Former Star of TV's "Growing Pains" Pens Autobiography

Kirk Cameron joined "Good Morning America" to talk about his new autobiography, "Still Growing," in which he traces his path from teen idol fame on the hit show "Growing Pains" to his current life as a father of 6 and devout Christian.

Here is the first chapter of the new book.

On Top of the World: 1987

I reached for the rubber knob on my cassette player and cranked Prince to the max. He was singing about purple rain, but the L.A. skies were a clear blue that sunny day. I was flyin' down the freeway in my new Honda 2.0 SI Prelude, the wind giving even more bounce to my already afro'd mullet.

I grinned, remembering the cruel pleasure of deceiving Tracey Gold yet again. Not that it was hard to do -- Tracey was the most gullible person in the world. Just last week while carpooling to the studio I had started in on her.

"This car's got the sweetest technology, Trace," I bragged. "It's so smart, all you have to do is set it on automatic pilot and it drives itself."

"Shut up. Does not," she furrowed her brow.

"Does so. This car has special radars. It can read the lanes and stay within the lines. It also slows down when it senses a car ahead."

Tracey's eyes widened and her mouth gaped. "Really?"

I flipped a non-existent switch on the far side of the steering column just out of sight, put my hands behind my head and guided the wheel with my left knee. "See?"

She bought it. "Wow. That's amazing!"

It was classic Carol and Mike Seaver. If I had told that story to the writers, they probably would have written it into the show.

But enough reminiscing. Prince was singing and it seemed disrespectful not to focus on every last word. He was, hands down, my favorite rock star. My dressing room sported purple light bulbs alternating with the standard marquee bulbs around the mirror. Posters were tacked to violet-painted walls of Prince straddling his 'cycle, a curvy Latina babe perched behind him, his cape billowing in the breeze.

The tape ran out and I fumbled around the cassette rack for my Boy George tape. I enjoyed crooning along with "I'll Tumble for Ya," even though Boy was a he-she who wore pastel eye shadow. Maybe it didn't seem strange to me because my day job also required wearing pancake make-up—or man-cake, as I preferred to call it.

It was the '80s, and it was the best time to be a kid: mastering the Rubik's Cube in speed contests, getting joystick-cramp in that spot between your thumb and index finger from hours of playing Donkey Kong and Berzerk, growing a Chia Pet (which kind of resembled my own hair) . . . I could go on.

Everything was big. Big colors, big belts, big glasses, big boom boxes.

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