Still Growing: An Autobiography (15 page)

My Crib

Most young people work for years to build up enough of a nest egg to buy a home. One of the lifestyle perks was that I bought my own house when I was 18 years old.

I found this really cool house in Simi Valley, California, in a hippie-biker area called Santa Susanna Knolls. The place was rustic and unconventional and, as legend had it, built with drug money. An eight-foot barbed-wire fence surrounded the property and the windows were set high in the stone walls so that outsiders couldn’t see in. It had a bell tower that housed an old school bell with a rope that hung into the kitchen—probably to signal when police or shipments arrived.

I lived in my own Swiss Family Robinson digs, built on seven levels against a steep hillside. It was so in sync with nature. It had patios
resting on boulders on the hillside. It had wood burning stoves in the bedroom and one in the den.

The top level above the main house was a guest quarters with a little loft bed, wood-burning stove, sink, toilet and a smokin’ view of Simi Valley. Outside the guest quarters was a big bathtub. Yes, a white porcelain bathtub plumbed up with hot water, perched outside on the rocks to take baths in the breeze. There was nothing like it.

I didn’t live there long because I met and married a girl who preferred a quaint condo by the lake. Sadly, my cool mountain cabin burned down not long after I moved out.

A fan is a strange thing to have. I’m not talking about whirling blades that provide relief in the heat. I’m referring to enthusiastic admirers, ardent devotees. Who was I to have
fans
—throngs of people who wanted a piece of me?

Thanks to my job, the Camerons could no longer have Friday night dinners at Mission Burrito without being swamped with attention. I had to stop going with my friends to Disneyland and Six Flags Magic Mountain. I could wear sunglasses and a baseball hat, but it only took a glimpse of my crooked smile or curly hair for someone to recognize me.

I eventually created a disguise I wore in public. I sported a mustache, boots, round sunglasses, slick hair and ratty jeans supported by a belt with a large buckle. I walked with a swagger, speaking to my friends (who called me “Dale Olson”) in a bad Southern twang. It was like a reality show where the makeover had gone tragically, painfully awry.
I
looked like a fresh-faced, wannabe cowhand.
It
looked like a Halloween costume.

Once “Dale” swaggered his way through a mall that proved a bit too humid for the mustache. It slipped until one side drooped over my lips like a caterpillar falling from a branch. I high-tailed it out of the mall with one finger on my ’stache, wondering if people were commenting on the frenzied, nose-picking cowboy. The only thing worse would have been for them to recognize me and ask, “Why is Kirk Cameron dressed as a hillbilly? What some people will do for attention . . .”

I wondered why I couldn’t just go about my business and have folks leave me alone. The truth is, I didn’t understand things from their perspective. Now, years later, I have better insight into the eagerness of
fans. I realize they are just very excited to meet someone they never thought they would.

I was a fan myself. I was a huge
Happy Days
fan back in the day. As a family, we watched it every single night. There was no cooler man on the planet than The Fonz. You remember: the guy who could walk into a room, snap his fingers and have every girl in the place instantly on his arm ready to snuggle up and slow dance.

I remember the first time I met Henry Winkler. I was invited to a fundraiser to benefit a hospital that specialized in helping burned children. The event was at Mr. Winkler’s house. Once I arrived, I scanned the crowd, looking intently for the man in the black leather jacket, with the perfectly combed hair and a girl attached to his hip. Suddenly I was interrupted by a very short, soft-spoken Jewish man in a three-piece suit. He looked at me very sincerely, and said in a voice as soft as bunny fur, “Thank you for coming today, Kirk. My name is Henry Winkler.”

I about fell over.
The Fonz in a suit?!
My hero with gray hair and no blue jeans or black leather cool? When I got over the initial shock of the physical discrepancy, I slipped into that star-struck fog in which time appears to stand still. Your brain doesn’t work, you say things you later lament, your words don’t make sense and your adrenalin turns your ears red and makes your hands sweat. Quite simply, you are
beyond
excited.

It happened to me three times in my teenage years. The other two times were when I met Brooke Shields and Arnold Schwarzenegger.

So I understand how people feel when they walk down the street and see Mike Seaver. They’re genuinely excited to meet someone they grew up with, someone who made them laugh in the cozy safety of their living room or den.

As I matured, I learned to really appreciate my fans. I enjoyed talking with people from all walks of life. It was cool hearing that
Growing Pains
comforted them and brought joy into their lives. So many found a surrogate family in the Seavers—the family they wished they’d had. Some just identified with another happy family, as I had watching
The Brady Bunch
. I especially enjoyed hearing stories from guys who permed their hair like mine hoping to attract the ladies, or patterned their pubescent pranks after Mike Seaver’s and got into just as much trouble as
he did. What these young guys forgot was that I had 12 professional writers to get me out of the trouble they got me into.

I didn’t mind giving fans my time—when I had it to give. After all, it was their support that kept
Growing Pains
on the air. But it
was
challenging when each meal eaten in a restaurant was interrupted every few minutes by an excited person wanting to chat and ask for an autograph. Their comments were rarely brief.

So I developed my own ways of dealing with the never-ending interruption: I discovered that if I made eye contact, people saw it as an invitation to come talk to me—so I stopped looking at people. I’m sure many thought I was unfriendly and aloof, but there came a point when I could no longer please everyone and retain any part of life to call my own. I wasn’t the type of guy who enjoyed disappointing people, but my Just Say No policy started to apply to more than just drugs.

If fans came to my table at a restaurant, I tried the polite approach. Sometimes I signed the autographs and let them say what they wanted to say. Other times, when I was in the middle of an intense or important conversation, I might say, “I’d be happy to take a picture with you as soon as I’m finished with my meal.”

Some took the hint, others snapped at me. One time while enjoying a family reunion at an inn in Geneseo, New York, my mouth was entirely occupied by the Surf ’n’ Turf special. An impatient fan didn’t want to wait for her autograph, so she blurted loud enough for all to hear, “Boy, you sure are a lot funnier on TV. And you’re a much bigger slob when you eat.” Comments like that just sucked the joy out of lunch.

I was amazed at the people who thought I was horribly impolite for not accommodating them
that instant
—and said so. They never considered themselves rude for interrupting
my
meal to talk.

That’s the irony to me. People say, “I don’t want to interrupt you, but . . .” followed by complete, utter interruption. They
do
want to interrupt you; they just don’t want you to get ticked with them for doing so. If you, on the other hand, kindly ask them to wait until your meal is over, they go off on you! I often wonder how
they
would feel if a stranger approached them, asked them to put down their fork, sign a napkin, smile with food stuck in their teeth for a picture to be posted
on the Internet, and then launch into a walk down memory lane while the food turns stone cold.

I stopped trying to run quick errands. A five-minute trip to the grocery store turned into an hour when a gaggle of fans all wanted “just a minute of my time.” Sure, if only one person wanted a minute of my time, it wouldn’t be an issue. But when 20 fans each wanted a minute (which was
never
a minute) and I needed to be somewhere in 10, it simply wasn’t possible.

I trained myself to be oblivious to the gawking of those around me. Being followed every step through a store could be very unnerving, so I had to block out everything around me or feel more self-conscious than I already did. The staring alone could ruin my day if I paid too much attention to it.

Once I was on an ocean rafting adventure in Hawaii with friends. Two young ladies from England apparently sat with their backs to the gorgeous scenery, staring at me the entire trip. Even though they couldn’t have been more than four feet away, I had no idea they were ogling me until one of my buddies mentioned it. I was busy staring at the beauty of Kauai’s wild north coast, and they were busy staring at me. Talk about misplaced priorities. Those poor girls stepped onto land having no idea what they had missed. If I hadn’t ignored their stares, I, too, would have missed the splendor of the island—and had the pleasure stolen from my trip.

Fans have cut locks of my hair, ripped off pieces of my clothing and appeared uninvited at my home. One girl, after standing in line to get an autograph, literally passed out the moment she got to speak to me. Even worse, she fell off the stage and broke her leg.

My sisters love to tell stories about their experiences when fans mobbed me.

At car shows, a limousine was usually used to get me safely through the crowds. After one appearance, I crawled into the limo along with my mother and sisters. On my way into the car, a girl shoved a handful
of rose petals into my jacket pocket. As usual, excited girls jumped up and down, squealed and screamed my name. I thought I’d do something sweet and toss the rose petals to the fans as we drove away—something for them to keep as mementos.

I rolled down the tinted window a few inches and scattered the petals as the car moved slowly through the crowd.

“
Kirk!
” Mom shouted. “What do you think you are doing?!”

Her warning was too late. The moment the window opened, girls shoved their little hands through the gap, trying to grab me.

Mom frantically tried to bat their hands away in order to roll up the window—only she succeeded in trapping my arm. We drove off, my arm pinched between the window and the frame.

Parades brought out the craziest moments. At a Just Say No parade in Chicago, Tracey Gold and I were on top of a tower as emcees for the parade. The story is more interesting from the point of view of those below, so I’ll let my sister Bridgette tell it:

The plan was for this limo to show up behind the tower. Kirk and Tracey would come down and get inside this getaway car. But somehow, the word got out. When Mom and I got to the car, there were gobs of girls screaming, waving, surrounding the base of the tower. Hundreds of them. Mom and I were staring up at Kirk, who was stuck. Every time he tried to climb down, the girls grabbed at his legs.

“What are we going to do?” Mom asked the security guard.

“Get inside and wait,” he told us. “We’ll have to snatch Kirk off the tower and shove him in.”

Mom and I couldn’t see through the tinted windows until suddenly, the door flew open and someone literally threw Kirk inside.

We didn’t go anywhere. The car rocked and bounced as the hysterical girls swarmed all over it, pounding on the windows,
shrieking and screaming, “Kirk, Kirk, Kirk. We love you, Kirk!” Some of the girls sobbed.

I couldn’t believe it.
For my brother?
I was thinkin’.
Get over it
.

The driver honked the horn. The girls at the front of the car startled a little but didn’t leave. He laid on the horn and they still didn’t move. He tried inching forward, but that didn’t work either.

Mom and I huddled together, scared of these maniac girls. I was afraid one was going to break a window.

Finally the driver jumped out of the car and started screaming, “Get out of the way!”

Somehow between the guards and the shouting limo driver, we were able to make a very slow getaway.

It’s nerve-racking to have the entire world looking for your flaws. My sister Candace’s first kiss of her life was on television. Magazines reported every normal, fluctuating weight pattern and evaluated them in detail. Tracey Gold developed anorexia, in part as a result of the never-ending pressures and critical attention to her appearance. My every teenage insecurity is now available on DVD and for download on AOL.

When some people watch a show long enough, they become very bold when they approach an actor in person. They feel connected on some level because they spent 30 minutes a week with their “television friends,” and this sometimes leads to a sense of entitlement—which, in turn, leads to very bad manners.

I’m dumbfounded at the things fans have said to me, presumably without thinking. When I was going through puberty they liked to walk up and say, “Wow, nice zits” or “You’re a lot skinnier than you are on the show.” For a guy who worked out in the gym two hours a day, five days a week, s
kinny
was not the physique I was going for.