No Shirt, No Shoes...No Problem!

by Jeff Foxworthy

  2. Beer mirrors

  3. Dried food

  4. Velvet painting of Elvis

  5. License plates

  6. Poster of Dale Earnhart

  7. Picture of your wife on the toilet

  8. Fish (any variety)

  9. Gun rack

  10. Flags

  11. Motley Crüe poster

  12. Hooters calendar

  13. Autographed picture of Rick Flair

  14. Spit

  How’d you do? Don’t worry if you didn’t pass. You can keep repeating the second grade until you get it right and you and your kid can walk to school together. As for the rest of you, now you know why I say that being Redneck does not depend on where you reside. It’s more a glorious absence of sophistication. Whether temporary or permanent, Redneck is simply a state of mind where some people live and others just come for a long visit. I think there’s a little bit of Redneck in us all.

  Now pass the pickled eggs and deer sausage. I’ve got Smokey and the Bandit on the VCR, my CAT cap on my head, a six-pack in the cooler, and I’m settling in for the afternoon.

  The Road to Stardom Ain’t Necessarily Paved

  It’s easy for a Redneck to become famous among his own. Just hit a highway sign with a beer can out a car window at fifty miles an hour. Have a favorite T-shirt declared offensive in thirteen states. Shoot a deer from inside your home. Know the most ways to sneak liquor into high school sporting events. Eat a double-bacon cheeseburger in one bite. Send a photocopy of your bare butt along with your Christmas cards.

  Do any one and they’ll tell your story at deer hunts, dove shoots, and keggers clear to the county line.

  But sometimes a Redneck becomes well known by people beyond family, friends, creditors, and the local law enforcement community. When this happens, he must quickly learn that widespread recognition involves greater rewards, larger responsibilities, and the possibility of being arrested by mistake. Sometimes the price of stardom for these special few is simply learning to write. Scratching an “X” just won’t cut it when fans ask for an autograph. In any case, life will never again be as simple as just having to quickly reassemble a transmission in the bathtub before company arrives.

  It would be nice if there were a manual explaining how to be a celebrity. Unfortunately, it’s pretty much a learn-as-you-go proposition.

  One evening when I was washing dishes and watching the TV, I realized that I might be more well known than even I suspected. I saw a commercial for an ABC show called Before They Were Stars. Suddenly there I was on-screen, in 1985, doing stand-up on amateur night in Ufalla, Alabama. My shirt was pretty cool but never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that that old videotape would ever air on national television. It really stopped me in mid-scrub. I said to my wife, “Honey, if I’m on a before-they-were-stars show, does this mean I’m a star now?”

  She handed me the crusty roast pan; a reality check if ever there was one. We both knew that even after more than ten years of entertaining everyone from coeds on spring break to the chief executive at the Ford Theater, that I still didn’t think of myself as any more than just a regular guy. Of course, once I could run out for milk and diapers without a second thought, but now, people I didn’t even know—including some fifth and sixth cousins who, I should point out, have just recently declared themselves family relations—think of me as some sort of celebrity.

  I still don’t believe it. The company that books my concerts always tells me I have the smallest backstage catering bill in the history of entertainment. At one of my biggest shows last year, we had three six-packs of Sprites and 7-Ups—in case somebody came up—a pot of coffee, some candy bars, and a container of Tic-Tacs. The tab came to almost $25.

  As you can tell, none of this has gone to my head.

  A person’s idea of celebrity constantly changes. When I was twelve years old, just seeing the sportscaster from WSB, Channel Two in Atlanta, in a restaurant, prevented me from eating because I was so excited. All I could do was whisper, “Art Eckman’s right over there!” I never talked to him, of course, because you didn’t approach Art Eckman in public. Nooo.

  Now I see Art Eckman on ESPN doing “Motor World” and I still get excited. I just don’t understand why my wife thinks it’s strange when I point at the TV and whisper at the top of my lungs, “Art Eckman’s right over there!”

  Any entertainer can perform for years without crossing the line where one day he notices that people notice him more than he notices them. Then it happens. At first, the lingering stares can feel awkward. You’re not sure why people gawk at you so intently. Suddenly you’re wondering if your shirt is on inside out. If your socks match. Are your pants pulled up all the way? Are you even wearing pants? The thought of dandruff is scary because the flakes would have to be the size of tadpoles for someone to see them at that distance. If it’s none of the above, that’s when the thought that maybe someone recognizes you might creep into your head.

  Just hope it’s not your parole officer.

  I have performed across this country more times than most of my childhood friends have learned to count, and even I have suffered from the delusion that everyone knows who I am. Fortunately, that’s just when I am forced to confront my own foolishness. Just because I say, “Hi, I’m Jeff Foxworthy,” not everyone will go, “Ohhh!” Lots of times, no one does. They have no idea who I am. This is toughest when I’ve stepped outside the concert hall for some air before the show and the stage door locks behind me. When the guy taking tickets at the front door doesn’t know me from Spike, it has a way of planting one’s feet back on the ground. Suddenly you’re scrubbing the roast pan.

  Being or not being recognized is both better than kind of not being recognized. It cracks me up when someone asks, “Are you somebody?”

  “I hope so,” I usually reply.

  “Who are you?”

  “Well, if you don’t know it doesn’t matter, right?”

  Well, not always. Not everyone who stares at a celebrity is a fan. Once, while walking through the Detroit airport, a group of men suddenly locked their eyes on me. “Okay,” I thought, “I can take a compliment. I just hope they don’t ask for autographs in awkward places.” I smiled politely and kept walking. They didn’t smile back. Suddenly one of the men yelled, “Hey! Who are you? What’s your name?” I walked faster.

  It was freezing cold, I wanted to get to my hotel, and I was in no mood for meeting people who didn’t even seem to know me. As I walked, I asked myself if I’d made any jokes onstage the night before that I might regret today. Had I said anything at all that would cause ten men in dull business suits to follow me from one city to another?

  That’s when they surrounded me. One guy said, “Let’s see some ID.” I said, “Who wants to know?” I figured out they were cops when the guy flashed his badge. I’m sharp that way. My wallet and airline ticket were in my coat pocket. I reached in to get them. They pulled their guns on me. I’m not lying. I’ve seen this happen so many times in the movies you’d think I’d know better.

  I eased my hand back.

  Later, they apologized for the inconvenience and told me they were searching for a guy on the Ten Most Wanted List who looked an awful lot like me. Same height, weight, and coloring. Only, it seemed, not nearly as nice. Mr. Most Wanted would not have wiped his feet before getting into the squad car.

  “The guy kidnaped and murdered five people,” one cop said. Then they let me go and gave me some advice: “Be careful. This might happen again.”

  It didn’t, but a couple of weeks later, a buddy of mine in Baltimore sent me something he’d discovered in his local post office: a Wanted Poster.

  “Fox, you’re not gonna believe this,” he wrote. “Look how much this guy looks like you!” He was right. Same mustache, same haircut…we could have been twins. I don’t know if the Detroit police ever caught up with this man. I hope so. But the memory of being drawn down on still lingers. That’s why now, when strangers approach, my smile us
ually says, “Howdy,” but my eyes say, “I swear I didn’t do it.”

  I wonder if my wife would ever buy this explanation?

  There are many degrees of celebrity. For instance, there’s fame and then there’s fame. When I was a teenager playing air-guitar in front of the mirror, I imagined that being famous involved many women and a lot more leisure time. Now I think fame is like money. Any time you get to where you think you’ve got it, you don’t have to look very far to see somebody who’s got a lot more than you.

  One type of fame is called “Only You Think You’re a Celebrity.” This is not the real thing, but a delusional state that is often incurable. Even with years of therapy it’s hard to convince some people that others don’t know who the hell they are. In clinical terms this is known as the “Rumor in your own time, legend in your own room” syndrome.

  There is also “Fifteen-Minute” fame. If you ever get that far, the trick is to make it stick. Good examples are any panelists on a daytime talk show, or Kato Kaelin. He’s already had about seventeen minutes. His time is really up. He’d better check the buzzer. Now if I could only get him to vacate the guest house.

  More types include notorious phenomenons, personalities, stars, superstars, legends, and the kind of ultimate celebrity that both you and I don’t really ever want to be. The last is easy to spot: You know you’ve reached that pinnacle when someone else can make a living being your celebrity double.

  Once you become like Elvis or Michael Jackson, that’s not celebrity. That’s prison. Too bad neither one has helped his own cause much. Elvis used to bitch he couldn’t go to the movie theater, but maybe if he didn’t take twelve cars and wear the cape, he could’ve snuck in and seen the show.

  I finally understood the enormity of Elvis—and I’m just talking about his fame—once I toured Graceland. I’ll never forget the moment I stood in the Jungle Room and surveyed the green shag carpet and the leopard skin throne. I had one all-consuming thought: “You cannot give Rednecks money. You can’t! We don’t know what to do with it.” Somebody should have had the guts to go, “E, man, this is really tacky stuff here. Perhaps a nice Ethan Allan sectional would be better.”

  Elvis also had a whole hallway—more like a runway—lined with gold and platinum records. That’s a problem I do understand. Now, all of a sudden, I’ve got gold and platinum records. What I need is a sensible outdoor storage shed to put them in. I’ve also got pictures of myself with guys like Johnny Carson, David Letterman, Bob Hope. Gregg likes the new double-platinum albums because they’ve got mahogany frames, and she wants to put them up in the living room. I can’t. They’d detract from the antlers and my collection of cologne bottles shaped like automobiles.

  My big question is: At what point does my ego allow me to put up this stuff in my own home? I’m uncomfortable. It’s like a salute to myself. I think I should just put these mementos in my office where people can walk in and see them if they move a couple of packing crates and look around really hard.

  There is one picture, though, that I did want to put up. I once worked at a comedy club in Daytona Beach during spring break. They took my publicity photo, which was really nice, blew it up, and made a sign that read, “Back by popular demand! Jeff Foxworthy.” Right. I’m sure those college kids demanded that I come back. They probably thought I was the Budweiser delivery man. But the photo was cool and my wife framed it. Now it’s in my office, and I can honestly say it looks really stupid next to me with Johnny Carson, me with Milton Berle, and me with Travis Tritt. “Oh, and there’s Jeff, back by popular demand at the CocoHut in Daytona Beach.”

  Some celebrities don’t know how to act when a fan wants an autograph. I think “gracious” is a good word to keep in mind. Signing anything from slightly used table napkins to sweaty chests is easy and just being polite. I’m happy to oblige. I remember when no one wanted my signature except on speeding tickets. If I could, I’d also give away twenty-dollar bills with each autograph, just to show my appreciation for your support. (If you believe that, please place this book next to your copy of UFO’s Are Real! Not a bad read, by the way.)

  What if a fan wants more than an autograph? That can be confusing. I’ve sat in a hotel lobby, and all of a sudden somebody just slaps the hell out of my back and goes, “Hey, next time yer in town, come out to the house and have dinner with us. You come in a day early, by God, and we’ll go huntin’. I’ll put you on some squirrels.” Honestly, I’d like to. Maybe next year.

  Otherwise, I have no problem with being recognized: on the street, in the supermarket, or even at the Victoria’s Secret store over in the mall. Hey, it’s tough, waiting thirty days between catalogs. A man’s got to keep up with fashion.

  Here’s something I learned: When you meet a celebrity you admire you should say, “Hello” and “It’s a thrill to meet you.” Then shake their hand and leave. The longer you stay the less you’re welcome—unless they want to keep talking. Just don’t mistake the smile and automatic head nod as a signal that you should run down your life story. Celebrities appreciate your good wishes. They like to know that something they do is all that makes your life worth living. They’re probably even thrilled to hear about how their sitcom/movie/album, etc. made the week you spent in the hospital, for double hernia surgery, bearable. But please don’t feel obligated to describe the recuperation process, especially if it involves drainage, rot, or highly infectious liquids.

  Am I rude to say all this? It’s just good fan manners. I’ll give you another great tip: Don’t bug famous people while they’re eating. Whenever my mother is in L.A., she wants to go to Dan Tana’s restaurant. She thinks it’s the best Italian place in the world, which means she likes it better than the Shakey’s Pizza in Stock-bridge, Georgia. Last time we were at Dan Tana’s Bob Newhart came in with Dick Martin and sat two tables away. My mother squeezed my leg, and said, “That’s Bob. That’s Bob Newhart. Go over there and introduce yourself to Bob.”

  I said, “Mother, they’re eating. I will never go interrupt somebody’s meal just to say hello.”

  Well, the whole meal she wouldn’t let up. “He’s a comedian, you’re a comedian. Go and say hello.” Made sense to her.

  We finally finished our meal and paid the bill. I looked over at Newhart. He’d also paid the check and was having coffee. My mother squeezed me again. “Go on!”

  Against my better judgment, I said, “Okay!” I walked over to the table, head down, tail between my legs, and said, “First of all, I want to apologize so much for coming over to your table and…” That’s when Bob Newhart looked up and said,” Jeff Foxworthy!“

  “Right. And this is my mother, Carole.”

  He was as generous and as nice as he could be. My mother, well, you could have struck her dead with lightning. She could finally go out the door.

  Some people try to meet performers after a show. Don’t. If you can get a backstage pass, meet them before the show. I do a two-hour set and I’m pretty sweaty at the end. That’s why I always feel bad when people come back for meet-and-greets and I have to put my arm around them for the picture. I smell like a buck in rut. I just stand there the whole time going, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I hope the stains come out.”

  I also have my heroes. When I was growing up, my heroes tended to be ballplayers. To this day one of the highlights of my life was meeting Dale Murphy. He played center field for the Braves until he ended up going to right. Won the MVP back-to-back years. He was a great player on a bunch of really bad ball clubs. But he always treated people nicely. He always signed autographs. Had a ton of class. He felt and lived up to the obligations of being a role model. I never heard anybody say anything bad about Dale Murphy, and this was a guy making $2 million a year.

  One day I picked up a newspaper in the Atlanta airport. On the airplane I opened to the sports page. The headline read: “Dale Murphy Traded.” I’m not ashamed to tell you that, even as a grown man of 32, on a crowded flight, tears were streaming down my face.

&
nbsp; When you’re famous, you always meet people who think you’re their best friend. But occasionally you run into someone who actually knows you. Only you’ve forgotten his name. This can be a problem, unless you’re from the South.

  “Jeff! How the hell are ya?”

  All you have to say is, “Hey, Buddy.” Then you try to get some information to help you place them. “You still workin’ at the same place?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So where you living now?”

  “Same house.”

  “Still married.”

  “Hell…yes.”

  Meanwhile, you still don’t know who you’re talking to.

  “Well, good seein’ ya’ll.”

  “Back at ya.”

  Things could be worse. Once, a guy who spent three minutes with me in a comedy club bathroom ran into me eight years later and expected me to recall the whole experience as if it had happened the day before.

  “You remember when we were together at the Chuckle Hut?”

  I wouldn’t exactly call it “together” either.

  Then there was the good ole gal who cornered me at a baseball game. She couldn’t stop venting about her “Yankee husband” and his side of the family. “They’re such complete idiots that I’d like to choke them and drop them in the swimming pool.”

  Now, that made me want to grab the first guy who passed by and say, “Hey, Buddy? About that time we spent together at the Chuckle Hut…”

  My fans don’t send normal gifts. I already told you about the Redneck china cabinet. Rod Stewart gets a gift basket with a bottle of Dom Perignon and caviar. I get baskets with six-packs of Red Dog, some chewing tobacco, and some grits. I bet people laugh when they send this stuff. I’ve now got cabinets full of grits and chewing tobacco. Look, if you must send a gift, a six-pack of Sprite, a couple of candy bars, and a cheap lease on a storehouse for all the grits and tobacco would be just fine.