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by: Patrick Doyle

“This things ready to puff, just about,” says WIllie Nelson, staring at a small rocket-shaped marijuana vaporizer on the kitchen table of his tour bus. It’s a scorching New Jersey summer afternoon, and Nelson is waiting patiently for a blinking light to signal that the device is ready to use. “It turned green, almost.” But after he managed only a few hits, it loses power completely. Onboard Willie’s bus, this is not a major problem. “We ought to have something else around here somewhere,” he says. “Oh, I know where one is.”

He digs around and emerges with a Volcano – a high-end vaporizer that works by pumping THC fumes into a big plastic bag with a mouthpiece. He bought it on the recommendation of his buddy Woody Harrelson ($600.00!” Nelson notes). He places it on the table next to a shiny, vintage Hopalong Cassidy lunchbox, which he opens to reveal a giant stash of bright-green, sparkling buds with several buried joints mixed in. “See how this works,” he says, as the platic bag inflates with vapor. He pushes the stop button at the last minute, just when it looks like it’s almost ready to explode. “He overfills everything,” says his wife, Annie, rolling her eyes as she mixes an iced coffee.” That’s what I do,” Nelson says with a grin. “The things we have to live with…”

It’s another day aboard the Honeysuckle Rose, Nelson’s tour bus of the past 35 years. He’s parked outside a four-star hotel, but, as usual, Nelson slept on the bus, ambling out of his bedroom after 2 p.m., his hair tangled and unbraided, in a T-Shirt and woman’s Ugg slippers (they’re more comfortable, says his wife.) His face is deeply lined, eyes bleary. No wonder; he’s in the middle of a grueling East Coast run — 15 shows in 16 days. At 80, he still spends at least 200 nights a year on the road, with the same band since 1973, with sets drawing mostly from his 20 number one country hits. In the past year, he’s released two albums ranging from originals to covers of Pearl Jam and Coldplay, and his fourth book, Roll me Up and Smoke Me When I Die”.

“He makes it look real easy,” says old friend Merle Haggard, who has known Nelson for over 50 years. “He’s on all the time. Any time you call on him, he can handle it and be Willie Nelson. And the older you get, the harder that gets to do.” Off the road, Nelson unwinds in Maui, playing golf and staying up late with neighbors Harrelson and Owen Wilson. Or he goes to his 700-acre ranch just outside Austin, which includes a replica of an Old West town (with a recording studio and a church) and a public golf course (rules include “No shoes, no shirt no problem'” and “Tell your spouse you’re in a conference’). But even in Austin, Nelson says, “I hang out on the bus. I feel at home here.”

This particular bus – the Honeysuckle Rose IV – has clocked more than a million miles. Inside, tan leather couches face a giant flat screen TV, which is connected to a Nintendo Wii covered in resin-y finger prints. He stays up until three or four in the morning watching old Westerns, learning new songs and listening to his SiriusXM channel, Willie’s Roadhouse. “He has less responsibilities on the road,” says Nelson’s longtime harmonica player Mickey Raphael. “It’s really where he gets his rest.”

Nelson swears his weed habit causes not negative health effects (he quit drinking years ago) — even as he brags that he may smoke more than any entertainer in history. “Snoop can come close.” Nelson says. “But he’s the first to admit that he can’t stay up with me.” Last year, though, he was forced to cancel one show after he wound up in a Colorado hospital with breathing problems related to emphysema. “I’ve got oxygen in the back if I really need it,” he says. He’s cut back on joints in favor of his wife’s homemade cannabis chocolates — he’s even trying to persuade her to open a dispensary. “It’s medicine for him,” Annie says.

Nelson isn’t always this mellow, he admits his temper can flare up occasionally. “You can see his pupils dilate and his eyes get kind of black,” Annie says. “Pretty much everybody who knows him knows that that is not a good sign.”

As powerful weed vapor fills the bus, Nelson leans back and gets comfortable. “Guy went o the doctor of a physical,” he says. “The doctor says, “First of all, you need to stop masturbating.’ The guys sayd, “Why? Doctor says, “So I can examine you.'” Nelson is stone faced for a minute, before his eyes squint and he raises his chin, erupting in staccato laughter that shakes his entire body. Afterward, sounding a little sad, he notes. “There’s not that many new jokes going around. Yeah, you don’t hear that many new ones.”

P[erhaps to deflect the pain of a life that’s seen more than its share of heartbreak — he was orphaned as a child, has had three failed marriages and spent much of the 80’s in an epic battle with the IRS — Nelson has developed a laser like focus on the present. “I don’t believe in looking back,” he says. “It’d be easy to look back and regret things that have happened. But you can’t do anything about that, and you can’t do anything about what’s going to happen tomorrow. All you can control is s what’s going on around right now.”

Two hours later, Nelson is onstage at the New Jersey Performing Arts Center in Newark, his hair braided under a black Stetson. He starts stabbing the raunchy opening chords to “Whiskey River” on Trigger, the same hole-punched Martin guitar he’s playing since 1969 — and the classics come at a furious pace: “Crazy,” “Night Life’ and “On the Road Again.” Fans have complained that Nelson’s set lists haven’t changed much since the Carter administration, but Nelson shrugs at the idea of doing shows of more obscure material. “If I went to see Hank Williams, I’d wanna see “Your Cheatin’ Heart”, he says. “I don’t mind playing the hits. I’m glad I got ’em.”

After signing autographs for fans in the front row as the band plays, Nelson poses for photos with some fans backstage, before heading back to the Bus. A Colbert episode is cued up as the bus fills with family: Nelson’s daughters Amy and Lana, his great-niece Ellee and three of her friends. Fifteen minutes later, the bus pulls into Newark’s Penn Station, where pedestrians gape at the mysterious cowboy bus – some even bang on it. As Nelson’s family spills onto the street to take a train into Manhattan for the night, Nelson waves them off and stays on board.

“I think I gotta be somewhere,” he says.”