I'm Not Gonna Lie Read online

  I’M NOT GONNA LIE

  And Other Lies You Tell When You Turn 50

  GEORGE LOPEZ

  with Alan Eisenstock

  A CELEBRA BOOK

  Celebra

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia |New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com

  First published by Celebra,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © George Lopez, 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  All photographs: Matt Hoyle

  Celebra and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Lopez, George, 1961–

  I’m not gonna lie, and other lies you tell when you turn 50/George Lopez, with Alan Eisenstock.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-101-60341-3

  1. Lopez, George, 1961– 2. Comedians—United States—Biography. 3. Television actors and actresses—United States—Biography. 4. Hispanic-American comedians—Biography. 5. Hispanic-American TELEVISION ACTORS AND ACTRESSES—BIOGRAPHY. 6. AGING—HUMOR. I. EISENSTOCK, ALAN. II. TITLE.

  PN2287.L633A3 2013

  792.702'8092—DC23 2012045899

  [B]

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however the story, the experiences and the words are the author’s alone.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  To my daughter, Mayan, the light of my life.

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION: COUNTING FAIRWAYS

  POP GOES THE . . . WAIT, WAS THAT ME?

  YOU’RE NOT GONNA LIKE THE WAY IT SMELLS

  SAFE SOX

  SPOONING WITH ROVER

  SEX AT FIFTY OR . . . FRIGHT NIGHT

  HAVING KIDS AFTER FIFTY, OR . . . ARE YOU CRAZY?

  KEEP FIT OR DIE TRYING

  WARNING: TEXTING MAKES YOU BLIND

  BITE ME

  MY LEFT FOOT, I MEAN, MY RIGHT KIDNEY

  GOLF LESSONS

  IMMORTALITY, OR FREEZING MY ASS FOR THE NEXT HUNDRED YEARS

  THE LAST DAYS OF CREEPY LITTLE WHITE GIRL

  THINGS YOU SHOULD DO BEFORE YOU DIE, I MEAN, TURN FIFTY

  CONCLUSION: COMING HOME

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  INTRODUCTION: COUNTING FAIRWAYS

  I did it!

  I hit the number.

  Unbelievable.

  I turned fifty!

  Without a doubt, my biggest birthday ever.

  I’m not lying: Reaching fifty meant a lot to me.

  For starters, it meant I wasn’t dead.

  Most people take turning fifty for granted. Not me. I nearly died when I was forty-four. Kidney disease. I survived that, but it was touch-and-go all the way. In fact, I’d call my forties a touch-and-go decade. I was blessed with a lot of success, including an ALMA Special Achievement Award for television, two Grammy Award nominations, and a sitcom that ran for six years. But I also got a kidney transplant, went through a divorce, and had two TV shows canceled. I’m not sure what stressed me out the most. Probably the divorce. It was not what you would call amicable.

  So, yes, at times my forties were rough. But if I had to pick the one decade when I was the most nervous, that would be my first, also known as my childhood. Talk about a shaky start. My father took one look at me and left. That’s not true. He waited two whole months and then he left. It took my mother longer. She gave it a shot, but she was young and troubled and not fit to be a mom, so she handed me off to my grandparents when I was ten.

  Growing up, I lived in constant fear of death: I was deathly afraid of pissing off my grandmother. For some reason, she was always agitated. No matter what she was doing, morning, noon, or night, if I approached her and started to talk to her, she would say:

  “What now?”

  That was her catchphrase. It didn’t matter what I said to her.

  “Hi, Grandma.”

  “What now?”

  Never “Yes? What is it? What can I do for you?”

  No. She’d say, “What now?”

  And I would get intimidated and say, “I forgot.”

  Then she’d say, “Well, if you forgot, it must have been a lie. Because you never forget the truth.”

  My grandmother was right. So that’s why I’m not gonna lie. Anymore. Not at my age. I don’t have that good a memory.

  Thinking back to my childhood, I realize my grandmother did not make my life easy, because everything with her was a labor.

  “Grandma?”

  “What now?”

  “Can I have two dollars?”

  “For what?”

  “Um . . . just . . . I need two dollars.”

  “For what?”

  “To buy a car.”

  I wish I had been smart enough or brave enough to have said something like that, but I wasn’t. I can pretend that I was this fast—

  “Grandma, can I have a dollar?”

  “For what?”

  “To go to college.”

  Yes, I walked on eggshells a lot in my childhood, but I had good times, too. But even though I felt the most nervous in my early years, my worst decade was definitely the years forty through forty-nine. I was very glad to see that decade come to an end. I spent my whole forty-ninth year waiting for the calendar to flip to that magic number.

  In fact, the closer I came to turning fifty, the better I felt. It was almost like a cloud lifting. Sure, I experienced a little bit of dread and anxiety. But mostly I felt excited. Then about a week before my birthday a sense of calm came over me. I knew I was gonna make it. I was so ready.

  The night before the big day, I flew to Las Vegas and checked into my favorite hotel. I had a nice quiet dinner with a couple of friends and turned in early. I was so excited about my party I couldn’t sleep. I tried counting sheep, but that never works. I always seem to conjure up these big, nasty, belligerent sheep. I tell them to jump slowly over the imaginary fence and they refuse. They glare at me. That first sheep looks about the size of Babe the Blue Ox. He looks at me and smoke starts pouring out of his snout, and he says to me in Spanish, “Fuck that, puto.” Then he rounds up all the other sheep into this sheep gang and they charge at me, crashing right through the fence.

  Forget sheep. I needed something more soothing.

  Cars. I love cars. I closed my eyes and thought about all the cars I’ve owned in my life.

  I remembered one of my first cars, an old clunker that sounded like it had emphysema every time you hit the gas. That was only one of its quirks. This car made me crazy. For one thing, it never turned off when you turned it off. It just kept going, like it was alive. It growled and shrieked, and the hood shook as if the car were having a seizure. I’d lift up the hood and look down at the engine, nodding and pointing as if I knew exactly what I was doing, even though I had absolut
ely no clue. Other guys would gather around and they’d all nod and point at the engine, too. They didn’t know anything, either. We’d just all nod and point at the carburetor and battery and hoses like we were a pit crew. Eventually, the car would just stop on its own. We’d all walk away, still nodding like we fixed the thing, saying a bunch of made-up car talk.

  “Yeah, see, I knew that would happen. Air gets caught in the air conductor valves and causes the engine cap to virtisify. . . .”

  “Definitely. Plus the igniter switch deadens the pressure. . . .”

  “Oh, absolutely. Plus a gas bubble fornicates the air hose. . . .”

  “That will mess you up.”

  The car had other issues, too. It played only one radio station—all polka music—because the knobs kept falling off. Oh, and the side mirrors were held on with electrical tape. And the locks didn’t work, either, so whenever I got in I was sure I’d find some crazy bat-shit guy living in the backseat.

  You know what? Forget counting cars to fall asleep.

  Then it hit me.

  The perfect thing.

  Golf courses.

  I decided to picture myself walking down all the beautiful courses I’d ever played. I’ve played most of the best courses in the world. I knew this would work.

  I settled into the king-size bed in my suite in Vegas, got really comfortable, closed my eyes, and pictured historic St. Andrews in Scotland, site of several British Opens and one of the most gorgeous courses ever. Some people call St. Andrews the “home of golf.” I can believe it. In my mind, I saw the entire breathtaking course, every hole, imagining myself strolling down those gently rolling green fairways, each one bordered by castles. I saw myself walking onto the first tee with my buddy, mentor, and golf companion, the great Lee Trevino. I felt totally relaxed. I stabbed my ball and tee into the grass, stepped back, and caught Lee’s eye. He was standing off to the side. He grinned and nodded. I smiled back. I took a practice swing, stepped up to my ball, took a breath, exhaled, and swung.

  Thwack.

  The ball shot off my driver and rocketed right into the middle of the fairway.

  Oh, man. There is nothing sweeter than the feeling you get when you hit a good golf shot. It’s better than sex. At least, I think it’s better than sex. I’m fifty. I don’t remember.

  After I hit that drive, I looked over at Lee. He gave me two thumbs up. He’s seventy-three, wise, and full of life. I picked up my tee, slid my driver into my bag, and Lee and I walked down the fairway through the hazy Scottish sunlight and into a cool, craggy shadow cast by a medieval castle. We walked for a good fifty yards before Lee finally spoke.

  “Golf or comedy?” he said. “If you had to choose one, which would it be?”

  I didn’t hesitate for a second. “Golf.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely. Now, if you were Richard Pryor—”

  I took two more steps down the fairway at St. Andrews and drifted off into a deep sleep.

  When I woke up, I was fifty.

  Everything seemed different. The air seemed fresher, the light in the room more vibrant. I lifted my hand and felt a tiny pulse of energy shooting through me like a charge of electricity. I felt wiser, more distinguished, more intelligent. Fifty was going to be great!

  I lounged around in bed until noon, kinglike. I got up, slipped on my robe, padded to the minibar, and poured myself a birthday cocktail—cranberry juice and vodka. This is the perfect morning pick-me-up. You cleanse and get buzzed at the same time. Some bartenders call this cocktail “Sex on the Beach,” which is one place I would never have sex, because I’m a clean freak and I hate the idea of sand all up in my culo.

  I drained my drink and started to get ready for my big day. That night I was hosting a birthday party for twenty of my closest friends from the old neighborhood. I couldn’t wait to see them and celebrate. This party was very special to me, because I don’t usually celebrate my birthdays.

  Growing up, my birthday was no big deal. It was just another day. And a birthday party? Nope. Never had a birthday party. Ever. Not one.

  On my birthday, my grandmother and grandfather would say, “Hey, happy birthday.” That was it. Celebration over. No cake, no candles, no balloons, no hats, no pony ride, no clown, and no bouncy thing, unless you count when my grandmother knocked me down and I hit the floor and bounced right back up.

  And no presents.

  If I was out shopping with my grandmother anytime during the month or two before and I saw a toy or a jacket that I wanted, I’d say, “Can I have that?”

  She’d say, “All right, but that’s for your birthday. Make sure you remember that when your birthday comes. You want it?”

  I’d scrunch my forehead and think about this carefully. I felt like I was on a game show. “Okay, yes; wait, no; I don’t know; okay, yes, I’ll take it.”

  “Good. Now I don’t have to buy you nothing for your birthday. Cross that off.”

  So when I turned fifty, I finally decided to throw myself a party. I wanted to mark the day with my best friends from my childhood, some of whom I hadn’t seen in thirty years. This seemed like a great idea when I thought of it.

  Uh, no.

  Big mistake.

  I don’t know what happened.

  Those guys got old.

  One guy who used to have hair like Tony Orlando’s turned completely bald. He looked Asian. I kept staring at him, thinking, “How the hell did that happen?” Another guy had a bad back. He could barely walk. We had to help him out of his chair every time he got up. Another guy was so heavy he wore suspenders and a belt to keep all of his jiggling fat inside his clothes.

  “Really?” I said to myself. “At fifty? Damn.”

  The worst was my best friend, who, as a kid, was the neighborhood stud. I can’t explain what happened to him except that it was scary. He looked like an aunt. A Mexican aunt.

  I knew I didn’t look as young as I once did, but these guys looked like hell. I didn’t look like them, did I? I wanted someone to tell me I looked great, but nobody said anything. Maybe they couldn’t see, either.

  As the party went on, I thought, “I’m fifty, but I can’t have aged that much.” And then I whispered a prayer: “I know I’m not the most religious person in the world, but please don’t make me look like an old Mexican lady.”

  We had a great time. We shared a lot of laughs and memories, and shed a few tears. Then, when it was time to call it a night, they all went into the same room. Twenty fat, bald, ugly guys and a Mexican aunt sharing one room with twin beds. Damn. I went back to my room, thinking, “I grew up with guys who can’t even afford a hotel room in Vegas? They practically give those rooms away.”

  When I woke up the next morning, my world changed. Everything felt like it was going downhill. It began when I realized, I’m no longer fifty. I am now in my fifties. This is horrible.

  I’m fifty going on fifty-one.

  The run-up to fifty wasn’t that bad.

  Turning fifty sucked.

  It was like I’d arrived at the door of this hot new club, Studio 51, and I’m standing outside nervously, and the bouncer says, “I don’t know if I can let you in.” And I peer inside, and I say, “Hey, this place is nice. I’d really like to get in. I know people in there. Come on. I’m George Lopez. Let me in.”

  The bouncer looks me over and says, “Okay, you can go in.”

  I stride in like I own the place. Feels great at first, but the deeper I get inside the club, the darker it gets. My legs feel wobbly, my face starts to sweat, my hands feel clammy, my vision gets blurry, and my heart sinks.

  I’m not gonna lie.

  I was fine with fifty.

  But being in my fifties?

  That could be the end of the road.

  POP GOES THE . . . WAIT, WAS THAT ME?

  I’M gonna tel
l you the truth.

  I lied. A lot.

  Okay, that’s a lie.

  I lied all the time.

  I lied to survive. And I lied because it seemed as if nobody wanted to hear the truth. I just told people what they wanted to hear. I also lied by withholding information, which is another kind of lie. Here’s one of those.

  Once, during the dark days of my marriage, I decided to surprise my wife with a bottle of champagne. Things had been sort of unraveling, and I thought a romantic evening might help us turn the ship around. I didn’t know that by then the ship had already crashed and was taking on water like the Titanic, but . . .

  Anyway, to enhance the romance, I popped a little blue pill. Yes. I took a Viagra. This was a really big deal for me, because philosophically I’m opposed to unnatural male enhancement. But I really wanted this evening to be perfect.

  Then, before I even uncorked the champagne, we got into a huge screaming fight and I stormed upstairs with a boner the size of a baseball bat.

  Great.

  I’m upstairs with a huge hard-on and nobody to offer me relief.

  Have you read the label on the Viagra bottle? I stared at it in horror. I was about to have a boner for four hours. Really? Four hours? What was I supposed to do for four hours in this condition? I couldn’t leave the house. I couldn’t phone out-call massage. My wife was downstairs, and I was betting she was not gonna understand. Or be sympathetic. All I could think of was, “How great is this? I take a pill, we get into a fight, I get a massive hard-on, and all I got up here is basic cable and DVDs of my sitcom.”

  WHEN I TURNED FIFTY, I ASKED MYSELF A QUESTION: “DO YOU WANT TO BE A LIAR YOUR WHOLE LIFE? DO YOU WANT YOUR LIFE TO BE ONE BIG LIE?”

  It also says on the bottle that if your erection lasts for more than four hours you should seek medical assistance. Really? I’m not calling my doctor. He wears thick wraparound glasses that make him look like a welder and has hair the size of an Afro coming out of both ears. If I need to call somebody to finish this off, I’m gonna text my wife downstairs and ask, “Hey, is your sister home?”