I'm Not Gonna Lie (3 page)

The truth is, in my condition, I don't know where I'd be without weed. Weed saved my ass. Pot soothes my aches and pains, relieves my stress, calms my stomach, takes away my nausea, and improves my enjoyment of Van Halen.

I liked Van Halen before my kidney disease, but now, with a little boost from medicinal marijuana, I love them. They can play anything—any riff at all—and they blow my mind. I give them a standing ovation while they tune up.

Yes, medical marijuana is a wonder drug.

I'm not gonna lie.

Weed works.

I don't like to smoke it. That's unhealthy. Like I told you, I'm careful what I put into my body. Smoking dope is bad for you.

So I eat it. Much better. And you can sneak your weed into a lot of delicious foods.

I love grass in gummy bears. Knocks me on my ass. If you don't like gummy bears, no problem. In fact, you don't have to eat grass at all. There are other possibilities. Like lotion. I love the lotion. Or the spray. You just rub it in and hang on for the ride. Consider a mutual marijuana massage with a loved one. Way better than smoking weed. One caution: Don't have her massage you first, because you will be too stoned to massage her without laughing hysterically.

So, okay, you got your lotion, spray, and gummy bears, and you also have Tootsie Rolls, barbecue sauce, popcorn, wheat chips, and, of course, brownies.

Those are amazing.

Very simple to make, too. Just get some Duncan Hines brownie mix and cook the weed right in there. Drop it right in with the butter. I don't know who came up with this idea first, but it's sheer genius. Maybe Bob Marley or Willie Nelson back in the day. I know it wasn't Duncan Hines. I don't think Duncan Hines ever said, “You know what would be great? Let's put some weed into my fudge brownies. It'll be fantastic.” I doubt old Duncan was a pothead, though you never know. I know you don't see weed as one of the ingredients in the recipes on the side of the package.

Obviously, getting high at fifty serves a different purpose than it did when I was eighteen. I used to get high just to get high. It was way more fun going to a concert or a party stoned. Now I get high not just to get high, but to get through. I use weed for pain relief. I have weak joints and a lot of other residual stuff from the kidney disease. Sometimes after I've been working a long day, my body feels like one big throbbing ache. I will get high then for relief. Sad. I used to get high for fun; now I get high to function.

I actually prefer getting high to getting drunk. I started drinking when I was thirteen. I was in junior high school and a couple of friends and I crashed an older kid's party. My memory is fuzzy, but I vaguely remember this really hot girl wearing, like, nothing but a piece of string, filling and refilling my plastic cup with beer, and then handing me another cup filled with some spiked Hawaiian Punch. I started to come on to her, reached over to untie that string, shouted something really cool and funny, took two wobbly steps, and passed out. It was like being a vegetarian.

To this day, when it comes to booze, I'm a lightweight. Two beers and I'm looking for a place to lie down. With weed, I'm cool. I get quiet, reflective, and trippy. I hold my high well. I bet you'd never know I was stoned.

A few years ago in Houston, this young bellhop must've thought I was stoned, but I wasn't.

I'd played the Toyota Center and sold it out. They asked me to come back two weeks later to do a couple more shows. I was checking in at the Four Seasons downtown, my second time in two weeks, and this bell kid, who was maybe twenty-two, started gathering all my bags to take them up to my room. I called him over. “What's the biggest tip you ever got?” I said.

“Four hundred dollars,” the kid said.

“Get out,” I said. “Four hundred dollars? For bringing bags up to a room?”

“Yes, sir,” the kid said. “That's what I got. Four hundred dollars.”

I shook my head, reached into my pocket, pulled out my billfold, and peeled off five bills. “Here's five hundred,” I said.

The kid's eyes got wide as plates. “Thank you, Mr. Lopez,” he said. “I will take really good care of these bags.”

I laughed, and he started to head up to my room.

“Hey,” I said. “I want to know. Who gave you that four hundred?”

“You did,” he said. “Two weeks ago.”

Come to think of it, maybe I was high.

ONE
thing I hate.

People who say, “Fifty is the new thirty.”

No, it's not.

Fifty is fifty.

Do the math.

Fifty is twenty years closer to death.

Even though I try to look younger, people can tell how old I am. Especially young, beautiful women. I don't know why that is.

When I was in Vegas for my birthday party, I walked into the bar in the hotel lobby and saw four young women dressed for the evening, sipping martinis. One of them noticed me, whispered to her friends, and three of them ran over to me, yelling, “It's George Lopez!”

I said, “What's going on, girls?”

A cute blonde said, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

Annoying group giggle.

Then a brunette said, “What are you doing here?”

I said, “I'm here for my birthday. Having a little party.”

I grinned and deliberately did not mention the number.

“How old are you?” the blonde said.

I shrugged.

“He's fifty,” the brunette said.

How the hell did she know? Then, thinking I couldn't see them, the other two looked at each other, and, with horror, mouthed
Fifty?

Then they made that face. All of them. At the same time. That “ewww” face.

You say “fifty” and people react like a bad smell just blew in.

Once I turned fifty, it took me less than twenty-four hours to feel fifty. A black cloud descended. Fifty means deterioration. It's like you're a house in disrepair. You can slap on a coat of paint, but if the house has bad joists, or areas of rot and mold, a coat of paint will not help.

We will be discussing a lot of stuff about turning fifty—things you might want to do now, because you're approaching the end of your life, and things you should never, ever do, under any circumstances—but I want to prepare you for what will happen to you first. Some of this is not pleasant and it will be difficult to accept, but I feel it's my duty to tell you.

Here's the first thing that will happen.

You will fart for no reason.

Farts will make their appearance.

They will just come out.

You'll take a step and . . .

Brump
 . . .

Just like that.

No matter how cool you look—or try to look—farts will arrive.

I was in my car, driving to a lunch. I pulled up to the restaurant and parked. I got out and started to go inside. It was a warm L.A. day and I was dressed in slacks, a nice T-shirt—looking pretty good—and I realized I left my phone in the car. I bent over to get it and—

Bwap, pwap, pwap.

I jerked my head up and looked around.

“What the hell? I just bent over to get my phone. This is ridiculous.”

It happens all the time now.

You walk across the room to say hi to somebody and . . .

Prrratttt.

Then you gotta make a noise to cover it up.

“Hah!” I say. “Hah, hah—ahem. Something's caught in my throat.
Haprrrattt
.”

A word of warning.

When you're fifty, if the room smells like shit, it's because you farted.

Finally, a piece of advice.

Try to be extra careful when you're invited to someone's house for dinner.

If you do cut one and it's loud and everybody looks at you, immediately cover your mouth and pretend that you burped.

Bwaapppppppp.

“Oh, excuse me. How rude. Yes, guilty as charged. Ha,
ha
. I had a little burp there, because that cauliflower casserole is so delicious.”

This tactic will work, because most people consider a burp to be a compliment. But a fart, no. Although I would consider a fart a backhanded compliment.

A few months ago, I started dating a much younger woman, and after we got to know each other, she said, “You take a lot of showers.”

“Yes,” I said. “I do. I do because you're very young. And I'm very . . . fifty.”

Also, to tell you the truth—but I couldn't admit it to her—I'm vain. And lately, I've become even more vain. Like an infinite number of times more vain.

I admit that I spend maybe a little extra time looking at myself in the mirror. I take stock. I've become very concerned about my appearance, more than ever before. I mentioned that I'm careful about what I eat. I try to eat healthy, and smaller portions than I did when I was in my thirties. I don't think the world needs another fat Mexican.

I try to control what I eat . . . and I try to stay clean.

I'll just say it.

I'm a shower fool.

If I estimate the over-under on the number of showers I take per day, I'd say a conservative number is . . . four. Yes. Four. That's about right.

What?

Too many?

I'm not sure it's enough.

Let's break it down.

A typical day. Today. It's almost noon and I've already had two showers. I'm gonna go out to lunch and then maybe play a few holes of golf. After that I'll come home and take a shower. That's three. And I will take a shower before bed. That's four.

That's my average.

I also have a steam at my house. I'll absolutely take a steam later. And I'm not gonna lie: Sometime today I will also take a bath. I count a bath as a half. I like to take a long, hot shower, but at my age I don't want to stand up that long. Too taxing. I can't stand there for twenty minutes. So I'll take a bath.

You add the steam, which is a treat, kinda like a wet, hot, sweaty dessert, plus the bath, count those each as a half, I'm up to five a day.

I don't think that's too many.

Figure it this way: You've got twenty-four hours in a day. Between sleeping and lounging around, I stay in bed for, say, nine hours. That means I'm out and about for fifteen hours a day, during which I take a shower, bath, or steam on average every three hours. What's wrong with that? I promise you that is not only normal for a person of fifty; it's
necessary.

So, my over-fifty brothers and sisters, how do you start your day?

My advice: Begin at ground zero.

Start with a shower.

As the day goes on, work it out this way: shower, bath, shower, shower. Minimum. I'm telling you, you'll have to take a lot of showers to counteract the smell if you don't live alone, and even more so if you have a young girlfriend.

We've established that at fifty you need to emphasize cleanliness.

You also need to emphasize safety.

The first item you have to purchase, without a doubt, is a good shower mat. The other day during my second, no, third shower—wait, my fourth . . . or was it my first . . . ? Anyway, I almost fell. And I have good balance. You must accept that at fifty your body starts to go, and even doing the most basic activities, like taking a shower, can be lethal. Solution: You need a good shower mat. Everybody says that most accidents happen at home. They're right.

To old people.

People over fifty.

It makes sense that the shower is a danger zone. The floor gets wet and soapy and slippery. You're in the shower and you take one little step to grab the soap or shampoo, and—
whrrp
—your feet fly out from under you and you go down. You can't let that happen. I have a cement shower. If I go down, I'm going down hard. It could be the end. Death by hair rinse buildup on the shower floor. Not how I want my obituary to read. Do not let that happen to you. Buy a shower mat.

I've never done a survey, but I know that people have shower-mat phobia. It's a national problem. Too much bother. People don't like to use shower mats because they get dirty and moldy underneath and it's too gross to clean them. Admit it: You just throw out the old grungy one and never replace it.

Go—right now—to Kmart and buy a shower mat. We're talking about life and death. Or worse. You could fall and hit your head and
not
die. You could end up a diaper-wearing, drooling vegetable who stares at the microwave all day thinking it's the TV and calls everybody “Nana.”

Buy a shower mat.

And don't believe what people say about the bottom of some tubs: that they're slip resistant. Really? They don't resist your slipping and falling on your head. And you know the tubs with the little knobs on the bottom that cost, like, $3,000? Those knobs are bogus. I don't trust those things, even if it comes out to a dollar a knob. I wouldn't go in there without a shower mat. Or a helmet. Or a spotter.

Now let's move on to something even more serious.

Baths.

I love them.

Just one little problem.

Getting into the tub.

At my age, I'm not equipped to lift my leg high enough to get over the lip of the tub. I have to crawl over, like I'm going over the Berlin Wall. You have to raise your leg, vault and roll, and then grab for something to hang on to or pull yourself up and over with, like the shower curtain. This is very hazardous. You could easily pull down the curtain rod and go down with it. The bath is great once you're in it. It's getting in that's the problem. And, yes, getting out, because you encounter the same hazards, only in reverse.

Help is on the way, though.

I was watching a golf match on the Golf Channel with my buddy RJ, and a commercial came on for a new kind of bathtub. The tub's spokesperson, a guy about my age, wearing a puka-shell necklace and a Hawaiian shirt, started pitching this tub, telling me how great it was. Something about this guy seemed familiar. I scooted to the edge of the couch to get a better look. Did I mention that at fifty your vision
and
your hearing start to go? Anyway, I got closer to the TV and ratcheted up the sound. I suddenly recognized the guy because of his voice.

Unmistakable.

Pat Boone.

Yes. Pat
Boone.

If you said, “I remember Pat Boone,” instead of, “Who the hell is Pat Boone?” then this tub is for you.

In the 1950s and 1960s, Pat Boone was a huge recording star, known for singing covers of R & B songs like “Ain't That a Shame” by Fats Domino and for being unbelievably white. I'm not lying. He was famous for wearing shoes called “white bucks.” That sounds way racist to me. I think he hung with Anita Bryant and that crowd, too. But now what pissed me off was that he had to be at least eighty-five and he looked my age.

At least my career hadn't spiraled down to the point that I was doing commercials on the Golf Channel for bathtubs.

What am I talking about? If I'm eighty-five and I look as good as Pat Boone—hell, if I'm upright—I'd kill to land a gig selling bathtubs on the Golf Channel.

It took me a few seconds to get past Pat and his puka shells, but I finally focused on the bathtub he was demonstrating.

This was no regular old bathtub. This tub was special.

This tub had a door.

It opened like a car.

You swung the door open, walked in, closed the door behind you, and sat down for your bath. No vaulting, crawling, rolling, or pulling the shower curtain down on your head. Right away this reduced your chances of cracking your head open and drowning in six inches of water.

The tub was deluxe. It came with climate controls, Jacuzzi vents, every tub accessory you could ever want. This was a dream tub. You turned the water on and lay back as the water splashed up, over, and all around you. Your whole body pulsated with pleasure. You could adjust the intensity and temperature to your heart's content. And the best part? When you were finished, you just reached over, shut the water off, stood up, opened the door, and stepped out.

Brilliant.

I wanted one of those. I wanted one bad.

“Look at that tub,” my friend RJ said. “You have to be an idiot to waste money on one of those.”

“Seriously,” I said.

“People are so gullible. They'll buy anything. A tub like that? You gotta be seventy years old and an invalid, or live in an old-age home, or walk with one of those canes with suction cups on the bottom that stick to the floor.”

“Seventy? Really? I don't know; you could be maybe sixty-five or even fifty—”

“And who was that old-guy pitchman?” RJ asked. “His face looked like a prune.”

“No idea.”

“You have to be a pussy to take a bath, anyway.”

“I know, right?”

“Or older than crap.”

“Baths? Ha-ha-
ha
!
Baths.
”

“I'm gonna get another beer; you want one?”

“Nah, I'm good. Thanks. I already had two.”

“You're not going anywhere. Have another one. You're such a lightweight.”

“Lightweight? Me? Right. Ha!
”

RJ left the room. I waited until I heard him banging around the kitchen before I furiously copied down the phone number that crawled along the bottom of the screen across Pat Boone's Hawaiian shirt, while good old Pat repeated it three times slowly for those of us who are older than crap.