on the show and it goes well, and when I was sitting on the couch with Regis and I thought, "Why don't I ask him to sign something for my mom?" So the only thing I have with me is a copy of my own CD TWO DRINK MIKE (available in stores everywhere) and I ask him if he'll sign it. Of course, since it's Regis he's very friendly and accommodating and he writes on it: "To Mary Jean, your son was terrific on Jimmy Kimmel Live. My Best- Regis Philbin." And I sent it to my mom. And in a way it's like this doctor's note to my mom, saying, "It's ok if Mike continues to be a comedian."

And that concludes this week's entry in my Secret Public Journal.