Sleepwalk With Me_ And Other Painfully True Stories - Mike Birbiglia [0]
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Copyright © 2010 by Mike Birbiglia
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Manufactured in the United States of America
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Birbiglia, Mike.
Sleepwalk with me and other painfully true stories / Mike Birbiglia.
p. cm.
1. Birbiglia, Mike. 2. Comedians—United States—Biography. I. Title.
PN2287.B45463A3 2010
792.7'6028092—dc22 2010018393
ISBN 978-1-4391-5799-2
ISBN 978-1-4391-7565-1 (ebook)
To my parents, Vincent and Mary Jean.
If it weren’t for your support of my many delusions, I
would not have been able to write this book.
Also, don’t read the chapters about yourselves.
Also, I love you.
CONTENTS
Don’t Tell Anyone
I Have Something to Say!
Delusional
Please Stop the Ride
Goddammit
Like Hell
Patti and the Bear
Going Places
The Deal
I Can’t Stop!
My Hero
Something in My Bladder
The Promise of Sleep
Sleepwalk with Me
One More Thing
Thank-Yous
It’s January 20, 2005, and I’ve just performed at a college in Walla Walla, Washington. Now I’m staying at a hotel called La Quinta Inn. Some people correct me when I say that. They’re like, “No, it’s La Keeen-tah.” I’m like, “That’s not fair. You can’t force me to speak Spanish. I didn’t press 2.”
I’m asleep, and I have a dream that there’s a guided missile headed toward my room and there are all these military personnel in the room with me. And I jump out of bed and I say, “What’s the plan?” And the soldiers say, “The missile coordinates are set specifically on you.” And I say, “That seems very bad.”
Well, the only difference between this dream and any other is that I literally leapt out of my bed, because a few years before that I had started walking in my sleep.
SLEEPWALK
WITH
ME
DON’T TELL ANYONE
I’m sitting at a Starbucks in Manhattan. Starbucks is the last public space with chairs. It’s a shower for homeless people. And it’s a place you can write all day. The baristas don’t glare at you. They don’t even look at you. Every once in a while they walk around with free samples of banana-chocolate something. “No thanks. Just the two-dollar coffee”—cheapest rent in New York. Plus, they sell CDs and even Christmas gifts. If this place sold toilet paper, I probably wouldn’t have to shop anywhere else.
Well, the reason I’m writing is that I want to tell you some stories. And they’re true. I always have to point this out because whenever I tell stories, people ask me, “Was that true?”
And I say, “Yeah.”
And they say, “Was it?”
And I don’t know how to respond to that. I guess I could say it louder. “Yeah!”
“It’s probably true. He said it louder.”
Growing up, I was discouraged from telling personal stories. My dad often used the phrase “Don’t tell anyone.” But not about creepy things. I don’t want to lead you down the wrong path. It would be about insignificant things. Like I wouldn’t make the soccer team and my father would say, “Don’t tell anyone.” And I would say, “They’re gonna know when they show up to the games and I’m not on the team and I’m crying.”
One time I built up the courage to ask him about this, which was tough because my dad is a very serious man. He’s a doctor—a neurologist. When he’s home, he spends most of his time