Louie Anderson may not look appreciably slimmer, but he does exhibit a renewed comic vitality for what he hopes will be a full-time berth on the Strip.

You're sure to know Louie Anderson has been working casino crowds a long time when he can come up with a joke about residential appraisers.

This comes during the "Hi, what's your name? Whattaya do?" part of the show, a place comedians usually don't go unless they're ready to deal with any answer they get.

Anderson has been a Las Vegas headliner since 1987, so it's a ground ball when Kenny, the appraiser sitting up front at Excalibur, mentions his work for mortgage companies.

"Now aren't you guys all in cahoots?" Anderson asks, drawing a surprise burst of whoops and applause for one of the biggest reactions of his hour-long set.

This really big man of the people proceeds to pantomime a lazy-eyed look in a slow circle before pretending to write a random number on a pad.

It would be easy to underestimate Anderson's ease at connecting with mid-America if you've been sidetracked by his substance-abuse battles that made the tabloids a few years ago, or what seemed to be a long, public bout of depression.

But the comedian sports a renewed energy onstage and radiates an image of vitality. Moreover, people still line up a long time to meet him at the end of his new, open-ended run at Excalibur. The title is "Louie -- Larger Than Life," but he is as accessible as celebrities can get.

Sure, the title refers to the fat jokes, and they put him on the map in the '80s. But hasn't this become a collective trait? When he talks about how big the Las Vegas airport is, he says, "They should get a big conveyor belt we could lay on right at the curb."

Notice, that was "we," not "I."

His casino jokes are so specific they can only come from someone who's been told to play a machine that's "ready to hit" or was berated by blackjack players for a choice that supposedly affected the whole table. "But I won ... I'm representing the table?"

In his third week at Excalibur, Anderson struck a good balance between his written monologues and winging it with the crowd. When he flushed out a school principal, you could tell from his satisfied smile that he was set for the evening: "Lunch detention?" he noted of one choice of grade-school discipline. "That's how I got this big. Good thing we didn't eat dinner at school. I'd be doing an Elvis act."

But Anderson says he's still trying to finesse just the right formula for a Las Vegas residency. He admits he's still in search of that elusive something that separates a "show" from "an hour of stand-up." (Producer Adam Steck is doing his part by adding a custom set and an opening video montage, both of which should be in soon.)

He has even taken to giving away cookies at the end. That's right. He does a routine early in the set about the childhood days of mom baking cookies, then ties back to it later when exiting patrons are offered cookies (not baked by him, he is quick to point out) from a tray.

As it stood in this show, Anderson hit a slump about the 45-minute mark, losing the momentum as he floated jokes about marijuana, guns and old folks before regrouping for a strong closing stretch about his angioplasty and open-heart surgery.

Again, there may have been an era where this medical ordeal wasn't something the masses could relate to, but Americans' range of experience has evolved. The laughs came with nods of familiarity when Anderson talked about driving himself to the emergency room "so I could have that last cigarette," or the fact that "If you're fat and you say 'chest pains' you're in (at the front of the line)."

It's good stuff, but by the time he reaches the dark comedy in the operating room, you might be ready to pass on the cookie.