Fifteen years ago, Mikio Yamazaki published a book called The Aesthetics of Canned Coffee (our translation of the Japanese title). The provocative cover is reproduced here, and for those of you who may be wondering why those women are so jazzed about cans of coffee, well, obviously, you have a lot to learn about Japanese culture. Today, Yamazaki-san runs a Japanese website called Canned Coffee Retrospective that includes some marvelous old cans and the stories behind them. Perhaps we'll feature some of those with translations in the future, but this week, we bring you Miyazaki-san's "Confessions."

I dream of canned coffee from time to time. I'm very sorry to say that I don't often have sexual dreams. IMy dreams invariably take place down an alley or in a movie theater or amid urban ruins or in a used goods store. These are the places where I'll find a can of coffee I've never seen before or an 8mm camera or a projector. What does this mean? Sometimes when I awake from one of these dreams I have to admit I wonder about myself a little. Instead of dreaming of a sexy woman coming on to me, I'm the sort of guy who trembles with pleasure when I unexpectedly find a new collectible in an unexpected place.

The psychological term for carrying your compulsions into your dream world is "complex," but that doesn't necessarily mean "inferiority complex." The word has a broader meaning, and it's more a matter of working out one's feelings through experience. For whatever reason, I form my feelings through cans of coffee, 8mm film, alleyways and urban wastelands. Why am I like this? I don't know, but I find it fascinating to ponder..

Since we're on the topic of canned coffee, let me take just this one aspect of my character and try to analyze it. First let me explain what a dream about canned coffee feels like.

In these dreams, I'm in junior or senior high school. I'm heading down some unknown road. Picture one of those typically picturesque Tokyo alleyways. I come across a vending machine. But this is not one of those vending machines like you see today with the manufacturer's name on it; it's one of those old, rough-around-the-edges ones. When I look in the window, I see a line of cans I have never seen before. I let out a little gasp and nervously reach for some coins ...

I was born and raised in the Tokyo suburbs. I lived about 8km from my school and it was a long walk to the train station, so my commute to school was punctuated by stops at various vending machines. I would leave school as soon as classes were over and head for home — while other kids went to this or that

club or team, my after-school activity consisted of a devoted membership in the "let's get the hell out of here" club. Following the same path would have been a bore, so I changed up the route every day. But no matter which route I chose, the same boring suburban Tokyo landscape awaited. There was no chance of encountering something of interest along the way. I longed to find something that would excite me. I wasn't sure what that something would be, but I really wanted it. Yet nothing appeared. That's why I was always looking for a different path each day as I wandered home.

As my eyes scanned the landscape, one day I came across a vending machine filled with cans of coffee for sale. This was the latter half of the 1970s, and vending machines were rapidly popping up all over Tokyo. It wasn't like today, with several large manufacturers putting out all the product. Back then, there would be all sorts of manufacturers you've never heard of coming out with coffee in a can. I believe this was the pinnacle of canned-coffee culture for both the manufacturers and the fans.

In the winter, it would be dark as I made my way home from school. It was a reflective time for me. "What am I going to do with my life?" I used to think. I remember thinking that I wanted to go somewhere besides this place. Anywhere but here. If a door opened on a new world at that moment, I would have run through it without hesitation. These are the thoughts that went through my head as I wearily peddled my bicycle through the dark suburban town.

It was during one of these moments that the lights in the window of a vending machine suddenly seemed so attractive to me. It was a similar feeling to when a child sees a doll house. All these unknown brands of coffee by a manufacturer I had never heard of. Here was my new world right in front of me.

I found a little window that looked beyond this drab suburban Tokyo landscape. That's what I thought of the light in the window of the canned coffee vending machines. It presented this jaded high school student with an escape route. Soon I had bought a bunch of different cans and displayed them in my room. They became like postcards of some far-off place.

It wasn't like just pasting something over the bleak Tokyo landscape to blot it out. No, it was more like I could click on one of the cans and immediately drift to a new reality.

Those days are gone now, and I don't really collect cans any more. When I realized that as I walked around my city I really didn't find many cans I hadn't seen before, the magic just kind of disappeared.

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