Larry the Cable Guy isn’t too bothered by the coronavirus. He’s spending the quarantine at his farm-like home, with his wife and two teenagers, outside Lincoln, Nebraska. He’s fishing for bass and catfish in his private, stocked pond. He’s hunting on his land which, at 180 acres, is nearly twice as big as Vatican City. He’s feeding and petting his horses and donkeys. Oh, and he’s worried that governments across America are on the verge of causing widespread, abject misery for millions of people.
But he’s not dwelling on that last bit.
“I’m just a guy,” he likes to say.
If the weather’s nice, he strolls over to the local golf course to walk 18 solitary holes. If the weather’s bad, he huffs and puffs through three hours on his treadmill and his cardio glide. He has a pinched nerve in his neck, so some days he does 30 minutes of therapy. There might even be time for a game of Clue.
None of which sounds like Larry. Because at home, he’s just Dan.
And Daniel Lawrence Whitney isn’t much like the character he’s mastered over the past 30 years, a walking redneck stereotype with a Southern drawl. Dan spent his early years on a pig farm in Nebraska, but he’s not Southern, he’s no redneck, and he doesn’t have an accent beyond a slight country twang — “I’ll get on the treadmill fer an hour and five minutes.” His clear annunciation sounds downright Ivy League compared to his act.
Larry has been good for Dan. From his own feature film to sold-out arenas to a voiceover credit for his role as Mater in Disney Pixar’s “Cars,” Larry the Cable Guy is one of America’s most popular acts. His new album, “Remain Seated” — his first solo special in 10 years — showcases the shtick that made him famous, as Larry wonders who will home-school his kids when both he and his wife are “idiots” and riffs on the size of county fair corn dogs.
He has toured for 30 years, and actually did home-school his kids on the buses.
Larry is based on characters from Dan’s life, but sometimes, Dan spills over. Take Larry’s signature gold ‘N’ chain. Dan loves Nebraska Cornhuskers football. He’s worried that the pandemic will affect his team. Specifically, he worries that the season could get postponed, and that leads him straight to politics. “It’ll devastate a lot of people,” he says. “And I’m just a guy. I’m not a politician. But I think they’re going about this the complete wrong way.”
The pandemic has had a small impact on Dan, personally. Nowadays, he does some 30 stand-up shows a year, and the virus has forced him to reschedule eight. But he’s afraid the country is going down the wrong path.
In Dan’s eyes, people who aren’t sick need to get back to work. A healthy population, he reasons, shouldn’t be quarantined. He’s also worried about going against “the narrative created by the media,” and the consequences of doing so for one’s free speech. “It’s ridiculous. I really think it’s ridiculous,” he says.
“But I’m just a guy.”
He’s also worried about rising unemployment and the prospect of widespread poverty. “It’s literally insane. But like I said, I’m just a guy, and those are my opinions.”
Not that he’s really put these questions and their potential consequences to rigorous thought. “Do I sit around and think about it? No, not at all,” he says. “I’ve gotta live my life. I’m not gonna walk around depressed all day long.”
Because Dan is not Larry. Larry, a caricature of the rural working man, the type of person most likely to be squashed and forgotten. But Dan is one of the country’s most successful and wealthiest comedians. As he said, he’s largely insulated. So he turns to faith for reassurance that this will pass. He donates money to local restaurants and family members in need. And he isolates here on his property, a tad upset, but mostly tranquil.
Because in many ways, he’s not “just a guy.”