Still Growing: An Autobiography (9 page)

BOOK: Still Growing: An Autobiography
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Someone somewhere along the way started the Gum Wall. Folklore says it was me, but I don’t remember—though I admit, it sounds like something I would have done. Personally, I think Jeremy did it. I suppose that whoever it was got caught at the last moment, realized that he needed to be onstage
now
, forgot to remove the gum from his mouth, and impulsively stuck it on the backside of the Seaver living room wall. It didn’t take very long before everyone else decided this was a great place to stash his or her gum, too. For years, the blob grew until it looked like a giant, multicolored tumor. Alan says we should have sold it on eBay. Too bad no one thought of saving the sick monstrosity.

Don’t Waste Another Minute on Your Cryin’
 

As a performer, I enjoyed drawing out tears—of laughter.

My on-set nickname was “Devil Boy,” and it was anyone’s guess when I’d strike again. Pranks were Devil Boy’s mission. I was known to steal keys and hide cars in bushes on other sets. There was the “Morning
glory” stink bomb that wafted its lovely odors from underneath the bleachers on tape night (usually during a “Carol” scene), the Vaseline on toilet seats, the snakes slithering onto set, the missing director’s chairs that were eventually found hanging from the rafters, and the time when Alan the Muffin Man found all his muffin tops missing because Devil Boy had gotten there first.

Some of my best pranks were played on the cameramen. If I was feeling particularly devilish on tape night, I’d stealthily switch the focus and zoom cables on the cameras during our dinner break. When the cameramen were under the gun—live in front of the audience—trying to frame a close-up, the shot would simply go out of focus. When they’d scramble to re-focus, the shot would zoom in.

I also found that taping toothpicks to a wheel on the camera pedestal did a fine job of destroying a smooth dolly move to the right. The beauty of this stunt was that it was next to impossible to find the toothpick—not only because the wheels had covers, but also because there were three wheels the toothpick could be taped to.

Jeremy was my partner in crime, especially in school. We wrote notes and pinned them to the back of our teacher’s corduroy jacket. The notes said things like “I hate puppies,” “I wish I didn’t work on
Growing Pains
,” “Bring back the original Carol,” and so on.

One note wasn’t enough. The challenge grew and soon we were taping notes to the notes until the teacher had a tail 20 notes long, flapping around behind him as he went about our tiny classroom.

I noticed that phone techs could make a phone ring and asked one to teach me how. When the teacher wasn’t looking, I punched in the code. When it rang, I said, “I’ll get it.”

“Oh, hi, John,” I pretended to say to the director. Then I pulled out my disappointed voice. “But I just got back to school . . . uh-huh . . . well, as long as it’s quick, I don’t want to miss study time. I’ll be right in.” I hung up and turned to the teacher. “I guess they need me for a scene,” and off I went.

Sometimes I took Jeremy and Tracey with me, borrowing a golf cart and charging off to the
Fantasy Island
set, which had dirt roads going into a jungle of banana trees, bamboo, pine trees and palms. We tried to catch some of the feral cats that prowled around in their own private world,
mostly just attempting to get lost so no one could find us. Eventually we sauntered back to our jobs, innocent as lambs.

I could never really get in trouble, because, well . . . what were they going to do, fire me? That was the fun of it. Who was gonna get mad at the kid with the cute, crooked smile?

We’re Nowhere Near the End
 

Although our long weeks made for a very exhausting life, every three weeks we had a week off and that helped. Sometimes I got burnt out, usually at the end of a season. I got tired of trying to learn new lines while hoping to forget the ones I’d just memorized a few days before.

Before we wrapped for the year, a film editor took clips from the show and other assorted set silliness to create a gag reel. Reflecting on the fun we’d had reminded us just how fortunate we were to be working with each other. (And hey, we weren’t diggin’ ditches or selling grapefruit by the side of the road.)

During the three-month hiatus breaks, I hung out at home, went on vacation with my family, and even went back to public school for a bit so I could keep up with my friendships. I also found time to shoot the films
The Best of Times, Like Father, Like Son, Listen to Me
and
A Little Piece of Heaven
.

The Best Is Ready to Begin
 

Those were good years. For a while, each season was more fun than the last. There was so much camaraderie between everyone—writers, directors, cast and the regular crew.

Alan Thicke appreciated the “genuine sense of family, which is especially important if you’re raising kids and coming off a colossal, resounding failure. I loved the warmth, the positive-ness that comes from a successful show. I like what it stood for. Jason Seaver’s values were close to my own. I often found myself saying things at home that I said on the show. Of course, it’s easier to parent when you have eleven writers following you around.”

Joanna Kerns said, “I loved coming to work every day. I loved playing a character I could live with. The security of that job for an actor opened so many doors for me. It changed my life. All we did is laugh. We had it so great.”
3

Notes

1
. From an interview with Lissa Halls Johnson.

2
. Ibid.

3
. Ibid.

Chapter 6
 
TV’s Best Kept Secrets
 

I lived in front of cameras during the stage when my Tic Tac-sized baby teeth were being replaced with chompers the size of Chicklets.

Being the model child that I was, I loved going to the dentist. Well, at least to “the Flipper King.” Child actors were required to wear “flippers”—false teeth—that covered the mangy condition all developing mouths go through. A flipper was a kid-sized denture that fit in the mouth to fill in the missing teeth or to make teeth appear straight if they were naturally crooked. It was molded to fit perfectly to each specific mouth and give the wearer a smile that would make Joel Osteen jealous.

If it wasn’t snug, the result was a lisp—and only Cindy Brady could pull that off. They were expensive, uncomfortable to wear and required many hours of rehearsal in front of a mirror to learn how to speak without showering people in spittle. Every time the size of my mouth changed (something I had very little control over), my mom had to cart me back to the Flipper King for a new, pricey set of flippers.

It was only the beginning of my education on selling product. Whether it was a food commercial, a detergent ad, a soft drink promotion or a cheesy infomercial, there was so much to learn about the art of the sale.

Hawkin’ It
 

When I was little, I believed everything I saw on television commercials. Leprechauns made cereal with tie-dyed marshmallows, a bald man was responsible for cleaning products and a Jolly Green Giant harvested my
corn. (Okay, I was gullible, but I wasn’t Tracey Gold-gullible! I knew the difference between make-believe and real—though Bigfoot had me goin’ for a little while.)

When I started working in commercials, I quickly learned some rules for hawking products:

1. Audiences like their soda in
frosty
mugs. It should look straight out of Santa’s Village.

2. People respond to cereal floating in
foamy
milk.

3. When lapping up soup, viewers like to see kids dressed in cable knit sweaters by a fire.

4. A golden retriever in the background never hurt the sale of anything.

Another phenomenon I observed was the way advertisers embellished products to make them look more alluring. For example, in a cereal commercial, each Cheerio seen on camera was hand selected by a professional in the art of Food Props to ensure there was not a deformed O in the bunch. Sometimes he even sprayed them with shellac to really gloss ’em up. We were often warned not to eat the props.

All food designed to look perfect to the viewing audience was called “hero food.” To create a heaping bowl of chili, marbles were hidden under the gruel to give it that extra chunky vibe. Hamburgers required “hero” pieces of lettuce and tomatoes. The art of melting a slice of cheese over the corner of a perfect burger is something film students can probably major in. The 50 replacement hero burgers were kept under lock and key like precious rubies. Dozens had to be prepped, as food wilted quickly under the bright, hot lights and dry air.

“Mmm, this burger tastes better than the ones they make in heaven!” I said, doing my best to really sell the awful scripted line.

“Cut!” the director barked, and that was my cue to regurgitate the hunk of meat into a spit pail. Instantly a team of professionals jumped into action.

Each person on the crew carried out an important part of the entire production. There were very specific departments, each belonging to
their own union. If the food props guy was asked to move a book from one side of the set to the other, he refused—it wasn’t his job. He had to get the set dresser to move it. If the actor touched the book, it became the responsibility of the props person. (Yes, props are different from
food
props.) There’s a little saying that helped me keep things straight:
If it’s on the set, it’s set dressing. If an actor wears it, it’s wardrobe. If someone touches it, it’s a prop. If it’s smoking, it’s special effects. If it forgets its lines, it’s an actor
.

Directors had trade secrets for selling product. During my white-water rafting Wrigley’s gum commercial, the director taught us how to insert the gum into our mouths so it would fold in a visually pleasing way. We learned how to take a long piece of gum and get it to hit the tongue just right so it collapsed perfectly between our (fake flipper) teeth.

It didn’t matter what it was we were selling, we had to look perfect and the product had to look perfect. Fortunately, we had lots of tricks up our sleeves to make that possible.

It didn’t take long to learn that in Hollywood, make-up wasn’t just for girls anymore. The bright stage lights made it necessary for even us manly men to put a little color on our faces. I sat in a tall director’s chair, sometimes with my name ironed on the back—I felt Hollywood-cool. (If Evian water had existed in the ’80s, I’m sure I would have demanded it with my bony index finger pointing to the sky.) It was great getting all that attention—people hovering over me to brush my hair or powder my face. I didn’t have to do anything but sit there and enjoy the pampering.

The next room I entered smelled of Aqua Net. Hairspray was all the rage in the ’80s. Even boys were under the influence of blown-out Farrah hair.

At some point, my face ceased to be as clear as a cloudless sky. Zits started popping up left and right, threatening to end my career as a doe-eyed pitchman. It wasn’t so bad during the pre-teen years. But when I reached the age where it looked like sun-dried tomatoes were sprouting on my face, it was far more humiliating. “Wait a minute!” the make-up artist said before dipping into an industrial-sized tub of concealer to cover all my zits.

It only got worse when I became famous. In public, people would come up and say, “Wow, you don’t have that many zits on
Growing Pains
.” As a result, I spent a lot of time in my room, hiding from those comments and the embarrassment of my face.

Photo Op
 

Magazine photographers often came to my house on the weekends when I had more time to pose for their hunky photo spreads. My sister Bridgette said she hated waking up on a Saturday morning, bleary and wanting to stumble to the kitchen, to electrical cords snaking through the house. “Not again,” she’d groan.

Some of the clothes they brought for me were cool—Ocean Pacific, IZOD, Members Only—but some of it was dorkier than the uniform my mom used to make me wear for auditions. The wardrobe stylists for these teeny-bopper mags dressed me in a jacket or sweatshirt with one sleeve rolled up over the shoulder to show my muscles. The photographer instructed, “Kirk, put your chin down. Now flex and peer out with a look that says ‘I’ve got a secret.’ That’s it. Hold still, I think I see a hint of tricep!”

It cracked me up. Some of the posters made me look all steamy and sultry. I was a 14-year-old kid! What were the posters implying? I wasn’t Don Johnson or Bruce Willis. I didn’t have hair on my chest, like Hawaii-based PIs or men with talking cars. I’d never even been on a date.

My publicist wanted to break my Mike Seaver image and reinvent a new, edgy Kirk Cameron. When the stylist finished with me, I looked like a young Charles Manson on skid row, with an inclination towards transgenderism.

There are so many misconceptions about life as a celebrity.

False:
People think stars are unusual people
.

The truth is, actors are just like everyone else with the same vulnerable feelings, the same desire to be deeply known for who they really are.

BOOK: Still Growing: An Autobiography
11.69Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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