@Stephen B. Henry 🎬 The lines start here... Today I'd like to celebrate someone who has become not only an incredible community leader but also a wonderful friend. Stephen B. Henry, thank you for being such an amazing member of Memoir Skool. Your encouragement, wisdom, and generosity have made a real difference in my journey. Your community, Skool Cafeteria, is unlike anything else I've seen. It's thoughtfully curated, incredibly organized, and filled with practical resources that help people take meaningful action instead of getting lost in information overload. I've learned so much from your community, and your depth of knowledge is truly remarkable. What I admire most is your willingness to help others. You freely share your experience, point people toward the right resources, and create an environment where people can genuinely grow. Thank you for believing in me, supporting my memoir journey, and being the kind of person who quietly makes everyone around you better. If you're looking for a community built on substance, practical learning, and real progress, I highly recommend checking out what Stephen is building. Stephen, thank you for your friendship, your generosity, and for all you've taught me. I'm grateful our paths crossed, and I can't wait to see where your journey takes you next. You are truly one of the good ones. 👏📚✨

@Cristal Vancarson I have always liked Bob Seger's music however it has been a while since I listened to any. I had the opportunity to hear five of his best earlier today and this one made me think of you. Thought I would share...

Before Hollywood, There Was a Skateboard My education didn't begin in a classroom. (ハリウッドの前にスケートボードがあった — Hariuddo no Mae ni Sukēto Bōdo) People often ask me why I never seemed to fit inside the traditional path. The truth is, I don't think I was ever meant to. My education didn't begin in a classroom. It began on a skateboard. I was about nine years old when I got my first board, and from that moment on, school became an interruption instead of a destination. Southern California in the 1970s was unlike anywhere else. We were in the middle of a drought, and homeowners were encouraged to drain their swimming pools to conserve water. Overnight, neighborhoods across the San Fernando Valley were filled with empty concrete bowls. Adults saw a water shortage. We saw the greatest playground imaginable. Long before skateboarding became a global phenomenon, we were climbing backyard fences with our boards tucked under our arms, searching for the next empty pool. Every pool was different. Some were deep. Some were cracked. Some still had a few inches of green water at the bottom, with leaves floating across the surface. None of that mattered. The moment your wheels dropped into the curved walls, the world disappeared. There were no teachers. No bells. No homework. Just sunburned kids, scraped knees, and the sound of skateboard wheels echoing off concrete. It felt like freedom. Looking back now, I realize we were living something that would later become legendary. Years afterward, movies like Lords of Dogtown would capture pieces of that California skate culture. At the time, though, we weren't trying to make history. We were just kids. School couldn't compete with that feeling. By fourth grade, I had already started skipping classes whenever I could. One day became two. Two became a habit. By junior high, ditching school felt almost normal. My report cards certainly didn't suggest a bright academic future. But while I wasn't learning algebra, I was learning something else.

Movie Night at the Mansion (プレイボーイ・マンションの映画の夜 — Pureibōi Manshon no Eiga no Yoru) I was about eighteen the first time I went to movie night at the Playboy Mansion West. One of my roommates invited me, and I remember feeling excited getting ready. For some reason I still picture the dress I wore—black with white polka dots. Maybe I’m remembering it perfectly, maybe my mind added the detail later. But that’s how it lives in my memory. The mansion had a certain atmosphere. It was glamorous, yes, but also social, almost like a big gathering of interesting people who had somehow all found their way to the same place. When we sat down in the screening room, I remember looking around and realizing something that had become strangely normal in my life by then. Wherever I went, I was often one of the most beautiful girls in the room. It wasn’t something I said out loud very often, but it was simply the reality of working as a model at that age. That attention followed me everywhere. At movie night I remember sitting there with a man on my left and a man on my right. Both were friendly, both were clearly interested in talking to me. And I remember thinking quietly to myself: Well… I’m probably going to have to say no. My roommates, on the other hand, loved that kind of attention. They thrived in it. Many of them were Playmates or centerfolds, and they were perfectly comfortable with the spotlight that came with that world. Whenever someone approached me with a little too much enthusiasm, I would usually just smile and gesture toward one of my roommates. “They’re the fun ones,” I’d say. And in many ways, that was true. My path was always a little different. I was more comfortable in the world of print and commercial modeling—the camera, the studio lights, the creativity of a shoot. Still, those nights at the mansion became part of my early Los Angeles life. Looking back now, they feel like snapshots of a particular time and place—one of those uniquely Hollywood experiences that somehow felt both surreal and strangely ordinary all at once.

If your 18-year-old self could see your life today... What do you think they would say? I think mine would be amazed that I'm finally writing the stories I once thought I'd keep to myself.