Still Growing: An Autobiography (13 page)

I didn’t have a costumer at home. At my junior high graduation, my friends wore dress shirts and slacks. I sported a white tuxedo shirt—the kind with tails hanging down to my knees—shiny snake skin pants and a bowtie fastened around my neck. Not around the shirt collar. Around my neck.

My favorite teen outfit (when left to my own devices) consisted of a Prince T-shirt, red high-tops and black parachute pants, legs pegged three inches over my ankles. I also had acid-washed jeans, of course. My sisters and I laid our brand-new jeans on the concrete driveway,
got a bucket of bleach and splashed the jeans to make them look like spotted cowhide.

Murdered chickens, piercings, two sips of tequila, junior high restrooms, shameful choices in clothing—now you’ve seen the wild side of Kirk Cameron. Told ’ya.

Somehow, I was the only one who missed
I Love Lucy
as a staple of my childhood.
Happy Days
—sure.
The Brady Bunch
—couldn’t get enough. But
Lucy
must have run during my snake-feeding or sister-torturing sessions.

Looking back, my lack of TV history knowledge at that stage in my career is really embarrassing—especially because acting is my profession. I was making a lot of money from an industry with no appreciation of its pioneers.

Bob Hope invited me to be a part of a few of his TV specials. I only knew him as “the old dude who entertained the troops.” At the taping of the first special, I found myself in my trailer, getting mic’d (the awkward part before any live performance, when a complete stranger runs his cold hand inside your clothes and burrows a wireless microphone in any crevice he can find). I was nervous about the show, trying to remember what Bob wanted me to do. My mom sat across from me in a recliner, eating a snack and reminding me of the lyrics to the song I would perform.

A guy poked his head through the door. “Mr. Cameron, Lucille Ball would like to meet you.”

I didn’t even know who this Lucille was.
Another crazed girl? Give me my peace!
I mumbled to myself. I couldn’t believe someone would interrupt me during my prep time.

“I’m sorry, I’m busy right now,” I shot back. “I’ll get to her when I can.”

My mother spit up a little of the caramel corn she was working on. “Kirk! You can’t do that! You need to drop everything right now and go meet her!”

Moments later, another knock.

“Mr. Cameron, Miss Ball is here to see you.”

Annoyed, I stepped outside to meet a wrinkly old lady. She wore a scary orange wig, the hue of a setting sun. “Hi, I’m Lucille Ball,” she said in throaty voice that had taken a beating from tobacco.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Kirk,” I said, shaking her hand.

I had no idea that this woman, along with her husband, Desi Arnaz, had pioneered the art of shooting a sitcom with three cameras (instead of one film camera). “Desilu” meant nothing to this teenage brain. If asked, I would have guessed it was a dance craze. The Foxtrot. The Macarena. The Desilu. But the star of the most successful comedy in TV history? Didn’t ring a bell. I figured the broad was some old friend of Bob’s—he must have felt sorry for her and booked her on the show to lift her spirits.

During the show, Lucy did a magic trick that involved pulling many strange objects out of the trunk. With her inimitably expressive eyes, she reacted to each item as she yanked it out. Finally, she pulled
me
out of the trunk.

Man, I was an idiot.

I missed the opportunity of a lifetime. Lucy was ready to have a casual conversation with me! I could have asked for tips. I could have kissed the feet of the sitcom queen—the same feet that stomped grapes to get a role in an Italian movie. I could have gotten advice from the lips that downed Vita-meata-vega-min, and inspiration from the woman whose nose was set on fire in front of William Holden . . . but instead, I was totally clueless.

I vaguely remember the rest of the conversation with Lucy. After she introduced herself, she said something like, “I’ve seen your work and you’re very good.”

“Thank you,” I said smugly—just as I had a thousand times before to every other grandmother who thought I was adorable. I didn’t offer any compliments in return because I didn’t know who she was. Rather, I thanked her for her kind words and excused myself to go back into my trailer so I could take a nap.

My mom looked like she had seen a ghost. Her countenance froze like a freshly Botoxed face. Her son’s profound ignorance had left her in shock.

That particular Bob Hope special included Brooke Shields, Phyllis Diller, Don Johnson and President Ronald Regan. If I didn’t have a picture of me shaking hands with the President, I wouldn’t have remembered he was there. I was more excited about meeting Brooke Shields than anyone else on the show. Ah, the priorities of a teenager.

Not too long after, Lucille Ball died. Bob Hope invited me to join him and others in a tribute show—all the greats of comedy were there. At the end of the night, I stood on stage, holding hands with some skinny old dude named Jimmy Stewart as the entire cast sang a song.

Afterward, Bob invited me to his home for dinner. I said to Mom, “Do I have to go?”

“
Yes!
” She and Dad looked at me as if I’d been lobotomized.

I climbed into a car with another old guy named Danny Thomas. He shouldn’t have been behind the wheel. On the way to Bob’s house, he opened his glove compartment to show me his gun. I wasn’t sure why he did that, but it unnerved me a little. I had no problem “making room for Daddy” while this dude was sportin’ a heater.

Inside Bob’s house was an original Norman Rockwell painting of a much younger Bob, complete with his trademark ski-slope nose. His wife, Deloris, seated us around the table: Bob, Danny, Jimmy, Phyllis Diller, George Burns and me. I sat there, bored, thinking to myself,
If I wanted to spend time with seniors, I could’ve visited a convalescent home, entertaining them with my latex glove turkey trick
.

There was a lot of cackling, coughing and flapping dentures that night. I vaguely remember something about George Burns not being able to get a cat out from under his house. Phyllis Diller’s laugh frightened me a little.

I think I did a total of three Bob Hope specials. When I look back on them now and remember myself in a sailor suit dancing like a monkey while Bob sang “One Hot Tamale,” I wonder why such an honor was wasted on a knucklehead like me.

Some of the events and shows I participated in gave me life experiences I otherwise would never have had.

Though planes made me nervous, I always enjoyed the privilege of bringing along any friend I wanted—that was always part of the deal. It was a blast traveling with a buddy, seeing the world through bachelor eyes.

I usually flew commercial airlines, but there were a few flights in private Lear jets, which look exactly like they do in movies: luxurious living rooms in the sky. No matter how I got where I was going, if it was business related, the travel was all-expenses paid.

There were so many exciting trips, they started to blend together.

In Vancouver, Canada, there was a week-long celebrity-filled event to benefit composer David Foster’s charities. Tracey Gold was one of the others from the cast who flew in a private jet with me.

Several times I was asked to play at a celebrity tennis tournament at Las Hadas, an opulent resort in Mexico.

Probably the most memorable jaunt was when a friend and I traveled to England and France for a celebrity tennis tour to benefit charities sponsored by Fergie and Prince Albert for the Princess Grace Foundation in Monte Carlo. French Open champion Arancha Sanchez and I defeated Prince Albert and French Open champion Michael Chang in a knock-down, drag-out doubles tournament. (Not that I take much credit for the win.)

It was amazing to stay in palatial accommodations without paying a dime for them. In Monte Carlo, the view from my hotel room wasn’t bad for a 17-year-old boy: directly over the bikini-clad French Riviera. My friend and I agreed that someone must have rounded up the most beautiful girls in Europe and placed them all on that beach.

We hobnobbed with the Prince at a gala, followed by a near allnighter at a dance club. The gorgeous women in their 20s left me immobilized. I would have liked to dance, but . . . again . . . I was
immobilized
.

After the tournament and related events, we spent some time touring Italy and Switzerland.

On Location

The magical words for actors are “on location.” Who doesn’t want to work and vacation at the same time, all on someone else’s dime?

Growing Pains
was such a success that the network spent extra money to send us all to exotic locations. The costs for such undertakings were astronomical, considering the trips included the entire crew, as well as equipment. We did an episode on a cruise ship to Mexico and went to Hawaii twice. I enjoyed Hawaii so much that I went back two times on hiatus with friends.

The network then did something extremely unusual: They agreed to send the entire cast and crew to Paris and Barcelona for a two-part show.

The Gulf War had just begun and the President had restricted air travel for Americans in some parts of the world. Although Barcelona and Paris were not on the list, I was still very uneasy. I was concerned that our plane might be shot out of the sky by some crazy, American-hating terrorist. Under the circumstances, I didn’t think it was wise to go on the trip.

I wished I wasn’t such an integral part of the script so that they could write me out of the episode. I didn’t want my apprehensions to affect so many people. I told the producers they should go on without me.

They, understandably, didn’t want the Seaver family going on vacation without their son Mike. I was informed that the producers had spent $100,000 on pre-production trips already, spending tremendous time and effort finding the locations, hiring people, and so on. They’d even had special hats made that read “Barcelona or Bust.” I didn’t know what to do.

Finally, they sat me down and asked me point blank, “Are you going to get on the airplane and go to Barcelona? Yes or no?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and said, “I don’t think I can.”

The producers looked at each other and said, “We’re done.” And everyone got up and left.

The whole thing was called off. One of the studio execs approached me and said, “Warner Bros. would never, ever put you in harm’s way. If we didn’t believe it was 100-percent safe, we wouldn’t even suggest it.”

I had put brakes on a freight train, bringing it to a screeching halt. I felt terrible.
Have I made the wrong decision here? Am I overreacting?

All I knew was that our country was at war. It felt like we were an international target. Traveling on an American passenger plane over the Atlantic seemed not unlike riding atop an old mangy horse and trotting past a glue factory. It had nothing to do with a power play.

The producers didn’t outwardly express anger, but I knew they were incredibly frustrated with me. I had shattered the excitement of a hundred people who wanted to work in a dream location.

Warner Bros. moved the episode to Catalina Island just off the coast of California, and did their best to make it look like Spain. It was a beautiful spot—but definitely not Paris or Barcelona.

My difficult choice reverberated through the industry. I was perceived as a big-headed little punk who thought he could tell the studio what they could and could not do.

Industry Events

I didn’t like most industry events. I couldn’t stand that kiss-kiss-hug-hug phoniness. Regardless, some shmoozing was mandatory—it came with the job. Promotion and publicity were essentials to the gig of celebrity, but they often made me feel like a zoo exhibit.

It wasn’t so bad if I was in control of the environment, but if it meant wearing a suit and tie, hopping on a plane and showing up at some red carpet event with pretentious people, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I was uneasy surrounded by people I didn’t know. In general, I was incredibly shy and didn’t like hanging out with strangers. Of course, certain people and circumstances could pull me out of my shell, but most of the time I could be found checking my watch to see when I could make my earliest escape.

I loathed Hollywood award shows like the Oscars, Grammys and Emmys—except for the time Chelsea and I went to the Emmy Awards in a limo and I did a pratfall on the red carpet, tumbling down the stairs in front of the paparazzi. While bystanders gasped in concern, Chelsea howled uncontrollably. (She swore it was one of the funniest things she’d ever seen.) Twenty minutes into the party, we were so much more interested in each other than in the award-show boast-fest that we snuck out the back door and had our driver take us to The Ivy, an irresistibly romantic restaurant in Beverly Hills.

Sixteenth Birthday

Mom suggested we throw a huge birthday bash for my sixteenth birthday, per the standard for child actors in the industry. That was the world we lived in back in the ’80s. (Now, of course, Hollywood parents host blowouts for their children before they’ve even exited the womb.)