It's Not What Your Parents Give You.

I Fell Completely In Love With Acting. I Guess I Was Bitten.

The Grief Of Losing My Father Has Come In Waves Over The Years, As It Does With Most People. His Love And Devotion As A Father Provided My Closest, Most Intimate Relationship. Dad, And Our Time Together, Is In My Bones. While Reflecting On Him, The Memories Themselves Seem To Boil Down Into Certain 'essences Of Dad.'

Simple. Pared Down. Timeless. The Ties Were Never Too Thick Or Too Thin; The Pants Were Never Too Flared Or Too Skinny. In My Life With Dad, He Wore Western Apparel Because We Went Riding - Jeans, Cowboy Boots, The Turquoise Belt Buckle. But It Was All Very Simple, And That Classic Look Is Very 'ralph Lauren.'

It's Not What Your Parents Give You. It's What You Do With Your Own Stuff.

At Some Level It's Still Hard For Me To Admit That My Father Died. I Can Talk About It And Around It, But Those Two Words. 'he Died.' What Can That Possibly Mean? That I Won't Get To Hear His Voice Again?