The grotesquely stretched comic's fleshy visage not only adorns art-house flicks like Errors, Freaks & Oddities and Steve Phoenix: The Untold Story—it's a ubiquitous presence at Andy Scarpati's chain of comedy clubs, including the Northeast's legendary Comedy Cabaret and spots in Bucks County, Cherry Hill and beyond.

But when I mention Gillespie to some local comics, they cry hack. "Too snobby for anything underground" or "Who the fuck is he?" they bitch, questioning both his talent and his success.

Ask Scarpati, and he'll say that Rubber Face is his boy. "My 53-year-old boy," he laughs. "He and I went through divorces together. He even lived at my house for a minute."

Tell Scarpati you remember an Eraserhead-ed Gillespie impersonating pigeons at Bridge and Pratt back in the day, and he'll remind you that Gillespie—who returned to Philly in 1986 after actor-ly attempts in California—would do anything to break back into the local scene. Gillespie had a shtick, sure, but that didn't mean audiences got it.

"His act was alienating," says Scarpati. "Terry would just as quickly tell you to go fuck yourself than tell you a joke." Gillespie's confrontational attitude has roots in his performance-theater background. As a stage actor, he struggled to break into film. He was living between San Fran and Boston before he turned to comedy in the late '80s.

"I really wanted to enhance my acting," says Gillespie. "So I thought standup would be part of it. Plus, working as an actor, I wasn't making money." Unfortunately, comedy wasn't an immediate moneymaker, either. The once-burgeoning standup craze had all but collapsed by the '90s. "I got it a little too late," laughs Gillespie, referring to the comedy boom boat.

He finally began to make headway during his memorable turns as Comedy Cabaret's emcee. "I had 10 locations during the boom," says Scarpati. "On weekends, with three comics a night, we needed a lot of guys." Scarpati helped Gillespie become a subtler comedian, one who wouldn't just pound audiences with insults from cranky characters.

Essentially, he granted Gillespie carte blanche on stage. "Andy was instrumental in my development," says the comic.

"He got to be more rhetorical," recalls Scarpati. "He personalized his druggy guys and mean neighbors by giving them names."

Even today, Gillespie's not the warmest fella out there. The comic, who recently found God (and a new wife), can still be harsh. But, between stretching his jowls into impossible configurations and mimicking seagulls mocking fat women at the beach, he at least understands how to connect with a crowd. "If I'm doing Philly, the act is more Philadelphian," says Gillespie. "If I'm doing the suburbs, I try to find something they can relate to, too."

Scarpati maintains that his boy is intelligently humored and dependable—at being wherever Scarpati needs him to be, and filling seats that are eventually emptied for standing ovations. "He's got fans that come back 20, 25 times," says Scarpati. "That's why I use him so often—[and] probably why other comics don't like him."

"I'm just trying to stay happy," says Gillespie. "I thank God that I am a staple at the cabarets."