West Magazine, San Jose Mercury News, published March 29, 1998
I collect “floaties”: those brightly-colored, kitsch but well-crafted plastic pens sold in souvenir shops or given away as corporate promotions. The upper portion of each pen consists of a clear, oil-filled chamber containing a detailed, miniature scene. And when you tilt the pen, something always floats by: ships, planes, Olympic hurdlers, Coke bottles, Grand Canyon burros—even apostles walking on water. Officially called “Eskesen floating-action pens,” they’re also known as float pens, tilt pens, or affectionately, floaties.
Until recently I thought I was the only floaty freak in the world. My friends humored me, feigning mild interest in my collection and demonstrating uncommon patience each time the urge for a new floaty sucked me into yet another tacky souvenir shop. Although the pens are easy to find, few people seemed to notice them, let alone share my passion.
The Internet has changed all that. When I first went online two years ago, I stumbled across three other collectors, who were as astounded to find me as I them. Others soon appeared, and before long email was arriving from all over the world.
There’s a French collector with 2,800 floaties and a German one with 2,400. With 1,500 pens, I’m no small potato; I’m in the top ten of “floaty elite.” I have seals swimming by the Cliff House and cable cars rolling along Powell Street. Police cars shadow O.J.’s Bronco along an L.A. freeway, and Pocahontas’ canoe drifts “just around the river bend.” Each scene sparks memories or stirs my imagination.
I don’t know why I started collecting; it just happened. I was in Spain, trying to spend my last pesetas before crossing the border into France. On the counter of a souvenir stand, between the “I love Spain” shot glasses and the dancing señorita fingernail clippers, stood a colorful display of plastic pens. I’d never noticed them before. I looked closer; there floated Don Quixote, braving his way across a microscopic cityscape of modern Madrid. Cheap but charming, kitsch but practical, they somehow captured the essence of my visit to Spain. Over time I bought a few other floaty pens. Only when I amassed 17 did I realize I was collecting.
It’s not just the miniature scenes that fascinate me. I am intrigued by the mentality of designers who pack so much creativity (and humor) into an 18×80-millimeter translucent tube. Whose feverish mind designed the floaty commemorating Seattle’s Annual Spam Carving Competition, with a rat-riding cowboy roping an ambulant Spam can? Who had the chutzpah to design the pen for Hawkeye Breeding Service, with smiling sperm swimming from the bull, left, to the cow, right? Or the “Last Supper” pen, with bread and wine floating across DiVinci’s famous spread? How many bridal couples send their guests home with pens in which mini-newlyweds float into the sunset? More than you’d expect.
Anyone can commission the creation of a floaty, just as long as you order at least 550 pens. You find a distributor, who passes your design instructions on to Eskesen in Denmark, where the pens are manufactured. This seemed so exciting I decided to become a distributor. Now I approach tourist areas and corporations, proselytizing the benefits of customized floaties. I’ve even managed, like early Flemish painters, to slip myself discreetly into the periphery of a few miniature canvasses. There I am in the Bishop School pen—a tiny mom in blue waving good-bye to her Tom Thumb kids.
I get floaty news from Float About, published by Diana Andra, one of my first three floaty contacts. She now distributes to 230 collectors, offering hints for removing sticky price tags (“use Goo Gone”); informing us that floaties have appeared in episodes of “The Single Guy,” “Murphy Brown,” and “The Naked Truth;” and warning collectors about the recent influx of cheap, leaky Chinese knock-offs, which Diana urges readers to boycott. Most of us do; “real” collectors buy only high-quality Eskesen float pens. In a recent issue she wrote: “Maybe you don’t always mention you are an avid floaty collector…I promise you, it is safe to come out of the closet.”
What sort of closeted sub-group are we? Steve has written a haiku entitled, “Ode to Float Pens.” Cheryl suggests hanging pens on the Christmas tree: “They make great icicles!” Diana has dedicated an entire room to her pens, arranging them on spinning circular displays to keep the floating objects in motion. I turned down a Hawaiian vacation (I have enough hula girl floaties) and instead made a pilgrimage to the Danish float pen factory. “Research for my article,” I tell friends, who graciously pretend to believe me.
And then there’s Klaus, with his German eye for detail, scouring pens for minute differences I’d rather he didn’t find. In one Ardennes, France, pen, for example, he found that the pig floats left and in another, the same pig floats right. He lists these as two distinct pens, compelling us to consider just how compulsive we want to be. Do I need both the left and right-facing pigs?
Before my Eskesen visit I might have answered “yes.” I wanted to collect every float pen ever made. At the factory, however, I learned that the firm produces 50 new designs weekly. For me, this has knocked the wind out of the pig issue. Now I focus on creating new pens. My floaty friends and I currently await our “Collectors Unite” masterpiece: tiny floaty pens floating inside a floaty pen. Let me know if you want one.
How the Ball Bounced, by Nancy Nerenberg 