Sanford Uni-ball Vision

The pen is mightier than the sword, bay-bee, if you know what I mean and I think you do

WARNING:
The following review makes references to a blatantly sensual writing implement. If you are at all prudish, humorless, or lacking in the 'detect parody' gene, STOP READING NOW. Many thanks.

It's coming again. That time of the year when we all throw caution to the wind in favor of our earthiest, most animal appetites—when we lay aside our common concepts of decorum and decency and gleefully proceed to, as the Australians say, "get stuffed."

I refer, of course, to Thanksgiving. Ostensibly it is a time to look back at history; to reflect upon the many ways in which we have been blessed, both temporally and spiritually—but let's face it, for most Americans it's a once-a-year chance to stuff their faces with rich food, and damn the consequences. (Skeptical? Most businesses are even more cynical about the pesky holiday, plopped so inconveniently right in the middle of their Christmas shopping season.)

However, the virtual absence of non-food-related Thanksgiving traditions is actually a great boon to me. After the post-midday ritual of turkey and stuffing and cranberry sauce and ugh-not-candied-yams-AGAIN and pie and so forth, after the copious leftovers are secreted away and the dishes are washed, there are several hours of time left in the day—hours usually given over to nothing but dozing and digestion. It is during this time, when the sun begins to drift lazily into the west, when the house fills with goldenrod light and the sated snores of loved ones, that I am free to slip away and engage in my own hedonistic ritual. I steal furtively to a secret drawer, remove a box reserved for this very purpose, add some matches and wax if I feel kinky, carefully choose my implement, and—begin addressing Christmas cards.

I know, there are some who say it's improper... that hand-written Christmas cards are so outré, and Blue Mountain is the Way to Go... that at least I should wait until the first of December... but to all these nay-sayers and wet-blankets I reply, "Fie!" For I know a joy they have never tasted, a pleasure that is not theirs to savor. Mine is a rare and lonely Vision. To be precise, a Sanford Uni-Ball Vision.

Certainly there are writing implements more expensive, more deluxe than the Vision (which will, in most places, only set you back two bucks and change). You could spring for the slightly more deluxe Parker, with its refillable ink bladder, or fall headfirst into the conspicuous-consumption bucket and purchase a Mont Blanc beauty, complete with its own soul. But if you lost one of these babies, you'd keen and wail for days; if you lose your Vision, you can easily replace it at any well-stocked supermarket. And just as Britain offers the finest mass-produced chocolate in the world, Sanford is striving to bring flowing, effortless writing to the teeming masses. All hail egalitarianism!

Let it not be assumed, however, that an inexpensive retail price equals cheapness. The Uni-Ball Vision is no plebeian ballpoint, with its goopy, noncommittal pseudo-ink in a dull shade somewhere between blue, brown and black. No, the Uni-Ball Vision has liquid, free-flowing, waterproof, fade-proof REAL INK—in cerulean blue, copy-editor red, Stygian black, and several other bold, vivid colors—and a true ball-point that moves as silkily across a virgin envelope as any lover's soft caress, smooth and scratch-free. (Sanford claims this is due to the patented Uni-flow Ink System, but we know better, don't we?)

The Uni-Ball Vision swings both ways—equally attractive to men and women, righties and lefties. Ladies, you'll be pleased to know that the Vision won't play guessing games with you as to when it will run out of juice—true to its name, the pen boasts an ink level window in its body, so you can literally see right through it. Gentlemen, it is truly not size which matters, but what you do with it—at its most acute point, the Vision boasts a free-rolling, stainless-steel, fine point ball only .3 mm in diameter.

Finally, for those who fear commitment on any level, the Sanford Uni-Ball Vision offers a delightful plus: it's disposable.

Of course, you can't expect a perfect Vision—the pen does have its flaws. For instance, if less than half the ink is left, the tip becomes prone to leaking—creating a potential for embarrassing stains. Further, the very quality that makes it so seductive for writing—its "easiness"—works against it when one must sign forms in triplicate. Ordinarily there's no need or desire to press firmly when using this pen. It's also the most likely of your implements to be stolen away from you by a covetous co-worker, who is sick of his dull-blue Bic and just wants some much-needed, free-flowing Uni-Ball love. Unless you want to keep it under lock and key, this is a risk you're just going to have to take.

So keep your Watermans and Cartiers, society bigwigs! Save your Pelikans and Pilots for signing lucrative movie deals, if you wish. You can tell yourself that they give you status, presence, gravitas—but they'll never give you love.

Just remember—lots of folks make promises, but only Sanford can back up its offer of stainless-steel balls.

All material displayed on this website is © 2001-2009 by S. B. Houghton, writing under the alias "The Pirate King." All rights reserved.
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