Patton Oswalt has luggage issues, which is why we're bending every traffic law between Downtown and the Fed-Ex stop at Sahara and Decatur on the day after Thanksgiving. He doesn't trust Southwest Airlines to get his stuff home safely, so he wants to ship it. But even a self-described D-list celebrity—he's an actor and comedian, for those not in the know—has a busy schedule, and we've already tried two other locations; both were closed. We're running out of time.
I'm behind the wheel of my trusty green Ford Escort, which glistens from the $4 Terrible Herbst buff job I gave it for the occasion. I rev up my engine and shoot past the speed limit—which is 45; how much past, I won't say for fear of self-incrimination—on Charleston. I run through a few yellows before they turn red (that's my story, and I'm sticking to it). "Come on, rush that sucker," Oswalt barks encourgingly. A fast left on Arville, where the traffic is lighter; California coasts at a few stop signs; quick cuts through a few parking lots ...
Eight and a half minutes! That's how long it took. That has to be a record for getting a D-list celebrity from Downtown to Sahara-Decatur in a domestic vehicle—especially one whose brake pads are on their last miles.
"They sound like a tractor stripping its gears," Oswalt says. At least we're here, we're alive and the place is open.
Oswalt. Spence from King of Queens? Frequent guest on Late Night with Conan O'Brien, Howard Stern and NPR's Fresh Air with Terry Gross? He makes a lot of self-deprecating jokes about his D-list status, but he's played supporting roles in commercial hit films: Magnolia, Zoolander and Starsky and Hutch; he gets killed by vampires in the new Blade:Trinity; and he recently let loose with his first live CD, Feelin' Kinda Patton.
Onstage, he is elf-like and misanthropic, unafraid to push audiences with comedy that is sometimes scabrous, other times unabashedly political. I saw him last year in Athens, Georgia's famed 40-Watt Club, in a performance recorded for Feelin' Kinda Patton. Despite an almost religious aversion to good taste (his topics ranged from shaving one's balls to gay retards), he was hilarious, pointed and cathartic—especially if you're from a blue state ("If you make less than $30,000, Bush hates you!"; "Isn't it like our country is being run by a bunch of alcoholic fathers?").
A few days later, I sent him an appreciative note through his website, he responded and a correspondence was born. So when it turned out he'd be stopping in Vegas around Thanksgiving (apparently he's a fan of our bad lounge acts and sauna baths), it seemed natural for me to help him run a few errands.
The afternoon's agenda: get his luggage mailed, check out the Peppermill Lounge and usher him to a comic-book shop, all in just three hours, at which point he must be back to Mandalay Bay for dinner with his girlfriend's family. When I pick him up, he's wearing owlish glasses, a black T-shirt, jeans and a mustard-colored flannel shirt; his hair is mussed, he has a faint five-o'clock shadow and his eyes have a hint of bloodshot—not the result of partying or a hectic schedule, but rather from the flu he's getting over.
"Excuse me, I'm still a little congested," he pleads after a bout of dry coughing. His nasal passages must still be plugged, too, because he doesn't seem to notice the strong medicinal odor from the sanitation cloths I used to wipe the coffee stains from my dashboard. As we leave Mandalay, Oswalt is admiring the deck of marked cards I bought him as a welcoming gift.
When we finally get to the first Fed-Ex place, it's closed. "Don't worry about it," Oswalt says. "Let's just head to the Peppermill." It's apparent when he walks in that he digs the place, especially the bar. He takes in the plush couches, engagingly tacky neon colors and fireplace—it looks like a set from a '70s Elliott Gould sex comedy—and just smiles. We take a seat and he talks about his comedy. A native of Ashburn, Virginia, he graduated with an English degree from the College of William and Mary in 1991, which means he can keep pace with Dennis Miller when it comes to dropping obtuse literary references. Figuring that California would offer a better audience for his iconoclastic humor, he moved to San Francisco in '92, and later to Burbank. It was around this time that he began the first of many frequent road trips to Vegas, and even landed a spot at the Comedy Club at the Riviera Hotel. The discussion turns to the role of absurdity in his comedy.
"Disgust and amusement are the results of absurdity, at least in my case. The few audiences that have gotten pissed at me got mad, I think, because it seems like I'm having so much fun when I talk about shit I despise, like Bush. And then, to make it worse, when they get mad, I get even happier, which they're probably not used to, and then the whole thing goes down the shitter—which I love, by the way.
"I think all comedians are political in a way, because if you comment about the world around you, it's somewhat political." His voice rises. "The thing that kills me is this: I'm not nearly as well-read as David Cross, Marc Maron or Blaine Capatch. Those guys are incredibly well-informed. I probably read only one-tenth of what they read, yet I'm informed enough to know that there's just so much bullshit going on right now with our current administration."
Our waitress arrives. We order. He gets a side salad, while I order the three-egg omelet breakfast. As the waitress walks away, I ask, "How is the album selling."
He chuckles. "I just want the right people to hate my album. I know I'm not going to make any money out of it, I was just getting kind of desperate because almost everybody that was coming to my show wanted to see the adorable guy from King of Queens—there's a parental warning on my album, for God's sake. I just wanted it out there, so there would be no surprises from the audience when they realize that I'm not Spence from King of Queens, and that my shows have more of an edge than they might expect."
Not surprisingly—he comes to Vegas quite a bit—he has a few thoughts on this city: "LA has no past and New York has no future, but Vegas has no present. They eat here like their stomach is made of cement, they can eat anything and nothing will affect them. It's all gimme, gimme, gimme without offering anything in return. It's like a lizard brain. Lizards have a part in their brain known as the amygdala, which controls aggression and fear. That's how I see Vegas." (As a matter of biological correctness, it should be noted that human brains have an amygdala, too.)
He finishes off a few more bites of his salad. "I also love the fact that some of these local performers can go out there with virtually no talent and still entertain. They don't take themselves too seriously"—he's obviously never seen Tony Sacca in action—"and they're willing to go out on the limb. That's why other cities can't touch Vegas—that and the fact that this city has the best sauna baths!"
The clock is about to strike 3, and I remind him it's time to mail some luggage; there's a Kinko's/Fed-Ex nearby, at Fourth and Hoover. Oswalt wanders outside as I settle the bill.
"Is he someone famous?" the waitress asks.
"You might know him from a few things," I say. "Do you watch King of Queens?"
"No," she says flatly.
"He's a frequent guest on Late Night with Conan O'Brien—you might have caught him on that."
"I'm usually in bed by then."
"Do you ever listed to Fresh Air‚ on NPR?"
"Oh, I'm not a gun enthusiast," she says.
A few minutes later, we find the Kinko's/Fed-Ex store closed. Time for a seat-belt-straining drive to Sahara-Decatur.
"Hello, sir, welcome to Kinko's, how may I help you?"
Fortunately, the store at Sahara-Decatur is open, and we've hauled Oswalt's luggage into the Fed-Ex line. The counter girl's greeting has the stiffness and formality of a new hire who's just read that part of the employee handbook titled "How to Say Hello to Customers." An unsmiling man with a clipboard under his arm, and wearing a tie of Fed-Ex orange and purple stands behind her.
"I'd like to ship these bags off to Burbank, and I'd like them insured," Patton instructs.
"No problem, sir," she says. "OK, sir, that'll be $111.32."
"Fine." He lays his credit card on the counter.
"Oh, wait," she says. "I mis-keyed something. You said delivery for Saturday, right?"
"That's right, tomorrow."
"OK, sir, let me recalculate. That'll be $118.47."
"Fine." He pushes the credit card closer to her.
"Oh, wait," she says. "You want it there for tomorrow morning?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry, sir, let me just recalculate the figures again. OK, sir, that'll be $124.77."
"Sounds good to me."
"Oh, wait," she says. "You said you wanted these bags insured?"
"Uh-huh."
"I'm sorry, sir, let me just recalculate it one last time. OK, sir, your total is $136.73."
"Fine."
"I'm sorry, sir," she says. "I'm having trouble printing out this label. I'll have to go to another machine and print it out, but it shouldn't take too long."
Oswalt says nothing until she hurries away, just sighs deeply, but his flat, monotonal responses, downturned lips and crinkled brow would not have been out of place in a Tylenol commercial.
"This," he says when she's gone, "is the reason I hate humanity sometimes."
"I hope I'm not being too much of a diva," Oswalt says apologetically as we make good time toward Kool Kollectibles. "It's just that I haven't been to a comic-book store in a while, and today is new-comics day. If I don't get my fix soon, I'll explode." But the timing is a little tight—thanks to all the running around, we've only got maybe 25 minutes to make good on his dinner engagement.
"Wow," he says, as we approach the Commerical Center at Sahara and Maryland Parkway. "I take it we're driving into the seedy part of town." This doesn't bother him in the slightest. "This place looks great!," he says as we get out of the car and he gets his first look around the 45-year-old strip mall. If Disneyland had a World of Crack pavilion, it might resemble the Commercial Center: discarded syringes and beer bottles in the parking lot; desperate people pushing all their worldly possessions in shopping carts; graffiti, kicked-in windows and razor wire. He likes it, as though he can sense the same undercurrent of excitement pulsing beneath the scabby surface that many fans of Commercial Center get. It's an excitement found in the juxtaposition of Lotus of Siam—my pick for best Thai restaurant in town—a swingers club, a couple of funky-ass wig shops, great discount furniture stores, and our destination, Kool Kollectibles. Oswalt shoots the store's sign with his camera phone and hurries in.
The store is huge, stocked with goodies that would delight the heart of any closet nerd: comics, vintage and new; Star Trek T-shirts; photo stills of third-rate Hollywood stars (Gary Merrill and Cleo Moore) and groovy Star Wars props. The tall shelves create a verticality and depth of field that seem to disappear into a vanishing point.
In the new-comics section, Patton grabs half a dozen titles. On his way back to the register, he stops to fool around with a prop sword, and is happily in his element. I look at the sales girl; she may not know who he is, but she's getting a kick out of his playful abandon. He looks at his watch: almost 4:30. Time to go!
On the way to Mandalay, we pass an olive-colored Humvee. If you're not familiar with Oswalt's stand-up, let me inform you that he has a key joke about people who buy Humvees ("We should hit them on the back of the head with a sock of quarters, and ship them to Iraq so they can drill for their own oil!").
I probably shouldn't, but I do: "Hey, Patton," I say, "it's your mortal enemy!"
"Oh, God!" he yells in exasperation. "Why would anyone with a conscience get a Humvee?"
This gets him going on a political tangent that's as heartfelt as it is sobering—"the fact that these young soldiers are dying on the field for rich men who actually hold them in contempt ... it's idealism in the service of cynicism at its purest level! It's sickening"—and his pained facial expression makes clear that his anti-Bush humor isn't merely an appeal to some fashionably jaded audience, but a genuine response to the direction our nation is heading. (He donated much time and effort to voter registration benefits, peace-action shows and similar fund-raisers.)
It's now about 4:45, and Oswalt is officially late.
"Thanks for everything," he says as we pull up to the hotel. "Next time, maybe we can go pub-crawling." He autographs my copy of his CD, picks up the marked cards I bought him and dashes into the hotel. I glance at the inscription on my CD: Michael—I hope I didn't get you sick, and I had fun. Patton Oswalt. Which reminds me: I need to buy more sanitation cloths for my car, or I really will be feelin' kinda Patton.