I love Wes Anderson. I love Montblanc. So this collaboration? A match made in obsessive, pastel-colored heaven. The product? Impeccable. The packaging? Pure art direction porn. Every detail dialed to eleven.

And of course, all this manic perfection will come at a price so astronomically irrational it borders on satire. But damn if it isn’t beautiful.

Details.

This surfaced recently on The Garage Journal—a mechanical pencil, but not just any cheap, plastic bastard. No, this thing comes from a British outfit that’s been in the game for over 200 years. Two centuries of making pencils, refusing to bend the knee to trends, tech, or whatever factory-line efficiency the corporate stooges are pushing this week.

The result? A gorgeous piece of work, a pencil with real soul. But what really makes it shine is the process—handcrafted using machines and tooling that have been slowly refined over generations. No shortcuts. No gimmicks. Just tradition, quality, and longevity wrapped in precision metal.

Fucking brilliant.

Details.

Goddamnit. One fountain pen shows up at my doorstep, and the next thing I know, I’m tumbling headfirst into some godforsaken rabbit hole—cash hemorrhaging from my pockets like blood from a fresh wound. It’s a mess. A financial freefall. And I am not happy about it.

But at least I can say I found the Lamy 2000 on my way down. A rare consolation prize. For the uninitiated, this is no ordinary pen—it’s a product of German precision, designed by Gerd Müller, the same industrial design lunatic responsible for making Braun’s stuff look like it came from a future we never quite reached. Lamy has been cranking these things out since 1966, and somehow, it’s still regarded as one of the greatest fountain pens ever made.

Now, I’m no expert in the dark arts of fountain pens, but Jesus Christ, writing with this thing is pure, unfiltered pleasure. The ink flows like expensive liquor, smooth and predictable, and even the shittiest paper turns to silk beneath the nib. I can’t explain it, but if you’ve got a spare $150 rattling around and you write like your life depends on it, this thing is worth every damn penny.

Get yours here.

The bureaucratic sky jockeys flying under Uncle Sam’s banner needed a pen—a real bastard of a tool. Cheap enough to lose, tough enough to survive, and packed with just enough firepower: black ink, red ink, and a mechanical pencil for good measure. Enter Skilcraft, the unsung hero of government-issue gear.

The trick? They source the guts from Japan, then assemble the whole operation stateside using skilled, blind labor. Yes, blind. Let that sink in.

Bottom line? These things are damn solid. If you want in, you can find ‘em on Amazon here.

The fountain pen racket has always fascinated me—a world of ink-stained fingers, whispered secrets about nib flex, and the kind of purist insanity that makes Leica fanatics seem well-adjusted. But not enough, mind you, to throw down my own hard-earned cash and wade into the murky depths of piston fillers and bottled ink rituals. No, sir. I had other obsessions to bankroll.

Then, out of nowhere, a Lamy Safari landed in my lap—a lean, utilitarian bastard of a pen, built like a German war machine but priced for the common man. No pomp, no arcane rituals—just a clean, smooth-writing instrument that takes ink cartridges like a junkie takes a fix.

I’ve been using it for a few weeks now, waiting for the inevitable disaster—the leaks, the blotches, the slow realization that I was in over my head. But nothing. Just an effortless glide across the page, like Hunter S. Thompson on a mescaline bender. No resistance, no hesitation, just pure, unfiltered motion.

If you’ve ever felt the pull of the fountain pen mystique but balked at the price of admission, the Safari is your ticket in. Grab one. Test it. See if you don’t start looking down your nose at ballpoints like the rest of these ink-stained lunatics.

Details here.

Plotter is a Japanese company that does what Japanese companies do best: build things like a goddamned brick shithouse. Their bread and butter is binders—sleek, modular little contraptions that range from journals to organizers. The one that’s got my attention is the “Mini 5,” their smallest offering. Think of it as a wallet on steroids, with just enough organizer functionality to make you feel like you’ve got your life together.

I’d pull the trigger on one, but here’s the rub: I know myself. Systems like this last about two weeks before my discipline crumbles into dust. Then I’m stuck lugging around a binder I don’t need, full of plans I’ll never follow. Still, it’s tempting. Damn tempting.

Details here.

I’ve always had a thing for paper, writing tools, and stationary—a borderline obsession, really. Always have. Especially if it’s made in Japan. The Japanese understand writing on a level that’s almost spiritual. They don’t just use the tools; they cherish them. The craftsmanship, the design, the subtle precision—it’s all there, humming with intent.

Now, let me be clear: I’ve got no ties to these people. They’re not sponsors, not some corporate overlords pulling strings. I’m just a customer with an unhealthy addiction. My go-to source for Japanese-made tools, notebooks, and other beautifully odd creations is Hightide. These folks get it. They nail the details, every damn time.

If you’re wired like I am, give them a look. Details here.