Okay, okay.
I'm a label whore. Shoot me.
Yesterday I went out and bought a Moleskine. - the ruled, reporter-style notebook. I figured that having the binding across the top, rather than on the side, makes it less likely to fall apart.
Fits nicely in my back pocket. Has a little fold-out pocket inside the back cover in which you can keep. . . business cards, a blank check, deductible receipts, one of those little subway maps or one of those cards (this is a very Gothamphilic post, folks) that gives you the cross-streets of Manhattan addresses (how do those things work, anyway?).
But mostly, you get the mystique. Van Gogh used them. Hemingway. Picasso. Chatwin. (Chatwin? Pretty august company, Bruce). If these Moleskine people get any more full of themselves, we'll be hearing that Plato never left home without one of them stuck in his toga, and that Leonardo first sketched out The Last Supper with a piece of charcoal in his.
This would be my third purchase. So far, I don't see that they're any better than the nice orange Rhodia I was carrying for almost a year, that cost about a third of what the comparable ür-notebook goes for.
But I was just starting to come out of my recent bout of sadness and immobility, and thought that a little treat might help.
The first three times I went to write something down in my beautiful new Moley, I found that I didn't have a pen. Or a pencil. Or even a piece of charcoal.
Details, details.
No comments yet:
