Topic A : A Different Spin on the World Around Us : The Grounds for Tragedy

Dear Reader:

I’m going public in case I can help others. You see, I’m rich. I’m famous. And I was a java junkie.

It’s really my parents’ fault. Dad would come home late with Cremora in his mustache and some exotic Viennese Roasted on his breath. Mom would yell at him, but then he’d apologize and they’d make up.

My own caffeine compulsion began in acting school. I had always sworn I’d be nothing like my parents, but then I met Juan. He was from the mountains of Colombia and very dashing (except for his burro).

With Juan, I became more than a social drinker: Good audition? Have a cup of coffee. Bad audition? Have two.

Juan and I parted ways. He went into TV, and I got into movies. I dabbled in designer beans and devoted my house in Aspen to espresso machines.

I soon realized that this was no longer a hobby. This was an obsession. And, even worse, I knew others knew. Ardent producers would fly me special blends from Europe. At Le Dome, people would whisper when I demanded my own pot.

One night, watching TV, I hit the bottom. I saw that couple courting each other over Tasters Choice. Forget the innuendo in their eyes. I was seduced by something more sensual. I went out and bought eight pounds of Turkish beans. The rest of the week was a blur.

That could have been the end of me, but after watching a friend kick his pet dependency problem on Oprah, I decided to fight back, too. I sold my espresso machines. I gave away my beans. I entered a 28-day decaf program at Betty Ford. I’ve been clean now for three months. If I can do it, you can too. If you want to know more, I’m writing a book. It should be out soon.