America's Biggest Loser

That's the way it's been this year: Lange's missed a lot of his commitments. Backstage at his stand-up gig at Caroline's a day after he reappeared at the Stern show, he seems uncomfortable, as a friend — who is wearing a shirt that says AMSTERDAM — brings up all the fun stuff that he didn't make it to this year: the Bruce Springsteen concerts, the bachelor parties, the sports games. Lange interjects, reminding him that there's one thing he didn't miss: the weeklong tour he did for the troops in Afghanistan. "I had to do that," he says firmly. "I would have killed myself if I let down the USO."

So is Lange going to make it? Some days his spirits are down, like they were after his show at Caroline's. Two blondes from Long Island sitting in the front row had even thrown themselves at him, and he barely got excited about it. "I'm over drunk chicks," he says, though he palms their numbers for future use. That night, he stays up until 6 a.m. watching a documentary about Charlie Parker, whom he idolizes, and not for his music. He gets to thinking about a girl he likes in Seattle. "She texted me, and I really got depressed," he says. "Why can't I be with that girl? I would rather be a plumber with her in Seattle than have this gig."

Other times, Lange seems to be doing all right, particularly when there's tomfoolery to be had. He's great fun to be with in the car, zipping through New Jersey in his silver Mercedes. No one's allowed to wear a seat belt. "I don't play that shit," he says. "That's un-American." He blasts through a couple of stop signs and floors it to the Holland Tunnel, pulling into the E-Z Pass lane. "I think I figured out a scam," he says excitedly. "I've been blowing through E-Z Pass all year without paying!" He talks about his car. "I remember when I got my first Mercedes in Los Angeles, and I thought I was a big deal because I had a 500 CL, you know, I got somewhere in life," he says. "And some kid was like, 'Hey, I'm thinking of getting this car too, do you like it?' And I was like, 'Yeah, I like it. I like blow jobs too.' Then the kid always sucks my dick. It's great."

On 50th Street in Manhattan, he pulls over to do an errand, leaving me in the car. A cop immediately starts to write a ticket, so I repark down the street. "You didn't have to do that," Lange says, huffing and puffing as he runs up behind. "You could've just told them you were with Stern and Artie." He cackles manically. "I can get away with anything."

Related Stories:

• Artie Lange: The Story Behind the Story with Writer Vanessa Grigoriadis
• More from Issue 1071