my reality tv

From The Queerty Archives: “I Played The Effeminate Gay on Adam Carolla’s Reality Show”

Ed. Note: In light of the recent Adam Carolla scandal, we thought it’d be a good time to revisit Matt Siegel’s post from September 15, 2009.


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I’m just going to spit it out: I was on a reality show. I’d rather reveal the most intimate details of my sex life (I haven’t had any in 46 days) or that delightful feeling I get when taking a good shit (self-explanatory) than talk about this. The only saving grace is that it wasn’t one of those “I’m-not-here-to-make-friends / It-is-what-it-is” competition reality shows. As if that helps.

The Adam Carolla Project aired in 2005 on The Learning Channel. Not only was I Adam’s real-life assistant, but I played the role on the show, too. It’s not a closely guarded secret, like the time a man gave me 100 dollars to suck my dick in a deserted parking lot; it’s just information I typically choose not to divulge.

In the timeline of reality programming, Adam’s show came after Anna Nicole but before Kathy Griffin. It was a point in time when eyes didn’t automatically roll at the idea of another senseless reality show.

I used my middle name instead of my last name, as a fuck you to my biological father who I hadn’t seen or spoken to in 13 years. I had a romantic notion that he would see me on TV and come crawling back to me like some long-lost sixth cousin thrice removed to a lottery winner. I did feel like a lottery winner: I was Charlene and the Chocolate Factory. I had the golden ticket.

I wasn’t the kind of gay the producers expected: I was queer, a modern gay, and a revolutionary who honored my identity at all costs. They were expecting some non-threatening Queer Eye. I wasn’t there to help straight men be cute — my intention was just the opposite, actually.

Only five years ago, TLC was what Adam referred to as “deep cable,” way up high in the channel numbers. I referred to it as “The Ladies’ Channel.” It has since evolved into “The Leper’s Channel,” with its multitude of midgets, half-ton teens, and often violently deformed network stars. And those Jon and Kate persons.

Either way, it seemed unlikely that Adam would successfully elbow his way in among multiple babies and 160-pound tumors. If you want success on TLC you need a handicapped parking permit — at the least, you have to qualify for pre-boarding on planes. The show was doomed from the start; Adam was too able-bodied for TLC.

The premise of Project was simple: Adam was flipping his childhood home with his band of merry construction worker friends and upon completion, he would try to sell the house for a profit. Yes, Bravo’s Flipping Out completely ripped him off.

Every person on the show fulfilled an archetype. There was Ray, the man-child; Ozzie, the zany foreigner; and Gary, the quiet man missing a finger who lived in a trailer with his daughter and liked guns. I was just another colorful accessory there for B story; gay was my shtick as straight was Adam’s shtick. I wasn’t the kind of gay the producers expected: I was queer, a modern gay, and a revolutionary who honored my identity at all costs. They were expecting some non-threatening Queer Eye. I wasn’t there to help straight men be cute — my intention was just the opposite, actually.

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Keep in mind, I wasn’t an actor. I didn’t audition for the role. It was an assistant job with an on-camera catch. Look at me! I moved to Hollywood without a headshot and cut in line ahead all of the pathetic losers dying to get 10 seconds on TV. How classic. This was my gay revenge for the years of torturous oppression. I knew God felt bad.

As Adam’s real-life assistant, I had the opportunity to be privy to the show’s development. Early on, I was CC’d on an email from the Story Editor with possible show topics. Like this one:

4) ADAM TRIES TO BUTCH UP HIS NEW ASSISTANT MATT AND TEACHES HIM HOW TO ACT MORE MASCULINE. COULD BE A “BIRD CAGE”-TYPE SEQUENCE IN WHICH ADAM SCHOOLS MATT IN ALL THINGS BUTCH. COULD INCLUDE A BOXING LESSON.

I had no problem demonstrating my lack of masculinity; that is not an affront to me. I knew Adam wouldn’t put me in a situation purely to embarrass me — he tends not to rely on the obvious to be funny, despite what you saw on The Man Show. And why shouldn’t Adam show me how to play butch as well as he plays it? That is what he built his career on, after all: his brand of overt heterosexual masculinity.

The next show idea pissed me off, though.

11) AFTER ALL THE RIBBING MATT GETS – (AND WE KNOW HE’S GOING TO GET IT) – HE DECIDES TO PROVE TO ADAM JUST HOW GOOD AN ASSISTANT HE IS AND WIN ADAM’S CONFIDENCE

I quickly alerted everyone on the email list (including the executive producer, a one Jimmy Kimmel) that there would be no stories centered around Matt-ribbing. This made me a big hit with the production team, because you know higher-ups are dying to hear what the assistant has to say. I was subsequently reminded that even though I was on camera, I was still an assistant.

I didn’t understand the Hollywood power structure. The most successful Hollywood assistants are impervious to pain; they keep their mouths shut and say yes to every request. It took me the entire length of my time with Adam (and some post-reflection) to get the mouth-shut thing.

After a few episodes of the show aired, the Washington Blade, “America’s gay newspaper of record,” wrote a scathing review. Of me.

 

“Adam and Steve,” written by some guy named Brian Moylan [Ed: Moylan is  now an editor at Gawker], was published in the Nov. 5, 2005, issue.

In addition to charging me with “accentuating and exaggerating my mannerisms,” Moylan reamed me for being a “court jester,” “a stereotypical gay prop,” and a “gay class clown.”

Another article published that month from the same paper lumped me and Sean HayesWill & Grace character, Jack, together, as “effeminate gay stooges.” The self-hatred overwhelmed the senses like the ammonia emitted from a rotting fish. (I recently ate some bad sea bass.)

I had made appearances on Adam’s short-lived Comedy Central talk show, Too Late, and on Loveline. In his article, Moylan made reference to the Halloween episode of Too Late where I was followed with cameras to find Adam a Halloween costume. We did a remote feed from the costume store to Adam in the studio with his guest, Dr. Drew Pinsky from Loveline. Moylan claimed I “camped it up so Carolla and Pinsky could take eager potshots at just how gay [I] act.”

There’s nothing wrong with being effeminate, but Haber allows himself to fall into the trap of accentuating and exaggerating his mannerisms to get a cheap laugh from straight guys in a lame attempt to be accepted.

This is especially evident on “Project,” where Haber prances around construction sites trying to fit in with the rough and tumble crowd.

Haber needs to stop playing the gay class clown. And Carolla needs to take a lesson…and accept gay men as a part of his team, not as court jesters or stereotypical props.

In retrospect, it’s clear that Moylan’s venomous name-calling article had less to do with me, and everything to do with his own discomfort with male femininity. My truth embarrassed him. The article was a devastating commentary on the state of mainstream gay male identity.

In truth, the only potshot taken at me was by Dr. Drew, currently America’s leading celebrity rehab doc. Dr. Drew asked if I was going to be a fairy for Halloween. I responded, “Look who’s talking, Drew.” The audience roared with laughter.

Moylan was right about one thing, though: I wanted one straight guy’s acceptance and that was Adam’s. He was my boss, after all.

Adam is a tepid man. I witnessed the occasional moments of pure warmth and delight and more often, moments of perturbation.

I would watch from the landing as Adam came home from work, waiting to tell him that day’s events. Adam’s portly yellow lab Molly would wiggle her way to the door, losing her mind, as Adam threw his hat off, plopped his keys and phone down on the table, and fell to the floor to roll around with her. I was always jealous of that Molly.

As one would expect from a wordsmith, Adam could go off on a motherfucker and take said motherfucker on a rickety county fair roller coaster ride of nausea-inducing tangents that would leave even the most resilient motherfucker a frazzled mess. He was NTBFW. (That’s: not to be fucked with).

Getting a hearty laugh from Adam was the best reward next to getting his priase. I recall two big laughs I got from him: One was when I was testing jokes on him for an impending stand-up show and said I was going to write a restaurant rating guide called Faggots (pronounced “Zagats”). The second was when I said he should put an eye patch over his dog’s abnormally large asshole. In fact, I read an article about him this year in Los Angeles magazine where he repeated that same joke.

I was flattered knowing that he (perhaps subconsciously) stole my joke.

Adam reads people quickly and my guess is that he pegged me for exactly what I was: one of those fatherless gay boys. In some ways I was as transparent as the sex worker who’d call into Loveline only to have Adam ask who molested them. And he was usually right, they had been molested. Adam would indulge me every now and then and take me to a concert or just let me pick his brain. One time, I asked him to sign an autograph for Lil’ Kim that we could send to her in prison. I made him write “Keep your head up,” as a veiled reference to the Tupac Shakur song of the same name.

When my time with Adam came to an end (and by an end, I mean he called me and told me it was the end—something about pissing Jimmy Kimmel off one too many times), I had to go to his house to collect my things and return his keys. I didn’t use the remote to get past his gate; I pressed the call button like a FedEx guy. When I got to his front door, I rang the doorbell like a production assistant delivering a script.

Adam came out with an envelope of the earthly possessions I kept in the home office: a Japanese fan from my Thai massage place and photos of us backstage with Tori Amos.

All of my fucking daddy issues bubbled up like Charlie in the fizzy lifting drink room of the chocolate factory. I broke the rules and was kicked to the curb. No lifetime of chocolate for my ass.

I thanked Adam for everything and stared at the ground forlornly. “Come here and give me a hug,” he said, indulging me one last time.

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