Paul F. Olson

A Journal of Miscellany and Disorder

If I knew what was good for me, I’d unsubscribe right now. I’d just do it immediately, without delay. I’d select that pesky RSS feed that brings me all the news from the amazing Richard Binder and I’d hit delete. Presto. Gone.  In all honesty, I should have done it a long time ago, but I didn’t, and so I’m once again lost, deep in a thrall that I can’t cure and can’t escape.

Not long ago, it was a Poseidon Magnum that had me going, as I wrote about here. This time it’s this sweet Bexley that sent me into a pen trance:

The news feed advertising this beauty arrived in my inbox yesterday, and I’ve been a hopeless, helpless mess ever since. Another beautiful pen I can’t afford (and let’s be honest, don’t really need), but that I’m stupidly drooling over nevertheless. I keep going back to look at the feed article. I think about it when I’m not looking at it. I click the link to the Web site and read the pen description — and, of course, look at all of Richard’s other wonderful offerings while I’m there.

I know from experience that it will take me a few days to get over this ridiculous condition, obsession, whatever it is. In the meantime, I’ll try to keep my mind off it by mixing some inks and playing with some of the favorite pens that I already own. And, yes, I really should delete that newsfeed, but I just can’t find the will to do it right now. Soon. I’ll absolutely do it soon … in a day or two … or a week … or next month. Really.

And speaking of Richard Binder, here’s a nice little article from the Washington Post that shows why people in the pen world hold him in such high regard.

If I asked you to guess my favorite kind of store in the world, you’d probably say, “a bookstore,” right? You’d be close, but wrong. My favorite kind of store is actually the kind that sells office supplies. It doesn’t matter much if it’s a little mom-and-pop (not that there are many of those left anymore) or one of the Officestaplesdepotmax superstores. Big or small, I just love ‘em. In the same way I could spend hours and hours browsing a wonderful bookstore — my second favorite kind of store in the world — I can lose myself in the aisles of an office supply store, wandering dumb and happy among the boxes of pens and reams of paper, the rulers and paper clips and notebooks and markers and binders and printer cartridges and wastebaskets and desks and chairs and copy machines and stickers and folders and tape and … well, you get the idea. Aside from pens and paper once in a while, I seldom need any of it. Nor do I usually have the money to make more than a small purchase or two. But that doesn’t matter. It’s the looking, not the buying. It’s just being there. That’s enough.

I feel comfortable confessing this rather unusual love affair because I’ve talked to so many other people in my life who feel the same way. We may be strange, but we are many.

What is it about office supplies that attracts us? Is it a memory thing? A throwback to that day each summer when we had to get ready for the start of the new school year and mom would take us to the dime store to get supplies? Maybe so. Maybe, as we browse along the hundred-yard aisles full of pens or compare prices on 5,000-sheet cartons of paper, we’re actually remembering the joy of a new pair of scissors and a shiny plastic pencil box.

My own best memory doesn’t go back all the way to my school days. It goes back only about 22 years, to those heady days when I was getting ready to launch the magazine Horrorstruck and needed to set up my home office. Armed with a five-page shopping list and a pocket full of money, my wife and I visited several wonderful office supply stores and ultimately loaded up the car with absolutely everything that I would need. To be brutally honest, it was probably more than I would need. It was certainly more than I needed to run a small magazine out of a small apartment in suburban Chicago. It was most likely enough to outfit an office at a Fortune 500 company. It was overkill, but what a way to go. And it was a pleasure that kept on giving, because after we got the stuff home and lugged it up three flights of stairs and stuffed it into the corner of the living room that was going to be the Horrorstruck World Headquarters, I got to unwrap everything and find a niche for it and organize it and then stare at it happily for a while, fully satisfied.

That wasn’t the beginning of my love affair with office supplies, just another stop along the way. I should probably be a little concerned that I can remember that day so clearly, but I’m not; I’ve long ago surrendered to the fact that I’m helplessly, hopelessly hypnotized by this stuff, that the thrill other guys get from power tools and fast cars, I get from a new pen, a pretty pencil cup and an unopened spiral notebook.

I’m thinking about all this today because my wife and I are going to the office supply store a little later. Given where we live these days, that’s quite a commitment — a drive of 50 miles each way. And we’re not going to buy a lot. We’re actually just looking for a little bit of cheap paper, some bargain stuff made from recycled sugarcane waste that comes highly recommended for fountain pen users. But of course buying the paper will be only one small part of the experience. The greater part will be getting lost in those marvelous aisles, exploring, navigating those narrow passes winding between  mountains of things I don’t need, can’t afford, and don’t even really want, but which I find wonderful and absolutely beautiful all the same.

If I was the kind of guy who believed in spending $320 on a fountain pen, or if I was even the kind of guy who had $320 to spend on a fountain pen, this would be the one I’d buy today.

Poseidon Magnum

The one they call Duofold Red, of course.

Even sitting there on my computer monitor, rendered in cold and unfeeling pixels, looking incredibly aloof and distant, a museum display under glass, I can tell there’s something about this pen. I can feel the warmth radiating from it. I can sense it wanting to be in my hand. I can hear it trying to call out to me, almost singing with promises of the stories it holds within, the stories it wants more than anything to tell.

Or maybe it’s just the allure of a fine-looking pen from a trusted dealer.

Either way, it’s a good thing I’m not one of those guys who believes in spending $320 on a fountain pen.

To counter the notion I’ve cultivated recently, the idea that I’m a total technonerd or that all of my writing and productivity tools reside on my computer hard drive, I’m proud to present these pictures of my newest babies, which just arrived yesterday:

Rotring Core Technor

Monteverde Charisma

Quite a difference between the two: the sass and the class. But like every parent, I try to love my children equally.

Already, at least one of these wonderful pens has a story clamoring to get out. When I pick it up, I can almost feel it trembling in my hands, eager to tell the tale. (Hint: it might not be the one you think.)