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Coffee has always played a role in my life even though I didn’t realise it.
When I was 13, (for the historians out there, that was in 1957), the only place in Richmond, that’s the one in Surrey not Yorkshire or Virginia, with a Juke Box and a decent selection of music was the Riviera Coffee Bar.
The espresso Nectar cost less than one shilling (five pence) a cup and the music sixpence or three tracks for a shilling. Sorry but I am not working out what the dollar exchange rate was or the effect inflation has been, if you are interested work it out for yourself.
The other attraction to the Riviera Coffee Bar was the selection of girls who found the allure of smoke, (ah yes, we could smoke on a premises at the time), the illicit Kenya aroma and the smooth voice of Elvis or Eddie Cochran a fitting accomplishment to the assortment of greased backed Brylcreem Boys in their Levis, white shirts and leather jackets, enthralling.
Yes we all wanted to be, James Dean.
My addiction was enriched on the night a couple of years later in the La Bargé Coffee House, also in Richmond, when Joe Brown, Marty Wilde and Billy Fury dropped in for a coffee.
There wasn’t the selection of coffee that Starbucks or Costa offers today, but who cared, with the open courtyard that over looked Richmond Bridge; the painted chessboards on the glass table tops and not forgetting the Pyrex cups or the pre-hippie, pre miniskirt generation of revolutionaries prepared to try anything for a laugh; it was the place.
This was a moment before the generation of the Stones, the Beatles and the Who.
The dependence on coffee was just the beginning and in fives years from then, Mick Jagger would be singing in the Station Hotel in Richmond.
By the time I was 60, a lifetime later, I was on at least six cups a day and still smoking twenty a day. Then I decided to change the direction of my life and become a screenwriter.
My smoking increased slightly and my caffeine intake considerably, but gradually and partly because I didn’t smoke in the house I found the sense to quit the weed. It interfered with my writing, but I was convinced coffee was a necessary ingredient to a good screenplay.
Then in January 2009 I had a stroke, the cigarettes had already gone, so all that was left to give up was the ten to twelve cups; sorry mugs; of coffee a day.
Bye, bye coffee, hello water.
Water!
People drown in water.
Surprisingly I survived and I found all I needed to write a screenplay was my imagination.
I remember the day I wanted to become a screenwriter...
I was walking a nature trail, wood chipped and rugged; far removed from todays paved trails. But in that moment, sweat streamed down my brow, off the bridge of my nose and onto the ground... It was hot. Real hot. But I knew if I just kept walking a couple more feet it'd all be over and I could rest comfortably in my car with a blast of AC in my face for the long ride home.
It wasn't until I got home that I realized the very sweat drop -- The one that streamed down my brow, off the bridge of my nose and onto the ground was the very sweat drop I needed to release in order to free up my creative tubing.
My coffee addiction started when I had fresh percolated coffee served hot from my Grandma's wooden stove. It was served in tiny fancy tea cups. I don't think there was such a thing as mugs yet. Well, I guess there were, but I only remember them materializing as these popular stone wear sets sold... When were they sold? ...
Ah but Coffee, coffee was something I drank until four in the morning at Denny's with my brothers and their friends. I think now about it and they may have enjoyed the coffee, but it was the waitresses they were after. God bless them for bringing their little sister along. I was like fourteen and they were in their twenties.
The interesting thing about your post to me on this glorious day in winter that looks like spring, is upon reading about the circumcision of the Will To Receive and turning it around, (it's a painful process), one reaches an entirely new place...
As you've stated, all you need is your imagination.
I too had smoked cigarettes when I was a kid for only four years until I turned twenty. I absolutely hated smoking. Seriously, I did it just to be cool. The addiction for me wasn't the nicotine, (although I know it certainly is for some people) but it was just the habit itself. When I quite, I felt the desire for seven days, and then after that, it mysteriously vanished.
It must be that it's like in Ecclesiastes, everything in it's time. It takes about nine months for a child to be born, give or take some elasticity on nature's part and a little help from man and G-d. I guess it's the same for various parts of the soul to awaken, too. And then we realize we just don't need or even want certain things anymore. It's very strange when it happens. Kind of like shedding an unnecessary layer of skin. Or cutting off finger nails that are too long and hinder your typing or guitar playing ability. You don't need it, don't want it, and you're ever so grateful to be rid of it.
It was the same day I lost my virginity at Camp Wannalaya.
Felia was the camp counselor for cabin six. Since I first laid eyes on her years earlier she remained ever present in my foolish thoughts.
I never thought anything would become of my puerile desire.
Then late one hot August night my cabin door creaked open and in slipped Felia, giggling and smelling of the camp cook's vanilla extract.
Silhouetted by full moon light through the cabin window I watched as she undressed her nineteen year old long lean body, not the Linsay-Lohan-alcohol-starvation lean, but more of the Maria-Sharapova-killer-workout lean, before she slipped into my cot.
"Miss Biggins!" I exclaimed.
"Mister Jass!" She cooed, "Please call me Felia."
"Oh. Well, call me Hugh." I replied.
We paused a moment while processing the onslaught of conflicted information that had just transpired.
"Okay. Hugh. Ever since I started attending Camp Wannalaya as a daisy camper I thought you were the sexiest youth minister EVER!" she gushed as she pulled off my tee shirt.
"Me, too." as I tugged at my shorts.
Another awkward moment sat like a two day old dirt dog barking at the back door.
And just as things got interesting the roof blasted off the cabin.
Brilliant light shone down on us, searing our flesh like skinned trout on an red hot skillet someone foolishly left on red hot hickory embers from the thirty foot bonfire the night before.
Felia Biggins levitated up and away into the slowly spinning flying saucer hovering overhead.
An alien voice boomed forth "Turn that flacking light down four notches! Your frying her like a skinned trout on an red hot skillet someone foolishly left on red hot hickory embers from the thirty foot bonfire the night before!"
I was amazed.
The aliens could read my mind.
"Yes! We can read your mind!" the alien voice boomed again. "Now, quit thinking! What's the square root of your birth date?!"
"Wha... ? Huh?"
"Ahh... !" the alien voice sighed. "That's better. Hugh Jass!"
"No! Felia's @ss isn't all that big!" I defended. "Now, if you turn her around you'll see--".
"No, you idiot! You! Hugh Jass! We've come for your seed!" said the alien voice.
"You're too early. This is August. Kentucky Fescue isn't planted until next month! WalMart hasn't even received their bulk shipment yet."
"Shut! Shut! Shut-up! Shut-up, Hugh Jass! That's not... If an unstoppable force is applied towards an immovable object how long will it take?"
"Wha... ? That... ? Doesn't even... "
"Ahh... !" the alien voice sighed. "That's so much better."
Then I too began levitating up into the brilliant light of the slowly spinning flying saucer hovering overhead.
And I was smoking!
Don't know what ever became of Felia Biggins.
I imagine the aliens did something... ( s - e - x - u - a - l )... to me while I was in the slowly spinning flying saucer hovering overhead.
I get a funny sensation every time I see big headlights now.
I remember the day I wanted to become a screenwriter...
I was walking a nature trail, wood chipped and rugged; far removed from todays paved trails. But in that moment, sweat streamed down my brow, off the bridge of my nose and onto the ground... It was hot. Real hot. But I knew if I just kept walking a couple more feet it'd all be over and I could rest comfortably in my car with a blast of AC in my face for the long ride home.
It wasn't until I got home that I realized the very sweat drop -- The one that streamed down my brow, off the bridge of my nose and onto the ground was the very sweat drop I needed to release in order to free up my creative tubing.
What's really funny is watching the two divided camps. Those who appreciate Ron's insight and then those who heckle him. I see him as being one of the more true professionials on this site...and most likely to succeed. He's got an impressive resume and collection of scripts.
Anyone want to go to Starbucks and get a cappuccino?
"You've got to remember that these are just simple farmers. These are people of the land. The common clay of the new West. You know... morons." - Blazing Saddles - Jim AKA The Waco Kid 1 completed, 2 more under construction:
What's really funny is watching the two divided camps. Those who appreciate Ron's insight and then those who heckle him. I see him as being one of the more true professionials on this site...and most likely to succeed. He's got an impressive resume and collection of scripts.
I respect that.
I don't even know who he is, I was just laughing at Baltis...
Ron is Ron... To me he's a mysterious shadowy figure sitting in a chair doing a lot of thinking. I don't know him. I've visited his site one time to check out his spread layout. He's no doubt a fine man who probably drinks scotch cut with distilled water.
Ron is Ron... To me he's a mysterious shadowy figure sitting in a chair doing a lot of thinking. I don't know him. I've visited his site one time to check out his spread layout. He's no doubt a fine man who probably drinks scotch cut with distilled water.
25 year old Glenmorangie and you don’t dilute it with water.
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Author
Coffee and writing.
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God bless them for bringing their little sister along. I was like fourteen and they were in their twenties. 
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