Introduction

An NPR Best Book of 2020 - An O, The Oprah Magazine Best LGBTQ Book of 2020 - An Electric Literature Favorite Nonfiction Book of 2020 - A Largehearted Boy Favorite Nonfiction Book of 2020 - A 2020 Goodreads Choice Award Nominee for Best Humor - One of Lambda Literary's "Most Anticipated LGBTQ Books of August 2020" - One of BuzzFeed's "15 Books From Smaller Presses You Won't Be Able to Put Down" - A Shondaland 15 Hot Books for Summer

In this unique and hilarious debut memoir, writer and comedian Greg Mania chronicles life as a "pariah prodigy." From inadvertently coming out to his Polish immigrant parents, to immersing himself in the world of New York City nightlife, and finding himself and his voice in comedy. Born to Be Public is a vulnerable and poignant exploration of identity (and the rediscovery of it), mental health, sex and relationships, all while pursuing a passion with victories and tragicomic blunders. At once raw and relatable, Mania's one-of-a-kind voice will make you shed tears from laughter and find its way into your heart.

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Excerpt

5. YES, THAT’S MY REAL LAST NAME

Actively seeking well-known NYC socialites via social media and trying to get their attention in a shameless fashion by posting exhibitionistic content ranging from borderline crude humor to eyebrow-raising photos: Effective? Yes. Morally questionable? Perhaps. Shallow? Great opportunity for a duet at karaoke.

I was already spending multiple nights a week traipsing to Manhattan, which was only a half-hour train ride away on the LIRR. I decided to see what else was out there besides Rush and the other gay clubs I went to in the Chelsea area. I was starting to populate my Facebook friend list with prominent nightlife figures. My newsfeed was mostly party flyers that told me when and where, and I went. I was seduced by the glamor of Manhattan’s downtown art and music scene, finding myself in clubs, bars, and every venue in between. With that, I discovered the world below Fourteenth Street: specifically, the Lower East Side.

I started to recognize the right people to know, the ones who had their own tables reserved, the ones who always had

a flock of people orbiting them, but at the time I was still painfully shy and, in many ways, still felt like the same kid from middle and high school. Going up to these party hosts, glamour “it-girls," and downtown socialites to introduce myself was out of the question. I was never able to blend into the corner because I’m super tall and my affinity for high hair and loud outfits attracted people to me.

They wanted to know who I was, but I didn’t even know who I was. I just knew that I belonged among these people, people who were unapologetic in their self-expression.

The ones I came across wrote for Interview Magazine (some of whom even helped launch it and were members of the iconic Warhol Factory), people who toured with legendary bands like Blondie and The Stooges, and people who knew just about everybody. What was I supposed to say? “HI, NICE TO MEET YOU. I’M AN UNDERAGE COLLEGE FRESHMAN WITH AN UNDECLARED MAJOR AND A PICTURE OF JOAN CUSACK’S HEADSHOT IN MY WALLET—WANNA SEE?”

I was nobody to these people.

I met Michael Musto, the legendary Village Voice journalist, who told me about some major article he was working on and then asked me what I did for a living. I was determined not to repeat my incident with my first college crush, Steve, by replying with some insipid non-sequitur, so I told him I was a dancer.

A DANCER.

I threw my back out Wet Swiffering once. Also, taking an elective on the history of dance freshman year does not qualify me to audition for a world tour anytime soon. Fearing that I would get caught in the lie I had just blurted out, I told him I really liked the ascot tucked into his breast pocket and abruptly left to go bum a cigarette from someone outside.

I thought it was better to flee the scene than to have one of New York’s most influential figures find out that I’m someone who, just the other night, torpedoed gravy into his mouth from a solo cup.

I wanted to fit in. I wanted to be just as cool as these people who breathed life into the downtown ethos. Instead of dealing with my social anxiety head on, I started adding these people as friends on Facebook. I decided that I would make my debut by getting noticed online, behind an avatar, first. Mind you, this was when Facebook was in its infancy. Many of these individuals hadn’t already maxed out their friends lists, and would basically add anyone who looked like a downtown art freak, so I had no problem getting friend requests accepted.

I began communicating with these characters online, liking their posts and leaving comments, and they were starting to take notice of me, of my pictures in my usual exhibitionistic attire, and my absurd, ridiculous, and, oftentimes, raunchy humor. It was this approach to self-presentation on the internet that led to the night my real last name (which is indeed spelled Mania, but pronounced “Mahn-ya”) became my official nickname, or stage name, if you will (also spelled Mania, but the way you pronounced it in your head when you saw the cover of this book.)

In 2009, there was only one band that mattered to me and that band was Semi Precious Weapons. They were headlining a show at the Bowery Ballroom in the spring of 2010, and my friend Cecilia, whom I had met on Twitter, and I decided to meet face-to-face for the first time by going to the show together.

We loaded up on booze at Cecilia’s apartment on the Upper East Side and arrived downtown to the Bowery Ballroom shortly thereafter. I knew many of the people I was shamelessly trying to get the attention of would be under the same roof because everyone had been posting about it—this was the place to be that night.

My fake ID—somehow—got me in, even though at the age of eighteen, I still looked like the kid whose face is on the Farina box. You saw my prom picture. Cecilia and I walked downstairs to the bar area to have a drink. It was already crowded, but you could spot who were the Lower East Side party-natives versus who were the young fans coming in from the tri-state area. We grabbed our drinks and went upstairs, where the actual venue was. The stage was flanked by a pair of balconies, and there were also two other bar areas, one in the back of the room, and one directly above it on the second floor.

I immediately recognized some of the people I’d connected with on the internet. They stuck out, even among the hip, trendy crowd decked out in their flashiest going-out garb. It was like a spotlight followed them wherever they went. You were instantly curious; you wanted to know who they were, how they had come to be. Did they always have that indefinable “it”?

My eyes fell on Darian Darling, a blonde bombshell exuding pure, unadulterated glamor (or glaMOUR, as she calls it), topped with a sequined beret, making everyone else in the room look like characters in a coloring book that have yet to be colored in. With a name inspired by Warhol Super? star Candy Darling, Darian, as her name denotes, was the darling of downtown Manhattan, always hosting the most chichi parties and events from the Hudson Hotel to The Box

to The Standard—all staple venues in the nightlife community.

I made eye contact with Darian. When she gave me the you- look-familiar look, I knew there was no turning back. In my alcohol-fueled confidence, I went over and formally introduced myself. After exchanging a double-air kiss, she asked me, “Are you that Greg Mania from Facebook?”, pronouncing “Mania” like anyone normally would. I was about to correct her on the pronunciation of my last name but instead of doing that, I confirmed that I was—without prefacing my answer with the, up until that night, faithful diction. We ended up exchanging numbers and she invited me to some of the upcoming parties she was scheduled to host, saying she would put me on her list. A list! Little did I know I would spend many nights of debauchery with her that often ended up with us texting each other the next morning to ask if we were still alive. It was like hanging out with Patsy from the beloved British sitcom, Absolutely Fabulous.

I also found myself gravitating towards people with equally interesting monikers: Kenny Kenny, Miss Guy, Ladyfag, all of whom were present at the Bowery Ballroom that night. This was the place to be, remember? But there were two in particular that I also met that night, in addition to Darian, who became formative figures for me at the age of eighteen: Breedlove and Lady Starlight.

I’m always curious about the origin of someone’s stage name/nickname/whatever you want to call it. I would come to learn that Lady Starlight had given Breedlove his name, back in 2003 when they were producing an event in the East Village at a bar called Rififi. The party was called “Freak Out!” and featured go-go dancing to psychedelic music and accompanying 1960s visuals. Breedlove, whose real name is Craig, needed a stage name, and Lady Starlight came across a

shirt with the label that read, “Craig Breedlove for Sears.” Craig Breedlove was a record-breaking race car driver with a clothing line at Sears in the 1960s, resulting in a moment of happenstance for the Breedlove I met in 2009. Lady Starlight adopted her name from the song “Lady Starlight” by The Sweet.

Darian was the one who introduced me to Breedlove and Starlight. They were curious to know more about me. I felt like I was talking to people I had known my entire life, people who already knew all my deep, dark secrets, my dreams, and saw something in me that I had yet to discover. They listened to me and I could see actual interest in their eyes, and a type of fire in them—one that held the nucleus of their very essence as people who were already icons, but didn’t need fame or recognition to hold that title—and I knew that these were the people I wanted to surround myself with.

I’m fairly certain it wasn’t memorable meeting me, seeing as I looked like just another young, barely legal kid dipping their toes into the downtown scene, but for me, meeting Breedlove and Lady Starlight in person, after following them closely on Myspace, was a moment when something shifted in me.

That night Bowery Ballroom would find itself hop-scotching from pop-cabaret to heavy metal to glam rock—all in the span of two hours.

Breedlove was the first to perform that night. He got on stage wearing a blue sweater with a rhinestone-encrusted red heart in the middle, followed by two backup dancers wearing spandex. He performed his infectious songs with the accom? panying choreography, occasionally using a rotary phone and

a mirror as props. The whole crowd couldn’t help but fall for his undeniable charm, his cabaret-meets-disco-meets-pop melodies that made you want to clink your drink with a stranger’s.

After Breedlove, Lady Starlight took to the stage and head-banged to Iron Maiden and chugged Jack Daniels. At the time, this was her act. It was a hybrid of performance art and heavy metal, which either had everyone shaking their heads in confusion or banging them along with her. I watched in awe, mostly because I wondered how much Icy Hot she used in a year to alleviate any pain she may have felt in her neck.

Then, it was finally time for Semi Precious Weapons to take the stage. Four men took to the stage, each donning clothing that directly correlated with their individual person? alities. Their lead singer, Justin, wore glittery gold pointed- toe heels, ripped tights with a repeated pattern of Marilyn Monroe’s face, and black eyeliner so thick you would think he needed a jackhammer to take his makeup off at the end of the night, performed songs with lyrics that my eighteen-year-old self immediately wanted to get tattooed: “I can’t pay my rent but I’m fucking gorgeous”; “put a diamond in it and bite down”; “I’ve been magnetic since I was a baby.” I couldn’t believe my eyes, my ears. I felt like a door had opened to reveal another version of myself, a version of myself that was becoming clearer to my view.

The energy of downtown Manhattan was palpable that night. The mantra of “filthy glamour”—a phrase coined by those in the Precious Empire—was at its peak and looking back I realize I literally watched history being made. The people I met that night, singing songs about dreaming so big that it makes life seem boring, building Statues of Them? selves, another favorite Semi Precious Weapons track of

mine, came to do just that: they’ve gone on to open for the biggest pop stars in the world like Lady Gaga and Kesha, write chart-topping singles for artists like Justin Bieber, all while garnering fans from every corner of the world. It was at that moment that I realized I wanted to be a part of this history.

After the show, Justin Tranter approached our general vicin? ity. I’m terrible at guessing people’s heights, so I’m going to say he’s taller than me (I’m six-foot-four), but shorter than the Empire State Building (1,454-foot-three.) It’s hard not to notice him, especially in the loud, excessively glamorous outfits he used to wear back then. It’s also hard to register subject-verb agreement around him considering how his aura and physical beauty render you speechless. If you haven’t seen him or don’t know what he looks like, I implore you to google him right now. I’ll wait.

After talking to Darian and the rest of his motley crew, Justin’s eyes landed on me. When I was introduced to him, I sounded like I had the verbal skill set of a drunk person trying to whisper a secret. He looked at me like he faintly recog? nized me and asked me, “Hey, are we friends on Facebook?” I thought, Facebook? What’s Facebook? You’re pretty. Let’s tongue-joust.

I probably didn’t say anything for a good few seconds because as you well know by now, any third grader could definitely upstage my social skills. Then he asked me, “Aren’t you that Mania kid?” I knew we were Facebook friends, but I definitely thought he was Too Cool to notice any of my posts, let alone pay attention to whatever malarkey I was going on about. For a second, I went mute. I didn’t know how to react.

I regarded him as a deity—he did have a halo of blonde hair— and to hear my name in his mouth didn’t feel real, but to hear it come out as the incorrectly pronounced version felt like finally getting that one Tetris piece that you needed.

I finally felt a sense of belonging come over me, a feeling that I never felt anywhere else: in grade school, in middle school, in high school, anywhere in New Jersey or even on a college campus. I gave myself a name that allowed me to be the most unbridled version of myself, even if it was a funny, ridiculous name—it was me and it was right there the whole time. Embracing the common mispronunciation of my name, and then deeming it my nickname, allowed me the space to be myself, unbridled from the reflex to dull or eradicate certain parts of myself in an efort to fit a mold that was impossible, for me, to fit in the first place.

My family still corrects people when they mispronounce our last name: receptionists at the doctor's office, restaurant servers who read the name on the credit card, and even tele? marketers, but I haven’t since that night. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes I pronounce my name the traditional way when I introduce myself to someone—but that’s only because I finally feel comfortable in my skin. I know that my name doesn’t define me, rather I define it. And having that agency comes from embracing every part of me: the good, the bad, and everything in between. So, call me whatever you want, just don’t spell my name “Gregg.” view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

From the publisher:

1. Greg found comedy and sarcasm as a way to survive the cruelty of high school kids. What were your survival mechanisms? Did you need them?

2. Considering the evolution of one’s personality: Are there attributes in your own personality that don’t seem to fit together on paper? Things that “don’t reconcile”?

3. What was an important development moment in your teen years that helped you to understand yourself? Did you get it then or was it retrospective? Or has it just stuck out in your brain and you haven’t quite figured out why?

4. Greg found himself in the perfectly right place at the perfectly right time at Bowery Ballroom seeing Semi-Precious Weapons perform. This was a pivotal point for him. Can you recall a moment in life when you knew you were in the perfectly right place at the perfectly right time?

5. What is special about your chosen family? How has your chosen family made the difference in your life?

6. What drives us to stay the course when we know we aren’t doing what we want to do? How do we stay true to ourselves when we have to put the “front” to accomplish a job we don’t love?

7. There’s a reality check in working in customer service such as restaurant, retail and office assistance. These jobs are difficult but definitely educational. What is a similar work experience that you may have despised but also provided opportunity for hard life lessons?

8. How does one transition artifice vs. vulnerability? What is the most meaningful demonstration of acceptance you’ve received when transition from the artifice of 'your best foot forward" into vulnerability by showing the real you?

9. Greg talks about his relationship with Ky. Who’s your Ky the person who has seen you develop? How is it to see your friends in monumental moments that bring incredible nostalgia?

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