Now, you have to remember I was in the emergency room on a gurney. I was separated by whoever else was in that room by nothing but a curtain.

At the moment the pizza hit my lips, I heard projectile vomiting from the next gurney, followed by gagging and alarm bells. Needless to say, I couldn't eat. I put down the pizza and screamed, "Get me out of here!" I'm sure my heart rate surpa.s.sed 160 at that point.

The nurses responded by rushing me upstairs to a semiprivate room on the cardiac floor. Semiprivate meant I had a roommate. He was an elderly Italian gentleman who had just undergone quadruple bypa.s.s surgery.

I had refused to get undressed, so I was lying in bed fully clothed. My roommate was wearing a standard-issue hospital gown. He would get out of bed and walk over to the window to look at the moon. While he was looking at the moon, I was left to stare at his moon. It was very disconcerting.

At this point, news of my hospitalization had hit TMZ before I had a chance to call my family. My daughter called me crying, asking if I was okay. I a.s.sured her I was.

As luck would have it, the medication lowered my heart rate. I was told I would be fine if I just kept taking the medication. The doctor asked me to return a week later to make sure the dosage was correct and my heart was still in rhythm.

I went back a week later, and of course, my rhythm was off. It was explained to me that I didn't have a plumbing problem, I had an electrical problem. Our heart is beating because there is an electrical signal shocking it-"tdzut, beat, tdzut, beat...." But mine goes "tdzut tdzut, beat...." I hope I spelled that right.

At the end of March, I flew back to Los Angeles. Even though I had been taking my meds continually, the symptoms were becoming progressively worse. I had become weaker, short of breath, and dizzy.

As soon as I met with my new cardiologist, Dr. Cannom, he recommended a procedure called an ablation. I immediately a.s.sumed this was the invasive procedure I had not been told about when I was first diagnosed in January as a brokenhearted comedian. I sat there silently for a minute, contemplating whether I should ask him to explain this procedure. I concluded I had no choice.

Dr. Cannom explained the procedure more eloquently, but this is how it sounded to a fearful, neurotic layman: They would rip a gaping hole in your groin, through which they jammed a camera and a laser gun. These instruments would tear their way past your stomach, spleen, and intestines on the way up into the interior chambers of your heart. Once there, they would search for the area where the electrical charge was misfiring. Once found, the area would be shot with a laser and burned beyond recognition.

Along with the many issues I had with this procedure, the first question I had was "Why do they have to enter through the groin?" I personally didn't care about the scar. I told the doctor that I thought the neck or shoulders would be a lot closer and easier. But he explained the only route was through the groin. I found it fascinating that whether it is a romantic encounter or a medical procedure, the way to a man's heart is always through his groin.

Before he had finished his explanation, I had already decided this was not for me.

"I don't want to do that," I told him.

"I think that's eventually going to be the answer, but I can first try another medication," he said.

He explained that he would need to keep a close eye on my condition. I was fitted with a monitor that I had to wear 24/7.

I am wearing one as I write this. The monitor consists of several wires attached to nodes that are stuck to my chest. The wires feed into a transmitter that is synced with a BlackBerry clipped to my pants. The device is monitored by LifeWatch, based in Chicago.

Here's how it works. When my heart goes out of rhythm, the BlackBerry automatically calls LifeWatch, and they, in turn, call me and ask, "How are you feeling?" I tell them, "You know how I'm feeling, otherwise you wouldn't be calling. Sorry I can't talk now, I can't breathe."

To distract myself from my heart problems, I went online and looked up notables who pa.s.sed away in 2009. I learned that Marilyn Chambers and Ricardo Montalban had died. As I scrolled down the list and studied the causes of death, my wife came into the room and saw what I was doing. She told me to stop looking at the death list and find something else.

So I went on Amazon.com to check what number this book is. I did this in April, seven months before the book was even published and only six and a half chapters into the writing process. It was number 1,566,167, which fascinated me, because it was not yet written, let alone on sale. I'm not sure I'll make it that far. But once the book is written and actually available, I'm hoping it will move up the list. to check what number this book is. I did this in April, seven months before the book was even published and only six and a half chapters into the writing process. It was number 1,566,167, which fascinated me, because it was not yet written, let alone on sale. I'm not sure I'll make it that far. But once the book is written and actually available, I'm hoping it will move up the list.

On May 1, 2009, I'm lying in bed watching TV at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. The breaking news is that Danny Ganz, a venerable Las Vegas performer, has just died of heart failure at fifty-two. So I quickly turn off the TV.

For the next couple of days, my life becomes incredibly h.e.l.lish. I'm terribly weak. I can't breathe. Every time I'm out in public, people are saying to me, "Can you believe that Danny Ganz died of a heart attack? He was only fifty-two." They have no idea that they are talking to a fifty-three-year-old who has wires taped to his chest attached to a BlackBerry. Coinciding with this moment, some strangers from Chicago are seeing a readout of an erratic heart beating at a rate of 160.

I spend each and every day conserving my energy so that I can get up onstage and be funny for an hour and a half. Every moment onstage, I'm trying not to fall down and die-and I don't mean dying as a comedian does with bad material, I mean dying as in Danny Ganz, Marilyn Chambers, and Ricardo Montalban.

I have to say, writing this chapter is giving me more palpitations. The bell on my heart monitor is ringing. LifeWatch is now calling. I have to go. I hope I survive and I'm able to talk to you in the next chapter.

My entire life is about distracting myself from horrible thoughts that constantly creep into my head. If I'm not doing something productive, I will find something to distract me. These distractions come upon me impulsively. Many people seek relief from their demons through food, alcohol, or drugs. My drug of choice is humor, sometimes at others' expense. I can't tell you how many times I end up regretting what I have done. In those instances, I would have been better off living with my demons. Here are two examples I can promise you I'm not proud of.

I had begun St. Elsewhere St. Elsewhere, and my notoriety was soaring. I had also become much more comfortable in Los Angeles because a small group of friends from Toronto had moved out. My two closest friends were Michael Rotenberg, who would become my lawyer and later my manager, and my first comedy friend, Lou Dinos, who became my opening act.

St. Elsewhere was going on summer hiatus, and I was about to embark on a sixty-city tour sponsored by a beer company. Lou could not have been more excited. He would call me every day and give me the countdown: "Ten more days to go! Nine more days to go!" He was driving me crazy. One day for no other reason than a fun distraction, I decided to burst his bubble, though I didn't premeditate where I was going with the prank. was going on summer hiatus, and I was about to embark on a sixty-city tour sponsored by a beer company. Lou could not have been more excited. He would call me every day and give me the countdown: "Ten more days to go! Nine more days to go!" He was driving me crazy. One day for no other reason than a fun distraction, I decided to burst his bubble, though I didn't premeditate where I was going with the prank.

As he did every day, Lou called and announced, "Six more days to go!"

I stopped him. "Lou, Lou, hang on," I said. "I don't know how to tell you this. I have some bad news ... you're not going on tour."

"How can that be?" he said. "It's six days away, and we are going for three months...."

"It's ridiculous, but I'm fighting it."

"Tell me what happened."

"I will tell you exactly what happened," I improvised. "The beer company is funding the tour. For me to fly my opening act to every city will cost too much money. Your airfare alone is well over twenty thousand dollars. What they want to do is have a radio station in each market hold a contest to pick a local opening act." I knew he couldn't afford to pay his way.

"Oh, my G.o.d ...," he said, his voice trailing off. "What am I going to do? It's not like I can book clubs now. I was counting on this for rent money. I'm going to lose my apartment. What can I do?"

"Please, Lou, leave it with me," I rea.s.sured him. "I'm going to see if I can pull some strings."

I hung up the phone, leaving Lou destroyed. Terry was standing next to me. She told me that was incredibly mean and that I should call him back. She was right, but for reasons I can't explain there was no turning back for me. Instead, I called Michael Rotenberg, who was my lawyer at the time. I told him what I had done to Lou, and I asked him to play along with this concept. Then I called Mark Tinker, one of the producers of St. Elsewhere St. Elsewhere, and told him to also play along.

Mark knew Lou from another practical joke I had played on Lou. In that one, I told Lou that I had landed him a guest spot on an episode of St. Elsewhere. St. Elsewhere. I had explained that there were no costumes, so he should wear his own clothes. He was playing an accident victim, so we doused him in fake blood. For two days, we had him sit in every scene soaked in blood ... just outside the frame of the camera. Of course, Lou didn't know this. I had explained that there were no costumes, so he should wear his own clothes. He was playing an accident victim, so we doused him in fake blood. For two days, we had him sit in every scene soaked in blood ... just outside the frame of the camera. Of course, Lou didn't know this.

At one point, we were filming a scene in a boardroom with all the other actors. Lou was sitting at the end of the table, covered in blood. He said, "Can I ask a question? Why would I be in a boardroom?" I told him that his condition was so critical that we wanted to keep an eye on him. Until he sat at home and watched the episode, he had no idea he wasn't in it.

As mean as that prank was, it paled in comparison with telling Lou he was no longer taking part in my summer tour.

I called Lou back. "I'm devastated," he said. "What's going to happen? How can we do this?"

"Lou, I'm going to loan you money for your rent because they came up with one solution that's so ridiculous that I cannot have a friend do this," I said.

"I'll do it!" he said. "Just tell me what it is."

"Okay, but I'm telling you I do not want you to do this, and I will pay your rent." I told Lou that Michael Rotenberg had negotiated a deal with the airline for a special spouse fare. "If you travel as the spouse of somebody, you go free."

"Okay ...," he said, growing excited.

"But here's the thing," I continued. "This is grand larceny, because we are defrauding the airline. If we act like you are the spouse, it's like twenty thousand dollars of theft in ticket revenue."

He cut me off. "I'm willing to do it. What do I have to do?"

"Here's what Michael negotiated," I said. "We will pay for all of your clothes, your hair, and your makeup. But you have to travel as a woman to qualify for the fare."

"Are you serious?" he asked.

"Dead serious," I said. "But if you don't want to do it, I will loan you the rent money."

"No, I gotta do it," he said.

"It's got to be totally your decision, because I think it's crazy, and I wouldn't do it," I said.

"I have no choice," he said.

I did, but I chose to keep going.

So we sent him over to the St. Elsewhere St. Elsewhere wardrobe department. Playing it completely straight on Mark's orders, they gave him a dress and a wig shorter than his own hair. They put a little bit of makeup on his cheeks. His hairy legs were exposed, and he had a five o'clock shadow. There was no reason whatsoever for anyone to even remotely mistake this creature for a woman. wardrobe department. Playing it completely straight on Mark's orders, they gave him a dress and a wig shorter than his own hair. They put a little bit of makeup on his cheeks. His hairy legs were exposed, and he had a five o'clock shadow. There was no reason whatsoever for anyone to even remotely mistake this creature for a woman.

He packed his normal clothes and sent them in a trunk on a separate flight with all my clothes and equipment, as we always did. We were flying from Los Angeles to Philadelphia and then taking a limo to Atlantic City for the first stop on the tour.

When it came time to leave for the airport, Terry pulled me aside and told me that I had to take a pair of his pants with me. I told her it was funnier to just let it play out. She promptly stopped speaking to me.

Lou and I headed for the airport in a limousine. It's the only time where the driver never talked to me. He was driving Howie Mandel and the worst possible cross-dresser. Thank G.o.d TMZ didn't exist yet.

We arrived at the terminal. Lou was wearing a dress and his baseball jacket, smoking a cigarette, and looking completely miserable. I don't think he realized what he had gotten himself into or how he would feel out in public dressed like this. It wasn't under the guise of being funny, but rather out of the desperation of not losing his apartment.

At check-in, a couple with their kids recognized me from St. Elsewhere St. Elsewhere and asked for an autograph. Being the comedian that he is, Lou walked over to me and put his arm around me very effeminately. In the middle of the autograph, the mother grabbed the kids' hands and pulled them away, as if to say, "This is not a good place for our children to be. Howie Mandel is a freak." and asked for an autograph. Being the comedian that he is, Lou walked over to me and put his arm around me very effeminately. In the middle of the autograph, the mother grabbed the kids' hands and pulled them away, as if to say, "This is not a good place for our children to be. Howie Mandel is a freak."

I turned around to Lou, grabbed him by his coat as hard as I could, and threw him up against the wall. "What the f.u.c.k do you think you are doing!" I said to him.

"If I'm going to be dressed like this, I want to have some fun with it," he said.

"You can have fun on your own time," I lectured him.

"This is grand larceny. This is twenty thousand dollars of theft under my name. We could both end up in prison!" Lou started to tremble. "Howie, I'm so sorry," he said. His voice was quivering. He sulked over to a chair and sat down. I snapped a picture.

I went to the ticket counter and switched his seat from first cla.s.s to the last row of coach, next to my road manager, Jim, who was in on the gag. I told Jim not to answer any questions, just let Lou do all the talking. I had left the ticket in the name of Lou Dinopoulos, because I figured at some point he would have to make up some explanation that his real name was Louise.

I then boarded the plane and sat in my aisle seat in first cla.s.s. The rest of the two hundred pa.s.sengers began to board. As people pa.s.sed me, I heard them saying, "Did you see that guy in the dress?" One little girl said, "Mommy, that was a man, wasn't it?" Everyone was murmuring, talking about the guy in the dress. n.o.body was calling Lou a her.

I know what you're thinking. This is mean. As I retell it, I know it is mean. I'm embarra.s.sed. But as I was doing it, I didn't think any of those thoughts. Even if my wife had said, as she did, "Stop, I'm not going to talk to you." These are just words. The impulse to do something funny or outrageous always overrode any focused reasoning or ramifications. But when I lost Lou as a friend, it was real. It had a tangible, painful ramification. I never thought that could possibly happen, because that's not a thought process that worked for me in any way. That's not an excuse; it's just the way it was.

Anyway, I didn't know what was going through Lou's mind, but for some reason he decided to board last, after everyone else was seated. When he finally walked onto the plane, there was complete silence. I've never heard an airplane loaded with two hundred pa.s.sengers so quiet. He walked down the aisle, holding his coat in front of him. Because I had moved his seat to the rear of the plane, he had a long walk of shame. No one made eye contact. It was as if a ghost were boarding the plane.

I called over the flight attendants and told them the entire story. This was way before 9/11, and I was a comedian, so they played along. I said that he was scared to death of being caught. I told them that he thought he was traveling on an illegal spouse fare and that they should ask him as many questions as possible and act suspicious of his answers.

After the flight took off, the first flight attendant walked back to Lou's seat and asked for his and Jim's tickets. They handed her their tickets, and she walked back to the front of the plane. She told me that Lou's hand was shaking.

The flight attendant went back to Lou's seat and began to grill him. "I understand that you two are traveling on the spouse fare, but your names are different," she said. "The gentleman's ticket has a different name from the lady's, which says Dinopoulos. Why is that?"

Lou is desperately looking at Jim to answer, but Jim is staring out the window, ignoring him.

"I asked you a question," she repeated to Lou. "How come there are two different names when you are traveling on a spouse fare?"

Lou dug down deep, and in the worst falsetto imaginable, he looked up at her and said, "I kept my maiden name." It was not even a female voice; it was just a really bad impression of Mickey Mouse.

Hearing the horrible imitation of a woman, the flight attendant put her hand to her ear and pretended not to hear. "Pardon me?" she said.

Again, in his Mickey Mouse falsetto, Lou said, "I kept my maiden name."

She nearly lost it in a fit of laughter. She handed him his ticket and quickly turned away and walked toward the front of the plane. She told me that I had to hear his voice. Soon, the other flight attendants got in on the act. It became a game of going back and talking to the man dressed like a woman who sounded like Mickey Mouse. They would ask him if he wanted peanuts, another soda, or a blanket.

I told one of the flight attendants to tell him the captain would like to speak to him about his ticket. She did.

A few minutes later, Lou got out of his seat and began walking up the aisle. It was like a scene from Dead Woman Walking. Dead Woman Walking. He slowly made his way to the front. The people who had heard him were no doubt thinking that there was a crazy-a.s.s gender bender among them and they didn't know what was going to happen next. He slowly made his way to the front. The people who had heard him were no doubt thinking that there was a crazy-a.s.s gender bender among them and they didn't know what was going to happen next.

Lou reached my seat and stopped. The lady next to me stared purposefully at the movie. Lou looked down at me.

This was horrible, and I feel horrible retelling it.

I looked up at Lou. Out of the corner of his eye, a tear welled up and ran down his cheek. In his Mickey Mouse falsetto voice, he said, "I'm busted." He was clinging to the voice like a lifeline.

"What?" I asked, wanting to hear the voice again.

"I'm busted," he said, the falsetto cracking. "They got me."

I shook my head. "No, you're not," I said. "It's a joke."

Still in falsetto, he said, "What?"

"It's a joke," I repeated.

"What do you mean, it's a joke?" he falsettoed.

The lady beside me, for no reason, began to lean tightly against the window. She couldn't get far enough away from me or the freak I was talking to.

"It's been a joke from the beginning," I copped. "Michael knew it was a joke. Tinker and everyone else at St. Elsewhere St. Elsewhere knew it was a joke. There is no such thing as a spouse fare. It's just a funny joke." knew it was a joke. There is no such thing as a spouse fare. It's just a funny joke."

I've never seen despair turn into anger faster. It was as if I had lit the fuse of a time bomb. He grabbed his wig, which was shorter than his hair, threw it as hard as he could at the movie screen, and yelled what sounded like the f-word but was so distorted that I can't say for sure. He grabbed the gla.s.s of orange juice off the tray of the lady beside me, threw it on me, and called me a very loud and I'm sure nasty name that, again, I couldn't make out. He ran into the bathroom and slammed the door.

Even though this was before 9/11, people were starting to look worried. Some guy in a dress had just lost it and was throwing drinks and slamming the bathroom door. Because the flight attendants were part of the joke, one of them made an announcement apologizing for the disruption. She explained that Howie Mandel the comedian was on board and was playing a joke on a friend on the way to his show in Atlantic City. Everybody settled down, probably relieved that a real lunatic cross-dresser wasn't on the plane.

Lou stayed in the bathroom for a half hour, scrubbing all the makeup off his face. Then he rushed by me and sat in his seat. After a few minutes, I looked back through the curtain and I could see his eyes above the seat line-pure anger. He gestured for me to come back. I walked back.

"Where are my pants?" he said with no trace of the falsetto.

"They're on the other flight with the equipment," I told him.

"I get the joke and I see where it was funny. Where are my f.u.c.king pants?"

"Your clothes are on a totally different flight."

"So I have to sit here for five hours in this dress?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry," I said, adding, "Maybe this went too far."

Finally we landed in Philadelphia. He knew where the car was picking us up. To get there as soon as possible, he sprinted through the airport, carrying his briefcase and his coat and smoking a cigarette. As I walked in his wake, I heard people saying, "Did you see that guy run through the airport wearing the dress?"