One thing I love about journalism is the opportunity it provides constantly to become an “expert for a day” on the most random subtopics of humanity. Prior to this weekend, for example, a pen was no more to me than something I lost about twenty or thirty of a year. But I went on assignment to the Los Angeles International Pen Convention held at the Manhattan Beach Marriott this past Sunday and, after seeing some of the price tags on these babies, I began to think about the pen as more than a mere cousin to the perpetually elusive sock and remote control.

The Pen Convention housed more than some of the most elaborately hand-crafted writing instruments known to man. These aristocratic brethren of the Bic would be nothing more than ostentatious ink repositories were it not for the existence of the pen fanatic, who brings them to life through a magic ritual of ogling, inspecting, caressing and peddling.

Like any enthusiasts, the pen people were extremely friendly and eager to express their passion. I was detached for most of the event as I feverishly snapped photos, but as the show wound down and I knew I had gotten most of the shots I wanted, I stumbled on to a particularly charismatic pen purveyor named Neville who knew more about pens than I think anyone does in the known universe.

He told me that costs can sky-rocket because of decorative embellishment, like, if someone were to etch the entire cover of Revolver on the cap of a pen. Some beautiful madness like that, for example, would hike the price considerably.

Or maybe somebody custom-grinds the nib, say. Or maybe the pen just has a special antique nib that dazzles in its unique anachronistic-ness.

The pen repair stations scattered throughout the convention also impressed. All around, people were bringing their pen plights to the foremost craftsmen in the trade. One would think that diamonds or fine jewelery were being processed at these stations, given the precision of the work and the amount of tools and machinery lying about. I saw one pen going for $20,000— likely more than anyone reading this here post plunked down for their last rock.

I entered the building a skeptic, expecting to get my pictures and remain journalistically disinterested— apart from the proceedings in order to more critically understand them. But after four-and-a-half hours of immersion, my shameless yuppie-style appreciation for anything that might be dubbed a “finer thing in life” had me in the sway of the pen people, in the dizzying clutches of a materialist spell.

Neville let me mess around with many a $300 pen. They each seemed effortlessly to accentuate my hand-writing in unique ways. The pens made me special. My simple scrawl looked beautiful to me, like it belonged on the bottom of a masterly crafted timeless treatise, like it at last suited the big ideas in my dome.

I had Neville walk me around and pick out something in the “poor grad student” price range. I felt like I was cheating, like when they bring James Carville in at the end of Billy Madison. I knew nothing yet had my guard dog fending off all the wannabes. I ended up walking away with a $25 Parker pen (that costs $50 elsewhere, I was told), a $10 bottle of Japanese ink, and a slightly bewildered look on my face.

But hot damn if my signature isn’t big-pimpin now. Checkbooks beware.