I'm Not Gonna Lie Page 3

  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.

  SAFE SOX

  SPEAKING of golf . . .

  Late one afternoon, a week after I turned fifty, I walked the back nine on a golf course near my house. The course was empty, so I took my time, strolling leisurely until it started to get dark. This is one of my favorite times of day on a golf course. I love late afternoon, when the shadows get long and the light turns a soft shade of purple, and I love early morning, when the air is cool and crisp and smells of freshly cut grass.

  That afternoon I walked alone down the fairway, stopping occasionally to hit a few shots. I didn’t keep score. I rarely do. I’m not interested in the number. How I play is much more important to me than how I score.

  As shadows spread over the fairway and darkened the rim of a peanut-shaped sand trap, for some reason I saw a vision of myself as a ten-year-old boy. Me and golf. We go way back together. More than forty years. And whenever I imagine myself as a kid, I’m not playing baseball or the guitar or riding a pony; I’m holding a golf club and smiling.

  I taught myself how to play. I’d always loved watching golf on TV, especially the majors—the Masters, the U.S. Open, the PGA, and my favorite, the British Open, now called the Open. During commercials, I’d grab this old rusted golf club my grandmother kept around the house and I’d go into the backyard. I’m not sure how we ended up with a golf club. I think it was in case we heard a noise.

  We didn’t have any golf balls, but we had the next-best thing: a lemon tree. I figured lemons are sort of round—well, oval, but in the round family—and even though a lemon doesn’t have dimples like a golf ball, it has a rough surface. I thought it was a pretty good substitute. Hey, I was ten. At least I knew that a grapefruit probably wouldn’t work.

  I pulled a bunch of lemons off the tree and placed them on the ground. I stepped up to each one and, copying the form I’d seen my favorite golfers use, in particular Lee Trevino, I got into my stance and swung at the lemons, cranking it up with all I had, trying to hit those lemons over the backyard fence.

  I learned pretty quickly that lemons are not at all like golf balls.

  If you hit a lemon on the button, it squirts. Guess you’d call that the sweet spot. Sometimes—rarely—I’d get some lift, and a lemon would fly over the fence and fall into our neighbor’s yard. I knew I hit a good shot if I bounced a lemon off my neighbor’s dog. The dog would howl and then charge up to the fence and bark at the top of his lungs like Cujo, angry as hell. It was great, because my grandmother would start yelling at the neighbor, “Tell your dog to shut up! I need my rest!”

  Most of the time, though, I’d whack a lemon, slice it open, and lemon juice would just squirt out. I guess that’s where the expression “turning lemons into lemonade” comes from—a ten-year-old Mexican-American kid hitting lemons with a rusty old golf club in the backyard. I’ll tell you this: When I got older and started playing golf for real with actual golf balls, shooting at pins and greens instead of at my neighbor’s yard, I discovered that a golf ball was a lot easier to hit than a squishy lemon.

  That afternoon, as I walked up the eighteenth fairway, I started thinking about my life and turning fifty and about all the things I wanted to do before I died. I’d accomplished a lot in my fifty years. I’d spent an evening at the White House, dining with the president of the United States. I’d become friends with some of my idols from show business and sports. I’d succeeded in my chosen career, achieved a little fame and a fair amount of money, which I’ve happily shared with others and unhappily with my ex-wife. I’d survived a serious health scare and set up a foundation to help fight kidney disease. I felt blessed. I’d been granted almost all my wishes. I once read about a guy who asked a wise man, “What do you do when your dreams come true?” The wise man said, “Keep dreaming.”

  I paused near the lip of the eighteenth green and a crazy thought came into my head, something I wanted to do more than anything else. A personal quest. I decided that I would pla
y every one of the top hundred golf courses in the world.

  You have to consider any list with a hundred items on it a huge challenge. Especially for me, because it involved literally traveling the world. I love to travel, but I was a late starter. When I was a kid, my grandparents never took me anywhere. We hardly left the house. Well, that’s not fair. I did go to a few places. I went to:

  The front yard.

  The backyard.

  School.

  Kmart.

  The liquor store.

  I might’ve missed a couple places. Let me think. Well, Jack in the Box, but that doesn’t count, because we didn’t get out of the car.

  No. We did not go places. We didn’t go to the beach. We didn’t go to the movies. We didn’t go to restaurants.

  So I dreamed. I dreamed I went to Disneyland and Dodger Stadium and the Forum. I imagined myself at magnificent white beaches in Hawaii and striding down the windswept fairways of historic golf courses in Scotland.

  Now, here comes the weird part.

  I didn’t picture my face in those places.

  I pictured my feet.

  Yes, my feet.

  Especially as I got older and I imagined myself stepping onto those famous golf courses, I saw my feet stepping down onto the first tee at Augusta National. I watched my feet walking down the fairways at Pebble Beach and Spyglass Hill, the waves of the Pacific crashing below. I said to myself, “One day, my feet are gonna be there.”

  Feet. Feet matter. Feet are significant.

  Think about it.

  When you play golf, hitting a good shot depends on how you move your hips, how you shift your weight, and—very important—where you place your feet. Your stance. You have to adjust the position of your feet every time you hit a different club.

  Your feet are your foundation. Your anchors. Your feet ground you. Literally. It’s not just me; I’m not the only one who feels this way about feet. Feet are part of our culture.

  What do you find in the cement in front of the famous Grauman’s Chinese Theatre in Hollywood, or in the sidewalks throughout Hollywood?