Zombie Spaceship Wasteland

"If the victories we create in our heads were let loose on reality, the world we know would drown in blazing happiness."
--Patton Oswalt, Zombie Spaceship Wasteland

Having never written stand-up before, I'm not sure what the difference is in writing for that versus writing for something that's meant to be read. I assume that each--done well--will have differences, as evidenced by some of the literary output of even the best comedians. George Carlin's books did little more than make me want to listen to Carlin; Napalm & Silly Putty, for example, is funny and easily heard in Carlin's voice, but seriously wants for his skill with poetic meanderings. This track record is the reason I put off reading Patton Oswalt's Zombie Spaceship Wasteland for so long. But I was wrong to do that. Ass-wrong.

In ZSW, Oswalt wisely combines biographical elements (laced with his gift for obscure pop cultural references) with one-off concepts, such as an academic examination of old hobo songs ("Hobos were, for some reason, insistent that 'oatmeal' rhymed with 'blue.'"). Doing this, no single aspect weighs down the book too much. Like the best stand-up routine, every worthwhile topic gets its own space to breath.

Among the more insightful one-offs is an examination of the personality types of teenage outcasts that gives the book its title. I won't try to lazily lay out the differences between zombies, spaceships, and wastelands here, not when Oswalt does it so perfectly (and honestly, if you were a teenage outcast, playing board games in the library during lunch, you can probably figure out who was which already). At the end, I'm probably a Wasteland. But if I'm allowed to have crossover elements, there's probably some strands of Zombie in there, too.

The biographical chapters range from the heartbreaking (Uncle Peter), to the experimental (I shit on stream-of-consciousness, but it may be the only proper way to revisit childhood snow forts), to the transcendent (if the conclusion of "The Victory Tour" isn't enough to make you pump your fist on a crowded train, I don't want you reading my blog anymore).

The last couple of chapters see Oswalt delve into his archives of writings-in-character, a gambit that might've fallen flat if deployed by a lesser talent. In these, the pseudonymous Erik Blevins and Neill Cumpston battle for the title of Most Gifted Writer to Ever Set Pen to Paper in the English Language. I won't spoil you for any of Blevins' magical, criminally-ignored film treatments,* but Cumpston probably deserves a spot of attention here, in a space that features more than it's share of mindlessly effusive film reviews. Among Cumpston's finer observations (regarding The Passion Of The Christ):

"Everyone's pissed at Jesus. They all want him dead. But this is back in Bible times, when they didn't have shotguns and chainsaws, and back then when you want to kill a superhero you have to rain two hours of whomp-ass on him and then nail him to something, sort of like a message to other superheroes. And they must have gotten the message, because there weren't any more superheroes until Superman."

I've done some gushing about Oswalt before. And that praise is re-earned here, in an entirely new way. Given the weirdest gun-to-my-head proposition I'll ever encounter, I'd choose to listen to Finest Hour, but ZSW goes a long way toward being the next best dose of Patton you'll ever be able to shoot uncut.

Grade: B+

*Actually, both "Blevin's" and "Cumpston's" work can be found online. I'll trust you to work the Google machine.