Just Between Us Read online

  Celebra

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  First published by Celebra,

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  Copyright © Via Mar Productions, Inc., 2014

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  CELEBRA and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Lopez, Mario, 1973–

  Just between us/Mario Lopez.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-698-15887-0

  1. Lopez, Mario, 1973– 2. Television actors and actresses—United States. I. Title.

  PN2287.L635A3 2014

  791.4502'8092—dc23 2014016176

  [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.

  Version_1

  To my children, Gia Francesca and Dominic . . . now you know where your old man came from.

  When I was a child, I spoke, thought, and reasoned like a child. But when I became a man, I put away childish things.

  —Corinthians 13:11

  CONTENTS

  Title page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  PROLOGUE.

  You Are Here

  CHAPTER 1.

  Straight Outta Chula

  CHAPTER 2.

  Child Actor

  CHAPTER 3.

  Saved by the Bell

  CHAPTER 4.

  Mi Vida Loca

  CHAPTER 5.

  Life After A. C. Slater

  CHAPTER 6.

  Turning Points

  CHAPTER 7.

  So You Think You Can Host?

  CHAPTER 8.

  Mazza

  ENCORE.

  Just Between Us

  Acknowledgments

  Photo Inserts

  PROLOGUE

  YOU ARE HERE

  Every now and then, the universe has an uncanny way of reaching out, tapping me on the shoulder, and bringing me back down to earth. Sometimes the message is delivered to remind me of something that I’ve forgotten or maybe just to grab my attention in the midst of my usual action-packed schedule. Other times I feel the tap more as a big jolt that leads to an important discovery or decision—like the realization that hits me early one morning as I’m getting ready to hike one of my favorite trails at Griffith Park.

  I love this park for the sheer amount of urban wilderness it contains, a refreshing break from the sprawl of Los Angeles. It’s also practically in my backyard, so it’s perfect for an early-morning hike and a good workout.

  By the time I arrive at the park and start to stretch, it’s just past six a.m. Not long after dawn, the sun has only just begun to come up. Bleary eyed, I definitely could have used that extra half hour of sleep. It’s true: as committed as I am to a daily fitness regimen, I am no fan of the five thirty a.m. alarm. Then again, this happens to be the only time to get in a little workout before the demands of the day kick in. And there’s something I love about the solitude of these early hours. The quiet is such that my inner thoughts seem like another person standing right beside me, talking and offering wise counsel.

  Well, at least that’s how it feels in these moments as I finish stretching and head over to a large park map in order to look for directions to the trail I plan to run. Standing there, I scan the map until my eyes land on the mark that shows where I am, pointing out the spot with bold red arrows and the words “You Are Here.”

  Those three words, intended to state the obvious, do have a kind of congratulatory vibe. Wouldn’t it be helpful, I think, if we could start every day with a map and a marker to tell us: “You Are Here”?

  That’s when I feel the proverbial tap on my shoulder.

  My first reaction is to ask myself if, as the map tells me, I am here, where exactly is that? More to the point: how did I get here? In truth, these aren’t easy questions to answer. But seeing as I’m about to hit the milestone birthday of forty—a big one—I realize that’s cause for reflection. Cliché as that may sound, it’s one of those rites of passages that suddenly bring me face-to-face with the past and a life lived, for the most part, at full throttle.

  It’s hard to ignore the message of “You Are Here”—it’s time to slow down, look back, and take stock of my life so far. All of it: the choices, the triumphs and defeats, the smart moves and the mistakes, and everything in between. Daunting as that can be, as I start up the trail that leads to a summit, I accept that only by recalling where I came from will I be able to see more clearly than ever where I am, who I am, and where I’m headed.

  A couple of miles later, as I reach the top, the sun has broken through the marine layer and I can’t help but smile as I look out at the sprawl of LA spread out below me. And that’s when the idea for sharing my story, no holds barred, is first conceived.

  When I glance over my shoulder at the long stretch of road I’ve taken—curving and winding from my childhood in the Latino community of Chula Vista, just outside of San Diego, all the way to the “You Are Here” map in the same park not far from the Hollywood sign—I smile, I laugh out loud, and sometimes I want to cry.

  I’ve been in show business since I was ten years old. I’ve worked in almost every arena of the entertainment industry: as a kid in numerous commercials and TV series, as a teen actor who came of age in hundreds of episodes of Saved by the Bell, as both a guest star and leading young man in a bevy of projects made for television and film, as a triple-threat stage performer on Broadway, as both a contestant and a guest judge on Dancing with the Stars, and, of course, as the host of Extra and in an array of other hosting roles, in all of which I’ve spent hundreds upon hundreds of hours interviewing countless celebrities and Hollywood luminaries. In recent years, I’ve added other endeavors to the list—as the host of my own nationally syndicated radio show and as a producer with pots simmering on multiple burners. As an entrepreneur, I can assure you that many of the lessons learned along the way have been hard won. And as a loving husband and devoted father—my most important roles—I can also say that recognizing what truly matters in life is chief among those lessons.

  There are a few reasons I chose to take on the challenge of putting down in words not just what happened in my story but how I felt at the time and especially what I learned in the process. At the top of the list was for me to make sense of mi vida loca—my crazy life—as it has been at times. Writing allows you the space to sit down, have a drink, and open yourself up to the memories. It’s about retracing your steps to gain a deeper understanding of the journey, maybe for the first time ever.

  Another reason I’m writing is to acknowledge the champions and mentors who have been there for me at every important turning point. Hopefully, I can pay it forward by sharing with you the same
brand of encouragement and belief I was given. Whatever your aspirations, I hope that my experiences might prove valuable for your own journey.

  As the pages ahead will show, I’ve made my share of mistakes. No one is perfect and I’m a prime example. But at my core, I’ve always lived by the values that my parents instilled in me and ultimately, mistakes and all, I’m proud of who I am and what I’ve done. Once I found my path and the goals that inspired me to pursue them with passion and purpose, I worked hard, giving my all. And now, man, I’m living my dream, proof of my hard work and damn good luck.

  Without question, there have been highs and lows. But life is not really about arriving at that one spot marked “You Are Here.” It’s about all the choices you make in getting there and about the consequences of those choices. That’s why I’ve decided to divulge certain stories that include intimate subject matter, some of which has to do with stupid and sometimes heartbreaking mistakes that still haunt me to this day. There are no do-overs in life, so I had to learn to pick myself up and move forward, never forgetting the lessons learned.

  At first, I was not prepared for how difficult it is to bare your soul on paper. The feeling of being exposed and vulnerable caught me off guard. So did the need to write without counting characters like on Twitter or second-guessing that last click of the send button. I soon saw that this was going to take trust and confidence to put myself out there in such a candid way. Then, after I got past my own resistance, came pushback from my agents, managers, and publicists. The buzzing in my ear from well-intentioned counsel was clear: “No, Mario, you can’t say that. Think of your image.” “No, Mario, you can’t do that; it could ruin your career.”

  Usually I listen, but this time I couldn’t. These are my stories to tell. I didn’t decide to change certain details to protect the innocent because, in Hollywood, no one is innocent. And, besides, as I’ve learned over the years, the truth is powerful. That’s a lesson I rank high under the heading of “Things I Know Now That I Wish I Knew Then.” As tempting as it is to tell people what they want to hear, I know now that the truth is the best response to every situation. Dishonesty takes too much out of life, and you don’t have to use your memory as much.

  By sharing a few of these lessons—call them truisms, or “Marioisms”—I hope to show that the experience that comes with age is a good teacher. And what I’ve had to learn many times is the truth that life is not fair. That doesn’t mean that life is bad or not fun. It means that if you spend your time looking for “fair” you’ll be missing out on a lot. All you can do is learn from the mistakes, bring your best to every endeavor, and strive to make choices that let you feel proud of yourself.

  A big one on that list for me right now, if I had it to do all over again, is that I would have kept a better journal; some of the names and details that I would love to remember have vanished with age. I’m sure that in writing this book I have neglected to mention significant individuals and the stories that go along with them.

  Along with sharing my own journey, I’ve also chosen to lift the velvet ropes to give you an insider’s look at show business. In the world of money and privilege, Hollywood lives are supposed to be the height of glamour. But that’s not the whole story. No one is famous forever, so you just have to make the most of every moment and every opportunity, no matter how much money you have today, no matter how many people recognize you as you walk down the street.

  My life is in no way as glamorous as you might assume. At my house, where my amazing, gorgeous wife, Courtney, and I are raising our two beautiful children—our three-year-old daughter, Gia, and our infant son, Dominic—the time we spend together is the same as it is for most folks. On Sundays, we usually attend church but avoid the morning rush. That means no alarm clock for me. Instead, like many of you no doubt, I get to stumble out of bed late, splash cold water on my face, and head to the kitchen. With cartoons blaring in the background, I’m greeted by my dog, Julio, trying to hump my leg as I trip over the kids’ scattered toys and find my wife in pajama bottoms and one of my old T-shirts. She hands me a cup of coffee and then, with a sweet smile, reminds me of everything I keep forgetting to do. That’s my reality.

  And that raises one more reason to write this book: so that eventually, many years into the future, my children will know about the journey I’ve taken and how it was shaped by the dreams of my parents and grandparents. In thinking about that possibility, I worry about all the lessons I have yet to teach them. Fortunately, we’ll have time to do that. Besides, they’ll want to make their own choices and learn their own lessons. Still, there is one I hope they’ll discover from my takeaways. Simply: I’d have put more trust in God for my future back then, now, and tomorrow; I know He’s got my back.

  In the end, I wrote this book for all of us. For my fans—because I genuinely appreciate your loyal support all these years—and for everyone who has had a part in my story, and, again, for me, because I rarely slow down long enough to look in the rearview mirror of my life. Up until now, my focus has been in only one direction: forward.

  Think of this as a long-overdue conversation, just between us. Thank you for coming along for the ride. For all my hesitation, I’m thrilled to get this all off my chest. My confessional booth is now open. As the map in the park was there to point out, without the past, without all its pain and glory, I wouldn’t have arrived here, right where I am, blessed to be talking to you.

  So this it: my story unfiltered, unplugged, and uncensored.

  Vámonos.

  CHAPTER 1

  STRAIGHT OUTTA CHULA

  As the bird flies north over Mexico, he passes over the border town of Tijuana and then into the United States, and comes to the first stop before arriving in San Diego—the urban enclave of Chula Vista, California. Chula born and bred, I began life right there in a modest corner house on Paisley Street and grew up in that same neighborhood littered with single-level Monopoly-looking family dwellings. The scenery was a constant. Houses landscaped with rutted lawns, angry bushes, and snarled fencing. Streets cracked and potholed from the relentless Southern California sun. Chain-link fences, stray dogs, cars parked on the front lawn.

  Chula Vista was my home, the world that raised me, and a part of my DNA. I loved it all—and still do.

  We were a little more than three miles from the border with Mexico, just across from Tijuana. People would call my hometown “Chula Juana,” because it’s practically Mexico. We didn’t cross the border; the border crossed us. As a result, living in Chula Vista—a predominantly Hispanic community—was a lot like living in Mexico. Even the signs were written in Spanish. There were taco stands and mariscos and bodegas on every block. Car radios driving through the center of Chula pumped mariachi music and the latest love songs sung by Mexican pop stars. And everybody spoke Spanish. My grandmother has been here—in this country—for fifty years and still doesn’t speak English. That’s how Mexican it was.

  The name Chula Vista literally translates to “pretty view,” and in Spanish slang becomes Mama Chula or Papi Chulo, meaning “sexy chick” or “sexy daddy.” So I guess you could say I grew up in “Sexy Town.” If that was to be part of my heritage, you would never have guessed it back when I was a baby. In fact, as my mom would often recall in the midst of family gatherings (in case anyone didn’t know or had forgotten), “Mario was the fattest baby you’ve ever seen in your life!”

  How fat was I? So fat, Mom would say, “I used to have to spread his skin apart to clean between the chubby rolls.”

  Other family members would soon start to comment, laughing and shaking their heads, as if they still couldn’t believe how fat I was. Next thing I knew, somebody would bring out baby pictures to prove it.

  And here’s the truth: I really did look like one of those shar-pei dogs. Or a Mexican Buddha. The reason, Mom would explain, was that I was breast-fed until after my first birthday and yet I would still eat everything in sight.r />
  Luckily, I eventually outgrew my chubster stage. Even luckier was that I lived to tell the tale of what happened earlier, right after my birth, when by all the laws of modern medicine I was expected to die.

  My mother tells this story even better than I do. Whenever the subject came up at a big get-together and she began to reminisce, you could hear a pin drop. Clearly, this was a traumatic memory for the relatives who went through it with my parents. At the time of my birth, my mom, Elvia Trasvina Lopez, and my dad, Mario Alberto Lopez, had been married for two and a half years. Both my mom and dad and their families came from the same city in Mexico—Culiacán, the capital city of Sinaloa—although they didn’t meet until they both lived here. They were also each around nineteen years old when they arrived, separately, of course, and legally—or, as we all used to joke in Chula Vista, at least I think it was legal. In any case, they were already bona fide U.S. citizens when they met in San Diego.

  By that point, my dad had lived all over California before settling in the area and my mom had come directly to San Diego with her family. Without a doubt, Elvia must have had lots of young men pursuing her in those days. A beautiful woman with infectious energy that people would gravitate toward throughout her life, she had at one time worked as a model for runway and local fashion shows. Rather than being a girly girl, however, my mom was always just as comfortable in jeans and a T-shirt. Down-to-earth, charismatic, bright, and on the go, she also had this heart of gold and naturally took charge whenever family or friends in the neighborhood needed her help—like an angel. No wonder she caught my dad’s eye.

  As it so happened, Mom’s brother, my tío Victor, knew my father before my parents met. Now, when it comes to machismo, my father wrote that book. He is a classic man’s man, as old school as it gets. Always making sure he stays in shape, he’s long been known for his physique: broad shouldered with big arms, a big chest, and big strong hands, and yet also as compact as a pit bull. Plus, he doesn’t usually filter what he says or to whom—which, in his younger days, meant he didn’t play by the rules and got himself into a bar fight or two. Well, that’s how he met my uncle. Seems that they got into a fight over a girl they were both interested in. But because Dad knew how to shake hands after fists had flown, Tío Victor figured this guy was a gentleman and they became friends.