My father was an artist, a painter, sculptor, commercial art director, and a writer, and a pretty mean backgammon player. My Grandfather was an engineer. I was too young and he was too far away for me to know much more than that he designed testing machines for Jamestown Steel. I have no formal training in either discipline, perhaps unfortunately, but such is life.
I'm a doodler. The little things I build are simply 3-D sketches. My mind's eye conceptualizes in 3-D but sometimes it helps to have the concept in hand. And knives are sort of useful too. But remember. "Never bring a knife to a gunfight!"
The knife thing started after seeing Crocodile Dundee. You know the scene I'm talking about, "That's not a knife..." I tried to figure out just how big that sucker was. Well, it turns out that Paul Hogan is nearly a midget and "THIS is a knife." is about 11 inches long. Yawn.
I suspect that pulling this puppy out of a sheath behind your back would leave anybody with a brown streak in their shorts.
One thing leads to another while I'm on a roll.
The kit blade had been kicking around forlornly for eons, bouncing from one desktop to another as a letter opener. I wanted to experiment with laminating different woods with epoxy. It's left-handed.
The top two were made from very big hacksaw blades. The handles are aluminum and oak. The lower knife is a "rebuild". I made the handle.
has a very long and checkered past. It belonged to Lisa for eons and was in regular service in the kitchen, in a wooden knife rack on the counter. My neighbor, John, with whom I've had an on-again off-again relationship for years because he was so cantankerous, had been pestering me for a year about what kind of handgun to buy for "self-defense." Although I advised against it, I did say if he did decide to buy one, he should get a .45 automatic. I could go on at length about why, but I'd either be preaching to the choir, or preaching to the deaf.
So, one day I get a call from John telling me he's bought a gun. "OK. Bring it over, John. Let's see it." Five minutes later he comes over, sits down at my kitchen counter and pulls out this absolute piece of shit, chrome plated .32 auto - a real Saturday Night Special. "What's this?" (I was nothing less than appalled. All my advice had fallen on deaf ears.) I asked to see it. "Is it safe?" "Of course." said John. As he was handing it over,
it goes off, sending a slug through the knife rack and Lisa's beloved knife and into the refrigerator. (Little pimp pistol only put a dent in the frige. A .45 would put a hole in the door, both sides AND a dent in the back, if not the wall behind it too.)
I was so insensed, I threw John out on the spot. We didn't talk for about two years after that stunt.
Lisa's knife was ruined, but not for long. I sawed a groove in the tang, what was left of it, and epoxied a new tang on. Then to try something I'd been thinking about, I made aluminum scales. My prefered rivets are brass tubing. It just looks different.
End of story.
Apart from the Randall blade, this is the only other pre-made I finished. The idea for the acrylic handles seemed natural to show off the damascus. Doesn't hold an edge, or cut worth a shit though.
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Copyright © 2003 Alan "Maddog!" MacBride
Created Thursday 03/10/1