I don’t get recognized much. I keep my hair long, down past my ears, and I’ve grown my beard out. All that time in hair and makeup as a kid … I don’t want to go back to that. What you see is what you get.

When they recognize me, people like to ask if I miss it, the spotlight and the glamor, the fans and the autograph, shooting schedules and craft services. I don’t; it was just a job, and I grew up and don’t have to do it anymore.

Most folks can’t be retired at 42; I’m lucky that way. The residuals from syndication keep a roof over my head and let me buy food for my dogs. I don’t need a lot. I gave up partying a long time ago; I want to remember everything I can. The friends I still have are the ones I want to keep.

When the dogs are quiet, I sit in silence in my respectable middle class house. I’ll pick up a magazine and read a few articles, cook dinner for myself, work on my landscape paintings.

I don’t watch television and movies; when you know how the sausage is made, you’re not so hungry for it. My suspension of disbelief is too weak, and I just see what they could have done differently. It’s artificial, false.

The Germans have a word, head cinema, that I like. I read books and listen to music. The stories are in my mind, realer than real, better than anything I could see on a screen.

I’m not lonely. I don’t have a partner or kids; I don’t need them. Too many tabloids when I was young, running stories about who I was dating or hanging out with, made it feel like it was part of the job. I’m enough without any of that.

I stay off social media; no need to get my ego involved with who remembers “Your Boy” and whether they’re going to reboot it or not. Nothing good can come from me getting into that drama again.

At the end of the day, I’m not that guy anymore, not the famous actor or celebrity. I’m me, and that’s enough.