Assorted Afflatuses

On Friday, I sneezed.

In general, sneezing does not constitute a particularly remarkable or noteworthy event. But on Friday I sneezed with my Waterman Carène fountain pen clutched in my right hand. Post-sneeze, the pen proceeded to fall three inches, eventually striking my desk. As it turns out, I managed to bend the nib of my (very expensive) Waterman fountain pen back so much so that the pen stopped functioning.

Of course, my next realization did absolutely nothing to ease the pain of having irreparably damaged a very expensive writing instrument. Just after dropping the pen, it struck me that, if I were to have the nib replaced, it would undoubtedly cost a fortune. First and foremost, the nib of the Carène is solid 18k gold - currently trading on the New York Mercantile exchange for around $550 an ounce (or around $8800 a pound, for the math impaired). Secondly, the channel on the nib of the pen, which facilitates the flow of ink, must be hand ground by some highly-paid craftsman in France to achieve its slight taper.

Despite my fear that the estimate would be sky high, I sent an email to the Waterman repairs office to obtain an estimate. Just minutes ago, I received their reply, and it was not terribly pleasant reading.

According to Nancy, my specially appointed Waterman repair representative, the Waterman company has a $75 flat-fee to replace the nib of a Carène pen. Madness, to say the least. But, as if that were not enough, Waterman charges another $10 for processing!

While $85 does not put me even halfway to replacing the pen, it does seem like an awfully high price to pay for a fairly simple repair. I will probably wind up spending $85 to repair the pen, though one would think that a company charging as much for a pen as Waterman would try to be more accommodating.

Generally, I try to avoid references to movies in my blog; perhaps because my familiarity with movies hovers between "nonexistent" and "virtually nonexistent," or merely because movie references seems so platitudinous. However, in this case I feel almost obliged to make use of a cinematic allusion, as it fits so well.

Today, I spent the bulk of the afternoon in my new capacity as a copy editor for my school's newspaper, editing the various stories that students had turned in for publication on Friday. What I saw appalled me - haphazardly capitalized words, fragments, punctuation after quotation marks - however, when it came time to write a blog entry about the gruesome nature of the writing produced by my confreres at the newspaper, I drew a blank.

Ten discarded drafts later it stuck me that I had developed a case of blogger's block, or, at least, that is what I intend to call it. Though, somewhat more gallingly, after polishing the writing of a dozen others to flawlessness, I could not come up with so much as a phrase myself. My situation reminds me (albeit in a very limited manner) of the situation Alicia Silverstone's character in "Clueless" finds herself. Like Cher Horowitz, I too seem incapable of success in my own right, while effortlessly shepherding others onto the path of perfection.

Of course, to add to the irony, someone will undoubtedly discover a rather obvious error in my writing.

When I visited New York in August, I stumbled upon some charming clothing at the Bloomingdale's in SoHo from a designer by the name of Paul Smith. However, I could not justify spending $260 on a single shirt. It would have been insanity to say the least. Still, I liked that Paul Smith character enough to continue hunting him down at clothing retailers both big and small.

Though, after weeks of researching Mr. Smith's clothing both online and in brick and mortar retail operations, I came to the realization that, like Apple computers, or All-Clad cookware, Paul Smith shirts bear a $260 price tag regardless of the store which puts them on sale. That is to say - until I found eBay. On eBay, I managed to find some outrageously good deals on brand-new, unworn, tags-attached, Paul Smith shirts.

But something about the auctions seemed superbly suspicious. After all, no person could possibly make a profit selling a $260 shirt for $70.

My suspicions intensified after scrutinizing the auction listings. One seller describes Paul Smith as, "one of the toppest brands in the UK." While, differences most certainly exist between British and American English, I have never heard the word "toppest." In my mind it tumbles into that idiotic-cutesy category of words, to which "bestest" and "gooder" belong.

I have not decided whether to buy the shirt or not, as, despite the uncommonly low prices and execrable English, the sellers do have a good deal of positive feedback, which reassures me to a certain degree. I may yet have my marvelous multi-colored masterpiece.