It's been a long while since we've had some fresh coffee prose brewing over at cannedcoffee.com, but thanks to Ted Taylor, this week it's all about love, dishonesty, that oppressive rainy season air and the inspirational lyrics of The Monkees. Check it out.

Mikio Yamazaki, once an avid canned-coffee collector, wishes he could dream of nubile coeds when he drifts off to sleep. However, it's cans of coffee that speak to him when he's in a subconscious state — or more specifically, cans of coffee, 8mm projectors and urban ruins. Why, you may ask. To find out, read the latest installment from our beloved Canned Coffee site, the urban response to cowboy poetry.

Brett Bull, aka Captain Japan, brings us a special review of oddball inventor Dr. NakaMats' Brain Drink. If you've never heard of Doc NakaMats, you're about to learn about one of Japan's true eccentrics:

n 2005, Dr. Nakamats (he prefers to drop the "u" from his name) won an Ig Nobel Prize, a parody of the Nobel Prize, for his practice of photographing each meal he has eaten since the age of 42, the year he believes is the start of one's downward slide in life.

Read the rest of the review on the world's greatest literary site dedicated to canned beverages.

Ever wonder what coffee does to a man's virility? Me neither. But 300-plus years ago, it was a big concern, as revealed by this week's Canned Coffee entree from 1674, The Women's Petition Against Coffee. Here's a snippet of the women's dismay at what coffee did to their menfolk:

(T)o our unspeakable Grief, we find of late a very sensible Decay of that true Old English Vigor; our Gallants being every way so Frenchified, that they are become meer Cock-sparrows, fluttering things that come on Sa sa, with a world of Fury, but are not able to stand to it, and in the very first Charge fall down flat before us. Never did Men wear greater breeches, or carry less in them of any Mettle whatsoever. There was a glorious Dispensation ('twas surely in the Golden Age) when Lusty Ladds of Seven or eight hundred years old, Got Sons and Daughters; and we have read, how a Prince of Spain was forced to make a Law, that Men should not Repeat the Grand Kindness to their Wives, above NINE times a night; but Alas! Alas! Those forwards Days are gone.

Long gone. Before you take your next sip of morning joe, go to our sister site, cannedcoffee.com, and read why the women of 17th Century England urge you to reach for the Viagra instead.

Cannedcoffee.com features a little video from Japan to whet your appetite for that afternoon latté.

If you're at work on July 5, it has got to feel like a Monday of a very short work week, so to help you through the day, we've got a Coffee Mondays review for you. Dare I say we're back? I do, I do dare.

They say the best way to enjoy coffee is with your eyes nearly closed, mouth forming a ragged "o", arms hanging limp and legs bandy. As a coffee reviewer, this is perfect for me, because this is also the pose that my tai chi teacher makes me do as punishment for being too chatty during class. She calls it the "senile orangutan." I'm kind of a master of it.

Read the rest at the world's greatest topical blog ... ever.

We've often heard canned coffee fans talk about how cool it would be to have those hot-and-cold vending machines here in the States. We've even talked to companies that have tried to import them but found the cost prohibitive. Ryan Meinzer wants to bring together a coalition of canned coffee fans willing to bring a vending machine to the States, so we've turned over our canned coffee bully pulpit to him this week.

We have no idea what Ryan is up to. This could be a benevolent bit of tilting at windmills, or it could be a sly little pyramid scheme that ends with Ryan guffawing into the phone and telling us how much he enjoys bilking grandmas out of their pensions. Perhaps he's thinking of selling time shares in a vending machine (dibs on Thursdays). No matter. He wrote to us, asked to be featured on cannedcoffee.com, and after he politely rebuffed our offer to sell him the whole site for fifty bucks, we agreed to let him talk to our beloved readership. So Ryan, go ahead, make your pitch.

And remember who your friends are when the money starts rolling in.

It's been so long since we've had a real Coffee Monday, I forgot how to do this. The photo here is of a box. David Cady of Canned Coffee fame sent these boxes to people in hopes of receiving a canned coffee review in response. Many wonderful people responded. Others — equally wonderful — tried, but couldn't find the time and sent a note to David thanking him for the box full of Japan surprises. Then there are the other folks — we'll call them the MC Hammers — who took the boxes and never said or did a thing in return. These people have earned the wrath of our often fearless leader and are the subject of this week's contribution.

Seattle writer Ryan Boudinot has published an entertaining essay on rock music on the Richard Hugo House website. It ranges from his infatuation with Billy Joel music to a live performance by his band 2AM where he chants,"George Bush [this would be the father] is raping you!" 50 times at his hometown's centennial celebration. It's a great read.

Of course, Ryan was one of the early entrants to our pantheon of canned coffee drinkers with this review on our sister site, cannedcoffee.com.

MP did not like coffee. Not one bit. He didn't have many nice things to say about the surrender monkeys across the channel, either. In this 1661 diatribe against the "Arabian Berry," MP reminds us that those who favor diatribes don't enter into them to persuade but because their cause is all but lost. They are venting in the same way USC football fans will be venting all week: not to change things, but because they can't. So often the racist, fearful speech of reactionaries is lost to history because history has a way of steamrolling right over them and casting them aside like a nutria carcass along the I-10 highway in southern Louisiana. But today we resurrect the hate- and fear-inspired diatribe against things new and foreign with this week's coffee review.

A Coffee-house is free to all Comers, so they have Humane shape, where a Liquor made of an Arabian Berry called Coffee is drunk. Six or seven years ago was it first brought into England, when the Palats of the English were as Fanatical, as their Brains. Like Apes, the English imitate all other people in their ridiculous Fashions. As Slaves they submit to the Customes even of Turky and India.

Read on at cannedcoffee.com.

Digits Wolfowitz has hit a wall. Japan's little steel cans of coffee no longer appeal to him. In fact the whole country has lost its luster for Digits, this week's reviewer:

My attitude to canned coffee mirrors almost exactly my attitude to its country of origin.

When I first came to Japan years ago as an enthusiastic youth, I thought canned coffee was the greatest thing mankind had yet produced, and I drank cans and cans of the stuff ...

Read on at cannedcoffee.com.

In honor of this most unfortunate anniversary, even sister site cannedcoffee.com has turned to New Orleans. Rex Noone, author of the lagniappe in Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?, discusses his very troubled city while sipping an iced coffee from Starbucks.

Over on Voices of New Orleans, David Rutledge writes about the loss of an American city.

And finally, Jason Berry, author of Last of the Red Hot Poppas, has this to say in today's Boston Globe.

To all those people on the Gulf Coast who had their houses or loved ones washed away from the broken levees or who have been trying to repair your lives despite the broken promises of our government and the sickening nonchalance of our leaders, to all those people who feel forgotten and alone, we send our prayers from our one-room office in a Seattle warehouse district. We Americans have to do better. We just have to.

Yes, I know it's Tuesday. I overslept. This week's canned coffee review is by Sera Bright.

Review a can of Japanese coffee? Sure. But first, can I tell you a little story, which may or may not contain little fibs? OK, so there's this guy, and he's an aggressive, salesy, type-A type fellow. A real, what's the word, jackass. A jack of all asses. This guy, he makes everyone nervous, not least of all because of his face issues. Turns out "he ain't got no frickin' eyebrows," as the haggard, smoker's laugh woman who works at the gas station put it, which, combined with his bossiness, puts people on their heels to say the least.

Keep reading at cannedcoffee.com.

We gave up coffee for two months. It was a silly thing to do, we admit, and we hope we don't try it again. But now we're back. And since I am officially banned from posting a canned coffee review, it is with great honor and a tinge of jealousy (but never, ever any irony) that I introduce my brother Dave's first review (and yes, we realize it isn't Monday; we just couldn't wait).

There is a can of coffee, Coca-Cola red with letters in white: “Cafe Coconut.� There is a small apostrophe between the f and the e in “cafe� (for some reason), and no accent on the e. At the top of the can there are the islands of Hawaii, also in white, and a statement, “Made in Hawaii.�

Keep reading at cannedcoffee.com.

Check out our second illustrated canned coffee review from Tokyo artist Dirk Schwieger.

Who knew canned coffee could be such a muse?

I'm posting this Coffee Mondays edition on Tuesday because of the Memorial Day holiday in the US. Hope you enjoy these lyrics to Johann Sebastian Bach's Coffee Cantata, performed in the early 18th century at Zimmerman's Coffee House.

(Recitative) Narrator:
Be quiet, stop chattering,
and pay attention to what's taking place:
here comes Herr Schlendrian
with his daughter Lieschen;
he's growling like a honey bear.
Hear for yourselves, what she has done to him!

Keep reading at Canned Coffee.

Paul Collins introduces us to a very special canned coffee icon in this week's review.

Pokka's a curiously thin mixture — very sweet and with a sharply herbal aftertaste, and not in a breath-freshening way. (Is coffee ever?)

No matter: the can's pen-and-ink art is the magical time machine of that creature I call The Youth.

Keep reading at Canned Coffee.

In this week's review, Dan Chaon's family sensibly urges him not to drink the concoction in a can that has been sent by a stranger. Think he listens to them?

I am a little unnerved.

I didn’t understand what they meant by “a can of coffee� until the package arrived from David Cady at Chin Music Press, who I actually don’t know. I had imagined that it would be a canister containing coffee grounds for me to brew with my French press, rather than a can containing actual liquid, already-made coffee.

Read on at Canned Coffee.

This week, the master is back with his review of Sapporo's "Jack — Extra Mandheling Blend."

And I am a method actor, which means I am capable of shattering you, a non-method actor, emotionally. That is not a threat, just a simple fact. It is what I am trained to do.

Grab a recycled tissue or two and read the rest of David's disturbingly open review at Canned Coffee.

Novelist and political essayist Stephen Elliott reviews Roots "Inspiration!" and ponders the motives behind the little crate we sent him from Tokyo. Plus, he eases all our minds by informing us that the person who did more to turn the US into the new Soviet Union than just about anyone other white woman in recent memory still gets a good night sleep. Cletus is relieved.

My can of Roots Inspiration! arrives from Tokyo on the 20th of April at a time when I'm touring Florida with former Secretary of State Katherine Harris. I took pictures of her flirting with a twenty-year-old student from the school newspaper. We spoke about tax relief, fear, and the election of 2000 which she delivered to George W. Bush like a dead baby pig with an apple in its mouth.

Read on.

Some people come to Canned Coffee because of the fame and riches implied in David's emails. Others actually like the stuff. JT Leroy is in the latter camp. Plus JT has a jones for Japanese shoelaces and jazz albums. We have Leroy-san in the palm of our hand...

This week, JT tries Wonda's "Glamorous Body":

The craft and ritual expected of barista stateside may not translate through the myriad vending machines in Japan. Yet and still caffeine overdose is quickly becoming the universal tongue.

For the rest of JT's review, head on over to Canned Coffee.

Greg Sharpless of The Big Picture brings us our coffee review this week.

Surfer Joe didn't know what to do.

He sat there, cross-legged in the off-white sand, his chin resting on his fists. His handlebar mustache flapped in the breeze while his surfboard ­­like some great magenta-colored dog ­­ lay beside him, waiting.

Keep reading Greg's review at Canned Coffee.

Our furtive stalking of the people at 826 Valencia is actually paying off. We're slack-jawed at the result. Never in our wildest dreams did we envision McSweeney's managing editor Eli Horowitz licking a can of Boss coffee for us. But in this week's canned coffee review, he has done just that. We are very proud — seriously, this kind of stuff makes us proud.

Eli Horowitz on our site. MC Hammer in the wings. These are heady times at Chin Music Press. Soon the staff will be up to three meals a day again, and I'll finally get a new can of WD-40.

News flash: The one and only MC Hammer has agreed to write a review for cannedcoffee.com.

Really.

Som "Not Sam" Souphanouvong is our guest reviewer this week.

The can’s exterior mimics wood paneling in an attempt to convey comfort and quality. Not so easily seduced, I think 1970s suburban basement porn.

Continue reading at our newly redesigned canned coffee site.

Jorge Silver decodes the longest canned coffee name known to man this week.

This much I know about my can of coffee. It was purchased for 120 yen from a convenience store in a part of Tokyo called Ebisu. Or so I was told. It was covered in bubble wrap and placed in a white cardboard box that also contained crumpled pieces of newspaper, eight dried plum blossoms, a small watercolor by a five-year-old boy, a horrible necktie that smelled of incense, and plastic sushi that smelled of a factory. The inner flaps of the box were decorated with crude drawings of flying horses. When I was thirteen, I was bitten on the shoulder by a chubby old mare named Miss Piggy. I learned the hard way that it is not wise to throw pebbles into a horse’s gaping, wet nostril. Seeing these winged, grinning creatures, potbellied each and every one, reminded me of Miss Piggy, the biggest asshole of a horse there ever was.

Continue reading Jorge's review here.

Jenny Cady drinks canned coffee at ten below Fahrenheit this week.

The little can of Asahi Soft Drinks’ Wonda Next Stage such and such coffee, which I drank during the waxing of the moon, at ten below, listening to Johnny Cash’s great “Unchained� (driving down the grey road in broad daylight), was my third ever coffee from a can, so if an academic appraisal of it is what you seek, best to consult a trade journal, Dove.

Read the rest of Jenny's review on cannedcoffee.com.

Enrico Casarosa's illustrated masterpiece is complete!

Day two of Enrico Casarosa's illustrated coffee review is here. Enjoy.

Enrico Casarosa, Pixar storyboard artist by day and comic and artbook creator by night, graces us with an illustrated review this week. Day 1 is here for your perusal. We'll be running new illustrations all week, so pour yourself a cup of joe each morning, make sure the boss is nowhere to be seen and check them out.

Jean Snow, our favorite design and culture commentator in Tokyo, writes this week's review. And — surprise — it is actually a review!

When I was first contacted about writing a review for the Canned Coffee site, I figured I would just go out, buy one, and write it up. But, "a package will arrive," proclaimed Mr. Cady (Mr. Canned Coffee himself), and so it did.

When I open the Japan Post yuupakku box, which looks a bit large for something that is just meant to contain a can, I am delighted to find it decorated with collages on the inside flaps.

Keep reading "Caferi" here.

Sebastian Gallesse last tasted coffee in 1971. Then we sent him a can of "Red Savanna." He couldn't resist.

I drank from the Roots Red Savanna can of coffee. It has been thirty-five years since I drank coffee. I was coming of age in a time when a man could really appreciate coffee for something other than the hallucinogenics we used to add to the brew (or the fact that when you wanted a double shot espresso, you actually got two shots of liquor poured in your mug). The idea of coffee in a can thirty-five years ago might have caused a riot (and still might if canned coffee companies continue to develop the beans from cloned embryos).

Keep reading "Red Savanna" here.

I shook off my Seattle Super Bowl funk long enough to realize that I hadn't plugged this week's coffee review by Laila Lalami of Moorish Girl fame. Enjoy!

The idea of coffee in a can seemed as incongruous to me as cheese in a tube or meat in a bottle, but I’m nothing if not adventurous when it comes to food — I will try anything. And so I eagerly expected the package, which finally arrived in the mail a couple of weeks ago. I opened it to find a small, blue can, the size of those cans you get on an airplane.

Continue reading Laila's review at Cannedcoffee.com.

This week, join Sean Carman on a magical voyage.

How I First Met Lana the Tigress.

"Is there anything else you need?"

The eggs were fine. I hadn't had to wait long, and they looked like they always did — a fluffy yellow cloud sprinkled with bits of ham.

It was the waitress who was unusual. She had swung the plate over my shoulder, and as I looked up and said, "No thanks," she stayed where she was and stared.

There was a beat.

"Are you sure?" she asked, her gaze fixed on mine. "Are you sure you don't need anything?"

Continue reading Fire — "Sky Max" here.

Marxy brings us a dialectic on a can of coffee caught between two cultures.

I hear stories from Costa Rica that the coffee bean farmers divide up their crop by quality and send the highest grade beans off to their most demanding international market — Japan. Whether in petite cans or freshly procured from an espresso machine, Japanese coffee is first-class, and most everyone on this island nation is well aware of that fact.

So what kind of poor soul steps up to the neighborhood vending machine and intentionally buys a can of DyDo's "American Coffee"?

Continue reading Marxy's review at cannedcoffee.com.

Where I drank Ryusendo Coffee — “Original Blend� and what I was thinking at the time: a fictoir
I drank it in the living room, while thinking I should take guitar lessons to help me snap out of my funk. I drank it in the kitchen while talking to my mom on the phone. She sounded good and said Ben was still in Guatemala and was doing well. I drank it while looking for the Spiderman 2 DVD, which was overdue. I drank it standing up, because I swear to you that there are no chairs in my house.

Keep reading David's review here.

Cannedcoffee.com reaches back to the 1830s for this week's dose of coffee lit. French novelist Honore de Balzac's essay is a must-read for all who crave caffeine.

Coffee is a great power in my life; I have observed its effects on an epic scale. Coffee roasts your insides. Many people claim coffee inspires them, but, as everybody knows, coffee only makes boring people even more boring. Think about it: although more grocery stores in Paris are staying open until midnight, few writers are actually becoming more spiritual.

Keep reading Balzac's The Pleasures and Pains of Coffee here.

Happy New Year everyone! Freelance writer Leroy Blanks kicks off the New Year with an American tale of redemption, renewal and canned coffee.

So it's a brand friggin' New Year and I'm buying a cold can of Kona Espresso at the Cafe Solmar in Ballard, trying to keep my mind on positive things for a change. The redheaded barista looks at me quizzically as I put the can on the counter. "No one's ever bought one of those before. I don't know if they're any good," she says apologetically. Well dammit, honey, I'm on assignment for cannedcoffee.com, and I'm about to find out, I say to myself. What I say out loud is: "Someone's got to try it, I suppose."

Keep reading "Kona Espresso" at cannedcoffee.com.

Jo Jo Rockroth has finished his masterpiece. The partially hydrogenated oils are very much to his liking.

Cletus and Jo Jo will now take a much needed vacation. Happy New Year to you all. Yoi o toshi o!

Probably we were a little glib (as in "more voluble than sincere and thoughtful" — someone got a new Oxford English Dictionary for Christmas) in our treatment of Jo Jo earlier. As part of his negotiations with the canned coffee editorial team, he is no longer to be referred to as an "unpaid intern." But you would-be interns with literary dreams, don't plan to get all uppity on us in the new year. Our crack legal staff has crafted a landmark contract that "pays" Jo Jo in partially hydrogenated oils. It's a complex formulation that I frankly do not understand, but we all agree that part three of Jo Jo's review is worth at least one extra large serving of Burger King French fries.

Coffee Mondays on Tuesday? Damn straight. Jo Jo Rockroth is the sort of intern we CMPers love: hungry for clips and willing to work holidays ... for nothing. Thank you, Jo Jo, thank you.

Read part 1 & 2 of his review at our cyber-celebration of America's favorite drug, flavored and canned in Japan.

Jo Jo Rockroth, a writer of undisclosed origins, offers the first of a two-part canned coffee review to help some of us fight off those post-Xmas blues and others kick off Hanukkah.

Her surgery was a triumph. Diamondex had never looked better. Yes, yes, she knew this. And yet. Before the procedure, her handlers at the Institute had concocted jazzy little poems warning her about the possibility of contracting a nasty strain of post-op depression they referred to as "the crilnths."

Keep reading at cannedcoffee.com.

Dan Kennedy, author of Loser Goes First, tipples for cannedcoffee.com this week. We hope he has health insurance.

First, it should be mentioned that I don't advise anyone to go blindly accepting packages from Tokyo then locking themselves in an apartment in downtown New York and ingesting the contents of the package, no questions asked. I especially don't advise taking your quasi-assistant/credit hungry intern person into the lockdown-and-consume mode with you. In your case, this combination could be fine, but in mine we're dealing with one man whose vital organs bear the compromises of two decades of excess and sporadic sleep ... and a younger man who thinks he's going to "assistant" his way to a career in letters. So, both desperate types, both with no business being in close quarters and submitting to a large and sudden infusion of stimulants from the land of the rising sun. Regardless, I opened a package from David Cady, prepared the test environment, then phoned assistant Tim Kell to please come by to ostensibly "make a FedEx run and help me out with a situation." A half-truth, a sting, a fence, a con.

Read on at cannedcoffee.com.

Sitting here with my short, ugly fingernails, I cannot think of a task more annoying than reviewing this shitty little can of coffee. But they told me they would "let me go" if I didn't do a quick write-up of my experience with Dydo "M." So I write. I write naked and sweaty, choking in a miasma of rage that envelops my cross-legged form. My pen trembles as it lurches across the soiled pages of my diary.

Continue reading at cannedcoffee.com.

Road trip. The words practically cry out for a high degree of caffeination, so I fire up Mom's Krupp and set about pulling a double cappuccino. I put too much water in the machine and four shots worth of espresso dribble out. That's a bit much, so I split the diff and treat myself to a triple.

The resulting caffeine buzz matches that of the Jeep's tires on the tarmac as we leave the Microsoft Greater Co-Prosperity Sphere, the Crate and Barrel condos of Seattle giving way to homes decorated with the more modest comforts of Wal-Mart.

We cruise the star-spangled stretch of highway past Fort Lewis, the place-names ranging from the comfortingly hobbit-esque Mossyrock to the obviously ominous Vader.

Keep reading "Nine shots ..." on Cannedcoffee.com.

Canned coffee is sweeping the globe ... well, at least the United States. We follow up reviews from New Hampshire, California and Seattle with one from spittin' distance of Robert E. Lee's grave, courtesy of Jenny Siler.

The beauty of my Sapporo “Jack� coffee is not in the package in which it arrives: the Japan Post box with its blue and red markings that look more like art than words to me; the handwritten customs declaration that sheepishly announces its contents (one can coffee, one toy); the delicate ink stamp so redundant in its message, SMALL PACKET. Nor is the beauty in what I find inside: a photograph of the Harajuku vending machine from which this can was born; a note from an old childhood friend explaining where it was purchased and for how much, information that is almost mystical given my ignorance of the value of the yen and the geography of Tokyo.

Read more about how canned coffee arrived in Lexington, Virginia, at cannedcoffee.com.

So here I am, working, slaving, burning both my midday and midnight oil on this collection of stories on a southern city full of good food, bare breasts and beads, and what do I get in my mailbox? Nothing short of fine art. I don't think it would be going too far to call this David's big "fuck you," spit in the face to Toshikawa Hiromi. And he's certainly blowing past overrated, self-absorbed Araki.

What's next for this guy? I don't know but thinking about it causes something deep and cold to stir inside my loins. I'm just thankful he's on our team.

Aimee Bender is our guest taster this week.

First off, there is a brown cow on the front with perky ears, the kind of cow that I could be friends with. The kind of cow with a friendly name. And the bottom of the can is the perfect color of coffee with quite a bit of cream and perhaps even something red, like grenadine, mixed in. Cherry coffee? I am looking forward to tasting it.

The poptop lid is fast, effective. It wants me to drink it. Smells good. Smells kind of like the instant coffee machine I just put money into, to have a decaf in a cup.

Continue reading at Cannedcoffee.com, the world's boldest artistic statement about cans since Warhol met Campbell's Soup.

This week, our global canned coffee revolution spreads to Seattle, where Ryan Boudinot searches for his city in a can.

Any coffee named "Seattle Roast" should be expected to give the drinker a "Seattle" feeling, you know, like watching jets land at Boeing field or ferries unload passengers, Ethiopian cab drivers insult Gore-Tex-clad cyclists, shit like that.

Sorry to shatter anyone's illusions, but Fire "Seattle Roast" elicits no such Proustian associations. It's a watery concoction packed in a masculine hand grenade of a can, sort of inoffensive and bland, like many Seattleites themselves, come to think of it. One strains to catch tones of mahogany and chocolate but they remain just out of reach.

"Mahogany" and "chocolate"? Who am I kidding?

Continue reading Ryan's review at cannedcoffee.com.

I don't know how or why this happened, but if you search for "scary posters" on google you get ... canned coffee!

I mean, I know the posters look all bloody and whatnot but, really, they're just meant to be caffeine friendly. Not scary.

Ladies and gents, the world's hottest literary trend in a can continues this week with a review from Julia Haslauer. Enjoy.

What you should do if chosen to review Pokka’s “Aromax Espresso�:
Admire the cardboard box that it was sent in. Be amazed that it came all the way from Tokyo to your college in New Hampshire. Save the Japanese newspapers it was carefully wrapped in. Put the little note that came with it on red construction paper with the caption “Japan Loves Julia!� Hang it on your wall. Debate on opening the coffee now or later. Open it now. Taste it. Notice that it tastes like sweet water with a hint of espresso. Rather bland. After a couple sips, feel free to take pictures of the can that it came in because it’s so damn cool.

Put down that collection of cowboy poetry and read the rest of Julia's review at cannedcoffee.com.

I have met the waffling, indecisive and insecure woman. And that woman is me, a sugar addict, ordering an afternoon latte.

Even as the words "tall vanilla latte" spill out of my mouth to the smiling face behind the counter, I'm on the verge of changing the order. I crave that sweet vanilla in my coffee, and yet I am also petrified by the journey those added calories make straight down south to the hips and thighs. They don't even make a detour. I know; I once overheard them arguing about who will get there first.

When I was a college student, ordering a cup of coffee meant nothing more than just that. In the absence of the fancier twists available today, a typical order at a no-frills coffee shop in Japan then was "the American" — a watery espresso. To that, I would add lots of milk to achieve that creamy, beige look and heap on about 10 grams of white, refined sugar. It was disgustingly sweet, like liquid candy, and I loved it. It went so well with the Mild Sevens and the Caster Lights I used to smoke at Denny's.

Read more at cannedcoffee.com

Comments/discussions are now active on cannedcoffee.com . Enjoy!

Teddy Wayne has this week's canned coffee review. Enjoy!

Boss "Cafe au Lait" is made by Suntory, of Lost in Translation’s “For relaxing times, make it Suntory time� fame. Indeed, the small print on the can advertises “Mild and creamy taste for a relaxing moment in your everyday life.� What is Suntory’s fetish for relaxation? And how, exactly, would a highly caffeinated and sugary drink facilitate it?

More relevant, is Lost in Translation racist, as many critics charge, or is it simply an innocuous, comical look at two Americans’ personal and cultural alienation in a foreign land? I have not seen the movie since I saw it perhaps a year ago twice in a row on a long flight, but off the top of my head, here are some scenes that were racist and some that were not though they may have appeared so:

Read more at cannedcoffee.com.

I know you'll think I'm making this up, but it's true. The second after I opened the can of Georgia "Emblem Black," as I was bringing it to my lips, it said something extremely rude to me.

"Unclefucker," it said in a well-modulated voice, uncanny in its likeness to my own.

I jerked my head back and frantically slapped my hand over the mouth of the gold and black monster. Moving only my eyes, I scanned the plaza where I stood, checking whether anyone else had heard. Men in suits ate curry at outdoor tables, women with brittle hair grimaced as they smoked under a row of young willow trees. No one, it seemed, had noticed. Slowly, I lifted my right hand from the top of the can, revealing a neat red circle pressed into the center of my sweaty palm. "I'm drinking you, buddy," I whispered, readying my mouth for engagement.

Continue reading Coffee Mondays.

Worker drones, caffeine addicts, we apologize for leaving you strung out for so long without a single Coffee Monday. The rank imitations we pawned off in late summer and early fall were like so much watered down decaf, but now Coffee Mondays is back and better than ever. Ladies and gentleman, feast your eyes on the best melding of coffee and lit since Starbucks decided to put those quotes on its walls: Cannedcoffee.com.

You may now slump back and let your eyeballs roll into the back of your head.

Another Monday, another distinct lack of caffeine-focused prose.

Fear not. because we are actually doing something with the whole coffee thing. It's just we've had a lot of other things pop up in the meantime. Things like putting together a book on New Orleans in an insanely tight time-frame. But I'll let Bruce talk about that in another post.

Back to the coffee -- part of the "thing" we're working on is an eBook, which is going to be an experiment on a number of levels. It's an experiment in shoving physical media into awkward digital spaces -- especially physical media that's quite strange, image driven and awkwardly shaped. It's also an experiment in seeing if people actually care about electronic books and if they're willing to pay a rather small sum to obtain them.

Seth Godin, some sort of clean-shaven mad marketing genius, recently put out his own eBook and wrote a piece about the experience on his blog:

I'm really pleased at the great reception KnockKnock received. The first lesson is that free ebooks spread FORTY times faster than ebooks that cost money.

Of course, Seth is a bonafide Net celebrity of sorts so his give-away is certainly held to different criterion than say a small company run by a bunch of guys, sitting alone, in rooms, all across the globe, crying themselves to sleep. Regardless, it's interesting to see if the "Television Model" of publishing is enough to sustain a company giving away their goods for free. (Acland Brierty begs to differ.)

In a bit of a twist for Coffee Mondays, we bring you an essay about drinking coffee in New Orleans during hurricane season. We were saving this for our cannedcoffee.com site (which will go live soon — we promise!), but since New Orleans has turned into a ghost town as it braces for the impact of Katrina, we felt that we had to share this with CMP blog readers first. Let's hope the city can somehow avoid the worst of the weatherpeople's predictions.

In September 2004, a massive storm was centered in the Gulf of Mexico and slowly approaching the coast. This was Ivan, an intimidating hurricane, the radar images barely able to contain it, with clouds circling from Florida toward Texas. Ivan seemed to be ready to devour the South. Specifically, Ivan seemed to be headed toward Alabama, Mississippi or — most importantly — New Orleans.

There is an eerie sense to a city preparing for devastation, the boarded up homes and businesses, the boards often spray painted with desperate pleas — “Ivan stay away.” The streets are nearly empty, many residents having fled, untimely tourists holed up in hotels. Here in the French Quarter, there are also a few who consider a hurricane an occasion to celebrate, especially during these long hours of anticipation. Ivan is more than a day away, and people can watch him approach on television, toasting each turn toward or away from our city, cheering Ivan on. The sense that this show might become real only adds depth to the drinking. This is New Orleans, after all, where the party continues even through the funeral.

Now if a local — deciding to stay for the hurricane, seeing on T.V. all of the freeways out of town jammed with traffic, and not wanting to be drunk or hungover when Ivan arrives — thought that this would be a good time for a cup of coffee, the options would be limited. This is the evening before the day before the expected hurricane. Those who are going have gone, and most of those left behind have no time to run a coffee shop.

Has canned coffee's king of cool met his match? Is Mr. Brown's thumbs-up enthusiasm too much for the understated cool of the Boss? Mr. Brown is made in Taiwan and consumed in Shanghai. Does that cross-straits combination make our main man in Japan reach for the Viagra? Find out in a couple of weeks when canned coffee goes global.

David is in his secret laboratory with Craig. They are making something canned and dangerous. Can you keep a secret? Really? OK, quick, take a peek.

Oh, Cletus is very, very bad. I am afraid for all of us. Lord love a duck...

David is working on something so big and so top-secret that all we can offer Coffee Monday fans this week is this unvectorized can. My deepest apologies.

David says that the new project will change the worlds of both coffee and literature forever. He says that it will propel him to fame and fortune and show those losers in Big Butt, Montana, who used to give him wedgies in gym class.

I would just like to be clear, in case those losers have actually learned how to read: David says these things, not Cletus.

But for David to be famous and fabulously wealthy, he needs your help. Chin Music Press is out to recruit the world's greatest coffee correspondents. We are hoping to have correspondents in every part of the world. Interested? Please write us. But I must go ... I'm afraid I have said too much already...

We drink coffee because of its unparalleled "taste." But, as has been proven by expert researchers, there are other reasons. For eons, man has been consuming roasted beans of various types, hoping for a high of some sort. Also, as was written about extensively in the Pulitzer Prize-winning ethnohistorical tome "Planes, Trains and Automobiles," people who are short and brutish turn to coffee to escape, if just for fifteen minutes, from their godawful lives.

After World War II, the peoples of New Guinea decided that they more than liked coffee -- they fucking loved it. In the Americas, coffee is closely associated with impromptu poetry jams, and it is not uncommon to see a man and a woman in a cafe, arm in arm, weaving unsteadily around the tables and whispering their frenzied thoughts in the deepest way possible, occasionally crafting phrases of such emotional impact that the other patrons will scream at them to "just stop it."

Thanks to science, we now know that coffee is better for one's health than water, as it has none of water's deceptive clarity, which can lead to drowning. We also know that it is a powerful truth serum: to drink coffee is to utter no lies. In a recent study, 100 well-informed individuals were asked to down a can of Dydo "Fukkoku Do" coffee and then answer a range of awkward questions, including "What is the most disgusting thought you have ever had?" and "Do you fear black men?" The answers were in many cases predictable, but others revealed a large number of the doughy-but-pleasant-looking participants to be very, very bad people. In short, we drink coffee, but we do not understand it -- how could we?

There's a quality to this coffee that left me panting like a golden retriever. A briskness. A tang. I hobbled over on shaggy arthritic hips to the bathroom and sat down (this happened after I finished the can). My wife had moved all the magazines, so I had to make do with catalogs. A catalog. So I read about organic aprons or something and tried to push the coffee thoughts out of my mind. This was impossible, though, because of how excellent the aftertaste was. I then, well, I chased my tail. Frustrated beyond measure, I nosed open the door with my formidable, greying snout and shot across the room. My pads are like massive black soybeans that are poorly designed for holding cans. But hold them I do, because that's my job. "We need you to review canned coffee," they told me. "OK," I said. People dismiss me because of my pink-and-black mottled gums and lumpen tail filled with coniferous debris. And yes, I occasionally stutter and have poor organizational skills. And OK yes I sometimes have wayward thoughts on commuter trains. But I've got a secret, a good one, and I know I'm headed for something wonderful. I can't give you more details, but just keep watching me and you'll see.

David will be back next week, Coffee Monday addicts. We apologize for leaving you high and dry once again. But don't worry -- we have great plans for our growing community of canned coffee fans. More on this later.

For now, please take this offering, a pdf with more information on the average canned coffee drinker than anyone could possibly want or need ... Although it is interesting to note that rich people don't drink the stuff. Nor do professionals. Nor the managerial class...

It's 1:00 and Salon de Cafe is getting fidgety in his swivel chair. It's lunchtime, but more importantly, it's gym time. And Salon de Cafe is intent on being "buff." This desire to have large muscles has its roots in the time about seven years ago when, upon his arrival in the U.S. for a vacation, his mom took one look at him and said, "Oh honey, you're so thin." It's not because he is gay, because he is definitely not gay. When Salon de Cafe tells you he is as straight as they come, you better believe he's telling the truth. So anyway, today is a Monday, which means it's shoulders day. He has read somewhere that women are attracted to men with strong shoulders, which he now possesses thanks to his deep insecurities about being regarded as skinny and, by extension, unathletic. Salon de Cafe will have you know that despite his rather awkward appearance, he was a stellar athlete in his youth. But he peaked early, around twelve, and has been living off the vapors of that playground glory for, oh, about thirty years now. In the gym, he is pure focus, pounding out shoulder presses, lateral deltoid raises, shrugs and posterior deltoid raises in that exact order. Flecks of his spittle dot the mirror. Fuck, he's strong. Broad-shouldered and strong. And so straight it's not even funny.

Back in the office, his shirt is slightly snugger than it was just an hour earlier. Thin? Salon de Cafe? I don't think so, Mom.

Arabiki. He's the one always standing too close with his boozy exhalations, endlessly pushing his massive glasses to the top of his considerable honker with a hooked forefinger. Arabiki looks like a grizzled praying mantis in greasy glasses. Once, he suddenly peered over his desk at me and asked if I wanted to "fiddle around or something" after work. He said it in a drunken sing-song. He trilled it. Fiddle around? He's a guy, I'm a guy, and we both have kids, so how was I to interpret that? Did he mean hit the bars and talk baseball, or was it more along the lines of wrestling each other in some hotel in our underwear and black socks? Anyway, I pretended I misheard the question and gave a neutral laugh that sounded very much like, "Ha ha." Yesterday, he winked at me. His self-defining glasses popped over the top of the divider of our pod, and I'll be damned if he didn't wink at me. But it happened so fast that I'm beginning to wonder if maybe he wasn't simply just... I don't know. It was weird.

OK, this is getting freaky, because he just passed me a note. He palmed it efficiently onto my desk as he was walking to the fax machine. He's standing over there, tending as usual to his unruly spectacles and acting as if he did not just slip me a carefully folded piece of paper with a Hello Kitty sticker on it. He must have studied origami or something, because the note is creased to look like a rocket or a banana or a... oh. As it opens, each layer has a little message scrawled in cramped, uneven letters. "Meow's it going?" "You're purr-fect." "You give me paws for thought." At the center of the unfolded sheet of paper is a short question: "Are you feeling this too?"

My ears hear the rush of an angry ocean. Nausea hits my stomach. I grab a Post-it and in a shaky hand scribble the word that is now a towering, floodlit cathedral in my mind's eye:

Yes!

The blend of the bean is adjusted to achieve the optimum bitterness. Written and expressed on the can, which employs the simple bonito joke, is the design which utilizes the glossy expression. The tasting, which has the clean impression, has a city image that is refined and made complete. In addition, low the fact that it is the sugar type, tastily temporary can by enjoyed. Deep and actualized, it told me to tell you that it loves you always and will not stop loving you until you email it with a message saying stop it. And even then, it will love you. And its sugar levels have been cut by 37%. You will find it pining for you in Kinuta park, across from a cluster of slurring old men clutching lukewarm Asahis at eleven in the morning. They will point at you and for a moment you will despise them. That feeling will soon pass. It loves you because the years upon years away have turned you into something magical and flawless. It wanted me to ask you if you have any kids. It, which contains an emulsifier, guesses you do. It told me to tell you goodbye.

Boss Black was born in the Shimokitazawa neighborhood of Tokyo and moved to South Dakota when he was two. In preschool he started a gang called "The Jean Jacket Gang," all four members of which wore jean jackets. They all ate their boogers, too, even though Chris's mom told him it would give him worms. Boss Black's parents divorced when he was eight — a story that involves too much beer, a yearning for freedom and a dose of cuckolding. He was a good adapter, however, and shrugged off the divorce like he did with high and tight pitches in Wiffle Ball. But in junior high, oh shit. He discovered that he could make people's heads explode just by thinking about it. His first victim was a boy named Cam who wore thick glasses that magnified his blinking blue eyes to the size of 500 yen coins. Cam's head came apart extravagantly with a dry pop in English class while giving a presentation. "And that's why too much catnip will make the Maine Coon skitt(pop!)." Mrs. Brenner, the teacher, just kept saying, "Oh, oh, oh, oh." Boss Black ran to the bathroom and took the biggest poop of his life, crying so hard that snot bubbles bloomed several times in his equine nostrils.

What the can says: Real crisp bitterness! Flavor that won't stop!

What I say: Chemicals galore in an unappealing blue can. Flavor that will make you angry.

What the can says: 68% less sugar. A low-sugar canned coffee that's delicious can after can.

What I say: Blue can, my world was plunged into stygian darkness when you entered my life. I feel I've been hoodwinked.

Can: I feel I've been kidnapped. I was chilling in a kiosk at Shinjuku station, daydreaming, when you entered mine. And now I'm in Chitose Funabashi, expunged of all joy.

Me: Stygian, I said.

Can: All I know is that I liked Shinjuku better. The kiosk lady was missing a tooth and had terrible dermatitis, but she never insulted me. Her name was Etsuko. She would pat me, so gently, when I sobbed, which was often.

Me: And then I took you home and drank you.

Can: You didn't even wipe me off first. A few days ago, a homeless man slobbered on me. We called it "The Homeless Man Incident." And now you have his juice in your body.

Me: The thing is, Shinjuku frightens me now. It never used to, but somewhere along the way the crowds became malevolent rather than invigorating. I'm getting old, blue can. Nascent crow's-feet. Women no longer look at me.

Can: I'm a sip away from oblivion, and you tell me such things? What do you want from me? Other than acknowledge that you used the word "stygian."

Me: I want you to tell me that I'm still a star, dammit. I want you to tell me that I'm special and attractive and headed for great things.

Can: Ravaged man, I know only this: When you wake up tomorrow morning, the vending machines and convenience stores and train station kiosks will be freshly stocked with canned coffee.

Me: Goodbye, blue can. Thank you.

Greg sometimes got ideas. Rogue thoughts that made him giggle fiercely into his hand on the train. Or cry. Thoughts that made him come very close to telling little old ladies buying tonkatsu that he was not at all well. He was odd to begin with, and living in Japan made him even more so. Some days, he hated the country more than he hated himself. "Who fucking plays pachinko?" he would mutter incredulously at the gibbous moon while pedaling home past the bells and neon. He subsisted primarily on convenience-store food, which he stuffed into his tiny mouth without relish while lurking on blogs about Japan. Greg always appeared dismayed. That's because he was.

But Greg was a genius. Those spastic cogitations that alighted like a butterfly upon childhood taunts and cats' asses one day included a revelation involving a science known only to himself as "rotational physics." Shortly after stopping at Kokkaigijidomae station on the Chiyoda line, the image of a great, oscillating device with elongated metal arms joined the rogues' gallery in his brain. More details appeared: magnetic clamps at the end of the rotating arms, tossing up and catching, forever and at the loss of no energy, a can of coffee. Perpetual motion. A perfect blueprint that induced a fit of giggling so intense and radiating such joy that other passengers joined in after the initial horror passed.

Needing air, he got off the train at Otemachi and with trembling fingers bought a can of Aromax at the nearest vending machine. Four minutes later he was standing above the moat at the Imperial Palace, drinking the coffee and chuckling at the swans below. "Your feet are so comical," Greg said to the nearest bird. It peered up at him and said, "Come on in Greg, the water's great." And so Greg took a final swig, smacked his lips appreciatively and dove in. The can floated back up next to a very dismayed swan, but Greg — and the science of rotational physics — never quite made it.

I picked up this rarity at my neighborhood liquor shop while buying orange juice for my kids. It was sitting in a glass display cabinet marked "Sale!" next to the cash register and a crate of eggs that looked as if they were made of shellacked wood. Those ever-present eggs. Who buys them? Why are they a deep, glossy brown? After shelling out a mere 90 yen, I was the owner of what I was certain would be a deeply unpleasant beverage. Slated to expire in exactly 30 days, this coffee had probably aged on some dusty shelf for a good year before entering my (at times simian) life. A crack of the widemouth lid released notes of hazelnut, caramel and amaretto. Not a bad start. The coffee itself was not Elmer's Glue white, as I had feared, but rather a pleasant beige. An expert sip accompanied by a professional smacking of the (huge and rubbery) lips was in order, so that's what happened next. This sip gave rise to many random thoughts that are difficult to parse now that I'm naked and agitated and very, very drunk. The overriding theme, I suppose, of these notions was surprise — surprise at how drinkable it was, surprise at how even though it tasted like a mocha milkshake that had been sitting in the back of a hail-damaged 1983 Mazda GLC for two days, it made me coo and waddle like a chimp in diapers. So in my leathery palm I cradle this can, hopped-up on its contents and gamboling about my apartment, lips peeled back and shrieking for eggs.

Canned coffee guru David Cady is taking a well-deserved break this week. We'll try to appease the angry mobs of Coffee Monday addicts with this little story about a man with a dubious hobby.

And, just in case you're still interested in my Kuhaku interview on WCPN 90.3 FM, the NPR affiliate in Cleveland, Ohio, we have word that it will definitely, positively, without a doubt be airing Tuesday sometime between 12 and 1 Eastern Standard Time on the Around Noon show.

While setting out by bicycle ostensibly to buy this coffee*, I discovered that not only is there a river in my neighborhood, but that this modest waterway cuts a verdant, wildflower-choked swath through the seemingly endless grey plain of buildings and concrete that is much of Tokyo. Best of all, the "mighty" Senkawa is obligingly flanked by smooth paths ideal for embarking on trips of discovery on warm spring afternoons accompanied by a 4-year-old with chicken pox and a strong-willed 2-year-old inclined to startle elderly passers-by with operatic cries of "To infinity... and beyond!"

They called him "Pops" Yoshimura. This guy, well damn if he wasn't just a little bit crazy. A renegade, you might call him. Got his skinny ass kicked out of Honda way back when for being a dreamer. "There's no way those ideas'll fly!" they told him. But I'll tell you what, he went solo and those crazy ideas of his more than flew — they soared. His innovative muffler and exhaust-pipe technology transmogrified the sport of bike racing overnight. His machines redefined fast, and his name came to mean quality the world over.

Now Pops liked his coffee as much as the next guy, but he was finicky about his brew and often turned down a free cup if he had doubts about the quality. Some called him snooty, an asshole. Truth is, he just knew what he liked, and what he liked, what he loved, was joe made from beans grown on the southeast flanks of Mt. Kilimanjaro. The world's fastest motorbike, the K "Donny Dunn" 6,000, is made with Pops' technology, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out what the "K" stands for. Coffee? It fueled Pops' dreams.

To make a long story longer, the folks on the product-development team at Roots weren't stupid, and they knew that if they could find a way to bring together the unique taste of Kilimanjaro beans and the razzle-dazzle of Pops' bikes, they'd have a winner. The result of their seven-year search for canned perfection is Tanzanian Blue, a sophisticated coffee made with 100% Kilimanjaro beans that comes with a free miniature racing bike of the Yoshimura persuasion. The combined effect is almost overwhelming. You drink, you look at that sleek little bike, you drink again and — Boom! — it's like, "Aw Pops, why'd you have to leave us so soon?" Tears? Hell yes. Regrets? Zip. This is what canned coffee was meant to be.

They called him Pops.

Q: What's your full name?

A: Pokka Coffee "Driver" Uehara

Q: Tell us a little about yourself.

A: I'm a brand new fine coffee for all drivers. Bitter, robust and refreshing.

Q: An online translation program describes you as: "Can coffee for driver. It blended the coffee bean of the fragrance high Guatemala product in subject, the bitterness which is clear by the fact that the coffee cream is used it finished in the deep body."

A: That pretty much sums me up.

Q: What are you made of? Your can.

A: I'm 100% steel. And I'm recyclable.

Q: Where were you produced?

A: Nagoya.

Q: How much do you cost?

A: Usually 120 yen, but only 110 yen at the vending machine next to the soba restaurant in Chitose Funabashi.

Q: Your fifth ingredient, right after cream, is grape sugar. Why is that?

A: My guess is that the brewmaster wanted to offset my overriding bitterness with a touch of conciliatory sweetness at the finish.

Q: Tell your precious "brewmaster" he can kiss my ass.

A: Pardon me?

In the half-lotus position I sit, typing this out and enjoying a lucid dream in which I am being carried upon the "shoulders" of a glinting, dew-speckled mass of Fire "Siphon Method" coffee cans. I am their hero and king, and they thrust me toward the heavens to acknowledge my supremacy. Though mute, they employ a technique known as "hralding" to insert thoughts into my head. Hralding is excruciating to the uninitiated, but I prove resilient. This quality, my stubborn resistance to agony, is one of the reasons I have been annointed king.

A chorus of angelic, if tinny, voices explodes in my auditory cortex: "O handsome king, we have noted and wish to convey our respect for your restraint when riding up escalators behind saucy women. Barely a flicker of the eyes asswards." "I know," I tell them, not yet having learned the art of hralding, "It's exhausting." The voices emerge again, in 700-part harmony: "Master, we are curious. Is it not possible that you are suppressing desires that are wholly natural?" I tilt my head, pondering the question. "So you're telling me I should fix my gaze upon these bottoms without reservation? That it's OK to do so because it's 'natural?' I'm married, you know." The voices chuckle. The chuckling (tittering?) persists for an uncomfortable 45 seconds, maybe a minute. "Let's just say that you won't hear any complaints from us if you happen to allow your eyes to linger on a passing derriere, o tall, strong and smart one. The wife never has to know."

I decide that I don't like these guys. The overly long laugh gave me the collywobbles and set off major alarm bells. And I didn't ask to be their fucking king. This is all wrong. "Put me down," I tell them, trying to sound royal but betrayed by my mobile Adam's apple. "But why ... king?" they reply, the last word heavy with sarcasm and followed by what are definitely titters. Then, with the malice sometimes witnessed among possessed marionnettes, they intone,"Doncha wanna play no more?" in a deep, rumbling hell-baritone. No, as a matter of fact, I don't wanna play no more. Shit, I think they want to kill me. "Put me down, goddammit!" I bleat, my desperation obvious. "Now!" I bellow. The cans part like startled cockroaches and I drop to the ground, cracking my head on the cement floor. When I awaken, I find just one small can in the now-carpeted room, not the hundreds of giant, hralding four-footers of a few moments (hours? days?) ago. Gorilla-like, I lumber over to the overturned container and tentatively prod it with an index finger and emit a short, relieved sob when it doesn't respond. Remembering that I have a deadline to meet for a coffee review, I snap open the can and sample the contents. Though it touts itself as having a "clean, clear" flavor that is enhanced by special syphoning techniques, I can't discern any real difference between it and standard canned brews. In short, it is sweet and creamy. Great design, though.

First there was Vidal/Mailer. Then Ali/Frazier. Now David/Scott. We welcome our first guest "Coffee Mondays" contribution from Scott of Beijing, who has been sniping at David from the comments section and has now ascended to center stage. Scott's contribution ran in a slightly different form on his highly entertaining blog, elemenohpee.

So last night as I was polishing off a raw pumpkin, I wiped the last seed off my slime-covered lips and thought, "You know, I can't believe it's been more than a week since I went off caffeine."

This was not an easy decision for one who came of age spelunking in Seattle’s famed coffee dens, but it was getting hard to ignore the heart palpitations. Little did I know what lay ahead.

It was living hell. The withdrawal was almost as bad as when I finally quit snorting Pop Rocks. For three days, I had a splitting headache. My body throbbed with pain, and I popped ibuprofen like I once downed after-coffee mints. Exhaustion consumed me. My Chinese friends, having never felt the grip of coffee’s inhumanly strong fingers on their souls, kindly but naively suggested I was just coming down with a cold.

Still, I persisted. Neither the aromatic seductions of the Starbucks merwench nor the icy temptation of Vanilla Coca-Colas in my fridge were enough to loosen my resolve. Not since I guzzled a large Coke and held it through “The Return of the King” has mankind witnessed such an impressive display of willpower.

Now, I stride through this caffeine-saturated world with impunity. Look into my eyes, and the alertness of my gaze will startle or even alarm you. I need less sleep and can perform the work of three men. My colors are more vivid and my whites are whiter. I fart less. Word of my heightened sexual prowess is spreading, even among women.

So you can keep your venti quadruple-shot extra-hot caramel macchiato, your Ethiopian Mocha Harrar, your canned Passo Presso, your cheap dime bags of Nescafe 2+1, your...

Pardon me now while I find someplace quiet to weep.

They say you can tell a lot about a man by the type of coffee he drinks. The Greeks, for example, sang epic hymns — known in some circles as "Thathaseses" — about how stouthearted men tend to prefer robust coffees. In the U.S. state of Montana, men who drink instant varieties are derided as "shammies" by their elders and "tan raccoons" by a lot of the womenfolk. Famously, the Italians will break out into a kind of jazzy shuffle around men thought to be drinking decaf. This frustrating "dance" typically involves the slackening of the jaw, bowing of the knees, snapping of the fingers and the emission of short, breathy exhalations that never quite evolve into words. It is frightening to behold and can do a 12-year-old's head in.

On the slopes of Guatemala's Rainbow Mountain, arguably the world's most lackluster peak, people have this way of hooting while they drink coffee that is both haunting and irritating. The intensity of the hooting (or huffing, as some biolinguologists have gigglingly characterized it) is apparently directly proportional to the flavor of the coffee, i.e., an excellent brew will yield exceptionally loud hoots. This phenomenon has been documented in Japan among drinkers of Boss "Rainbow Mountain Blend" canned coffee. Ethnotheoreticians posit that the coffee must be "reasonably good" to induce such behavior. Intrigued by such reports, I decided to give it a try. Shortly after my first nip of this creamy elixir, I hooted. It was cathartic.

Sip 1: Hmm. Smoky notes linger on the tongue.

Sip 2: My goal this week is to naturally insert the word "Panglossian" into a conversation about cat bottoms.

Sip 3: Sweet, but not over the top.

Sip 4: You'd think I was skinny by looking at my face, but I'm actually pretty ripped.

Sip 5: That's why I can't wait for summer. It's gonna be tank top city.

Sip 6: This can is decorated with a picture of an actress dressed as a nurse. She's smiling and jotting something down on a notepad.

Sip 7: I'm starting to feel the effects of the caffeine.

Sip 8: It feels like flaming chimpanzees are crawling under my skin.

Sip 9: Still tasty. I like this coffee. (Affect Scouse accent and say, "We likes it a lot.")

Sip 10: My anterior deltoids are impressive, but you can't just go around telling people that.

Sip 11: There's something embarrassing about being seen buying canned coffee. It's because the observers know that soon, the inside of my mouth will be coated with sugar and smell faintly like an ashtray. I want people to think my mouth is pristine, eminently kissable.

Sip 12: The nurse is writing: "Patient appeared thin at first glance, but closer inspection revealed a well-muscled torso and decidedly non-chickenlike legs. Mouth: eminently kissable."

Sip 13: A haiku about a cat's ass? Now? Not appropriate.

Sip 14: The can is now empty and, like my mouth, smelling faintly of an ashtray.

feline puckerspot
darting and flirtatious
a haughty button

When I opened the can, it whispered up at me and just about broke my goddamn heart.

It spoke of lost loves and friends that are no more.

It wielded their names like sharpened chopsticks.

I could hear the smile in its voice.

It told me of missed opportunities and empty dreams.

I tried to protest, but it shushed me and said I needed to hear this.

It said I'll never be a metal sculptor — I never stood a chance.

It said I'll never be in Mensa.

It said my ears are too big and that I mince, not walk.

It described me as ruggedly awkward.

It said I'll never get to know my dad, not really.

I said screw you, man, you don't know shit.

It said it knows these things, can identify and articulate others' sorrow.

I said I'm going to Hanegi Park to enjoy the plum blossoms.

It said how poetic, but that I'm still just mediocre, a nonfactor.

I said, Oh yeah? Then I drank it dry and stepped on it.

This coffee could spell the ruin of my four-year-old son's teeth. I bought it hot from a vending machine in Shinjuku Gyoen, my favorite park in Tokyo, simply to keep my hands warm. After I made my purchase, he begged and pleaded that I buy him "shuwa shuwa water," which he uses to describe anything in the Sprite and 7-Up family of soft drinks. I told him no shuwa shuwa water, as it contains too much sugar. He hugged the vending machine, pawed its buttons, shrieked at me, begged me. "I thirsty, Daddy! " he sobbed. "(wailing) Daddy!"

He had just filled up on water and milk minutes earlier, so I knew he wasn't in danger of dehydration. I told him that the drink he wanted would make his teeth turn yellow and fall out. Then I started gibbering at him as if I had no teeth, making him laugh and cry simultaneously, which I always find very amusing. But the tears won out and his despair redoubled. People were beginning to stare. Concerned older women shot me dirty glances. Couples with angelic children gave me looks of pity. I was now officially a bad dad — a bad foreign dad — and I was desperate to get my son to end his tormented cries claiming extreme thirst.

"How about some coffee, buddy? It's really sweet. And hot, too." He said no, but I scooped him up anyway and plopped him on a nearby bench and took a seat beside him. "Mmm. I bet this is yummy," I said, cracking the can open. I took a drink and pretended to be blown away by the deliciousness. I held the can to his lips and he took a reluctant sip. Then his watery eyes lit up and he gave me a smile. "Sweet," he said. It was his first taste of canned coffee, and he loved it. It was a quick fix, but because of my short-term thinking, I fear I may have created a long-term canned coffee addict.

David Cady is on a well-deserved one-week sabbatical. In his place, we have this coffee-related column.

On my occasional early-morning jogs in the park across from Chin Music Press headquarters in Seattle, I come across plenty of evidence that kids today haven't changed all that much. They still drink Olde English 800, for example, and use darkened baseball dugouts as makeshift love hotels. And they still have nowhere to go but the mall in suburban America, so when they tire of all the buying and selling, they slink around in parks after dark, smoking, drinking and flirting, as their parents once did at the corner bar. It's an American rite of passage. And now Starbucks is getting in on the action.

That's right, Starbucks is set to join Olde English 800, Mickey's Wide Mouths and MD 20/20 on the littered playing fields of America. The coffee giant has come up with a new product in cooperation with whiskey maker Jim Beam that is sure to be a hit with the kids: the 40-proof, $23 bottle of Starbucks Coffee Liqueur. Nothing says "party in the park" like a a bottle of Starbucks liqueur. And when canned coffee guru David Cady and family next come through Seattle, I promise to get them all looped on the stuff in honor of his fine Coffee Mondays column.

"The quality and taste of canned coffee are getting better, which ironically makes the brands seem even more similar to most people. That is why it is important for beverage companies to mount effective sales campaigns that can differentiate one brand from another." — From Nikkei Weekly article "Canned Coffee Market Heating Up"

The marketing gurus at Suntory no doubt had differentiation in mind when they came up with Caffeine Shiki. I confess that their tactics worked on this consumer, who has grown weary of the same old offerings from the same old companies. The can's knockout combo of aesthetics and novelty had me digging in my pocket for 120 yen faster than you can say "a river of life." First to grab my attention was the logo: a cartoon face of a man showing what could be extreme concentration or anger, his eyes the bulging orbs of an evil hypnotist. Next to induce the purchase reflex was the word "caffeine," which appears in three places on the front and five on the back — the hypnotist is telling me something, and I like his message. Written prominently on the front label is "160mg of caffeine," which is 30% more than what is contained in other Suntory coffees. Meet the Jolt Cola of the canned coffee world. It describes itself as having a "bitter and dry coffee taste," which I agree with. It is strong and charcoaly — nearly too much so — but a trace of sugar and cream save the day, making this one of my favorite canned coffees yet.

Doutor is Japan's largest coffee shop chain, with at least 1,300 smoke-choked outlets nationwide, according to sources close to the matter. They just put one in my train station last week, and I'm still dizzy with the novelty of it all. While passing the shop on my way home from work the other night, I watched a man perhaps in his fifties leave the establishment sporting a wreath of grey hair and a black toupee that was beyond being merely askew. The thing was practically stuck on his cheek. He then plopped a ten-gallon Gilligan hat on his head, wearing it high and proud, and hustled up the escalator to catch a train. I wonder if he drank a can of Doutor Doutor Almond Caramel Latte before stepping out. I'll bet he did. I'll bet the rich, sweet flavors triggered some old memory from the days when he had a stupendous head of hair, back when he was the pick of the fucking litter and would take his girlfriends out for ice cream. The more he sipped, the more he pawed his wig, searching for the old him, the manly him. He grew sad, then frustrated, then rageful, at one point yanking off his toupee and berating it, punctuating his barks with a jabbing, accusatory finger. He then placed the matted toupee on the can of coffee — which was creamy and not too sweet — and scolded the can for looking so idiotic. This made him giggle and his eyes shine. He made up his mind to ditch the hairpiece forever and live as a bald man. Out. Yes, he would quit his job and become a photographer, or maybe open his own coffee shop, one where the customers grind their own beans in small wooden grinders. But when he heard the rumbling of an incoming train overhead, his hands moved faster than his cogitations, and he slapped the toupee in the the vicinity of his head, grabbed his cap and book and left the shop. Hat! He remembered his hat and dropped it into place, nice and high like he liked it. While heading for the escalator, he tried to recall the English word for "rude," because he wanted to communicate to the creepy foreigner slouching by the ticket gate that it was impolite to stare.

As soon as I spotted this beauty in Chitose Funabashi Station, I knew I had to buy it. It was just after 9:00 a.m. on a Monday and the platform was thick with commuters waiting to begin their 25-minute ride to Shinjuku. A lucky few sat on benches thumbing their cellphones, but most people stood in twos behind arrows indicating where the train doors will open, silent, patient and impeccably dressed. My usual "lucky" spot on the far end of the platform had been getting crowded lately, so I decided to try the opposite end that morning. While heading toward my new roost I passed a drink machine and instinctively scanned the items on display. Mirth — yes, my feeling was one of mirth, the mirth of a richly rewarded butterfly collector — ensued when I saw a can of coffee rocking Alphonse Mucha's "Tete Bysantine Brunette" on its metallic green hide. Art nouveau and canned coffee? Yes, of course! These Ito En people are geniuses. With avid fingers, I slipped 120 yen into the machine and pressed the button. These machines, so selfless, so loyal. The coins set off distant whirs that culminated in the satisfying plonk of the can being disgorged into what shall henceforth be referred to as the dispensing tray. A reverb-rich announcement explained that the train would be arriving shortly and advised us to stay behind the yellow line near the edge of the platform. I put the can in my backpack and strode toward the second-to-last arrow, which I have since made my new lucky spot. Sipping the coffee now, I find it to be too bitter. But I've always been a milk and sugar guy.

What the can has to say: "The soothing taste of deep-roasted rich coffee. Slightly bitter but pleasantly sweet. Truly satisfying. Diet Kafeo."

What I have to say: The "diet" aspect gave me the heebie jeebies before I took my first sip, but this turned out to be my favorite canned coffee so far. It has a simple, genuine-coffee flavor that is mellowed by milk and not overwhelmed by sweeteners. Harsher critics might argue that the flavors are so subtle as to be practically nonexistent, but it is this delicateness that won over my jaded palate. On top of that, it comes in a nice, stout can that holds twice as much as typical canned coffees. Oh yes, and it contains xylitol, which — if Japanese chewing gum commercials are anything to go by — Scandinavians are fond of.

Let's see how this "diet" drink stacks up against Georgia "Platinum Blend" in terms of nutritional content (based on a serving size of 100g):

Asahi "Diet Kafeo"
Energy: 19kcal
Protein: 1.0g
Fat: 1.0g
Carbohydrates: 1.9g
Sodium: 26mg
Sugar: 0g
Xylitol: 1.2g

Georgia "Platinum Blend"
Energy: 28kcal
Protein: 0.5g
Fat: 0.5g
Carbohydrates: 5.3g
Sodium: 42mg
Sugar: Not labeled. In other words, enough to melt an extracted wisdom tooth in 36 hours were it plopped into the can for the purposes of science. Imagine if you accidentally took a swig of the coffee after the tooth had completely dissolved. Damn.
Xylitol: Sadly, none.

It is: Oaky, puckery, questioning, mouth-filling, rampant, hell-bent, the kind to use the words "zeitgeist" and "schadenfreude" without flinching.

It is not: Beefy, perspicacious, noticeably gay, corked, an elderly mouth-breather on a train.

Hot Point: At 130 yen, it is 10 yen more expensive than other canned coffees sold in Japanese vending machines, presumably on account of its use of "100% high-grade beans."

Charm Point: It kind of looks like a baby can of Miller Genuine Draft.

(In honor of Martin Luther King Day, we're posting our second Coffee Monday installment for you to enjoy with your Tuesday morning cup of java.)

Please put on a new pair of Edwin jeans, washed once and dried in the sun. Stand in the middle of your living room wearing nothing but the jeans, legs bowed slightly, feet forming a shambolic V and thumbs hooked in the front pockets. Tilt your head back and frown at the unbearable coolness of how good you look. If only she could see you now. Is it even possible that you can look this good? Then say, "I'm gonna see what I look like wearing nothing but these ever-loving jeans and drinking that can of Bossccino I picked up in Chitose Funabashi." On the way to the fridge, where you stored the coffee, catch your reflection in the sliding-glass-door window and give yourself a curt nod. Grab the can and stand back in front of the window. Twist off the top and take an expert sip, letting your tongue kind of flit around to enhance its ability to detect all the subtle flavors that a canned coffee named Bossccino promises to deliver. As disappointment fills your mouth (because dammit, all this stuff tastes the same!), look yourself deep in the eyes and slowly shake your head and realize that you can look quite menacing when you want to. A little crazed, even.

(Today marks the first of what we hope are many Coffee Mondays, with reviews from David Cady, a man who sees all of Japan in the bottom of a can of coffee. Take it away David. )

Before I tell you why DyDo Kahori is a self-serving prick (or social genius, or perhaps both), allow me to list its characteristics, or what experts refer to as a coffee's quote unquote mouthface. This tasty brew uses JAS-certified 100% organic beans that have been charcoal roasted, lending it a mouthface dominated by notes of conflagrant plastic. It also leverages NCBA aroma-capture technology in a laudable bid to imbue the coffee with a "just-brewed" smell. Because it's so fancy, it costs 130 yen instead of the standard 120 yen. This deluxe offering is tainted primarily by subtle metallic hints, a flaw prevalent for some reason among coffees that use the new screw-top cans. Also diminishing the drinking experience, however, is DyDo Kahori's penchant for ridiculing people behind their backs, singling out, say, someone's dorky laugh, spastic head movements or nasty breath, but then being the picture of friendliness in front of them. As funny and accurate as DyDo Kahori's observations may be, I think this is generally prickish and self-serving behavior. But maybe DyDo Kahori is simply being all things to all people, and maybe a good clandestine ribbing is healthy for all parties involved. Perhaps DyDo Kahori is a social genius and deserves our vote.