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 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.