The Coffee Journals (190g) and Coffee Posters
The Coffee Journals (190g) - $5.00
The WordWilliam Burroughs had his heroin. David Cady has his canned coffee. And now you too taste the canned-coffee literary revolution in this explosive e-book from Chin Music Press. Read what others are saying about The Coffee Journals (190 grams): "Just as Burroughs helped shepherd a whole new generation of voices onto the American literary scene, Cady also likes sheep." "Lambent!" "Because this collection is carefully panoramic and because fifty years is a hefty chunk of time for a man and for a country healing itself, this volume is part anthology, part autobiography and part longitudinal social criticism -- a happy convergence for a book less than 300 pages long." |
Your FixFor $5.00 you get a 25mb, 300 DPI PDF file containing:
Adobe's free Acrobat Reader is required to view the PDF on PC. On Apple computers running OS X you can use the bundled Preview application. More info here. Or just buy the damned thing now.PurchasingPayments accepted via PayPal. Upon sucessful completion of payment you'll be redirected to personalized URL from which you can download the PDF at your leisure. |
Caffeine Applied to Paper Applied to Your Wall
These images, taken from The Coffee Journals (190g), were all produced in the darkest hours of the night under an abject deficiency of caffeine. Forced to the center of Tokyo on small wheeled bicycles. Shackled to stone benches near Otemachi -- cool now but once warmed by the haughty July light -- these images were forged using ball point pens obtainable only in Japanese convenience stores. "With the towering midnight lights of long forgotten office buildings crashing down before me, the calm of the Imperial Palace moat to the sides, and whispers from the palace itself behind, how was I supposed to focus or make sense of these child-like scribblings I was hired to illustrate. How? By pure and utter savagery and humiliation. That's how." "David, standing over me with a can in each hand, almost naked, screaming at the stars, spitting phrases so vitriolic you could hear the sleeping swans nearby crying. Raining down over me was a shower of spittle, coffee and blood -- blood from fights with patrolling policemen. Somehow I connected these words with images. "Those bygone days of happiness are all but relinquished to fading memories of smiling faces gliding down the southwest side of the palace walk on RZR scooters. All we can ask now, in exchange for all those lost hours, lost souls, lost lives, is that you staple these fuckers to your wall and say a prayer for those who never came back from those dark, poisoned nights." -- Craig Mod |