Adam Ruben is a molecular biologist. A very funny one.

The 33-year-old is the star of the one-man show “Please Don’t Beat Me Up: Stories and Artifacts of Surviving Adolescence,” where he lays bear his teen self.  There’s audio, video and actual, old-school diary entries.

For the last eight years Ruben has taught undergraduate stand-up comedy at Johns Hopkins University. He’s also developing a malaria vaccine.

Really.

He’ll be at the Islesboro Community Center on July 6 at 7 p.m. and the Celebration Barn Theater in South Paris on July 7 at 8 p.m. (Tickets for the Celebration Barn Theater show are $14 for adults, $12 for seniors, $8 for students/kids.)

Before making the trek from his home in Washington, D.C. to Maine, Ruben gave the Sun Journal a glimpse of what to expect.

Sun Journal: Press material describes your show as “funny stories of the horrors of puberty.” Is it the type of horror that only gets funny with a few decades’ distance? When were you able to look back and laugh?

Adam Ruben: It’s definitely the kind of humor that only gets funny a few decades later. At the time, social isolation felt like the most important thing in the world. I’m a producer for the DC chapter of Mortified, a group that helps people turn their old diary entries and embarrassing writing into performance pieces, and each show ends with the emcee reminding everyone that “We all survived.” It’s only now, when we have homes and jobs and families, that we get a little perspective and can celebrate our survival of adolescence.

SJ: Could we get a tease of an excerpt from your fifth-grade diary?

AR: “March 20, 1990: Today, Mr. Morrisey came in for science. I was an hydrogen atom, and Liz was an oxygen atom. We had to hold hands twice. I think it wasn’t just coincidence.”

“September 17, 1990: Today, I ran 600 meters in 3 minutes, 2 seconds. That is the 12th percentile. I also got stung by a bee.”

SJ: Do you work in messages about bullying or parenting or is it more sit back, laugh and relate?

AR: Both. Most of the show consists of true comedic stories, told straight without moralizing. But at the end (at the risk of sounding like “Jerry Springer’s Final Thought”) I discuss the anti-bullying advice that people used to give and still give and how none of it worked.

SJ: By day you work on a malaria vaccine?

AR: Yes. I have a Ph.D. in molecular biology, and I work for a small biotech company (about 40 people) in Rockville, Maryland called Sanaria Inc. We’re working on a live, attenuated, metabolically active, non-replicating sporozoite vaccine for malaria. In other words, we’re taking a very classical vaccine approach and weakening the disease-causing agent itself, then injecting it in large quantities to elicit an immune response that will hopefully protect its recipients from malaria. We’re doing a few Phase I clinical trials right now, and we expect to have some interesting results in the second half of this year.

SJ: Any memories of/ties to Maine?

AR: I’ve only been to Maine once, and it was four years ago when my wife attended a writing workshop in Bar Harbor. When it ended, I flew up to meet her, and then we both drove down the southern coast on our way home. I recall that, at one point, I drank blueberry-flavored coffee with blueberry pancakes, and I felt very Maine-y. I also liked the fact that every small town we stopped in appeared to have its own small, independent bookshop. This time, we’ll be staying in a friend’s cabin in Belgrade Lakes.

SJ: Something readers coming out next Saturday should know about you:

AR: I’ve written a book about my experiences getting a Ph.D.; it’s called “Surviving Your Stupid, Stupid Decision to Go to Grad School” (Broadway Books, 2010).

I should also say that it’s gratifying that so many people want to talk about social isolation, which in a way negates the problem of social isolation. Had I known, growing up, that so many other kids felt lonely, we all could have solved that problem together, and pretty darn easily, too. I hope my show goes some small measure toward achieving that goal for someone else.

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