Whether you are an area barista of overpriced, substandard coffee, or a microscope manufacturing maven, or perhaps an eastern seaboard pocketknife collector, if you own a Barge it usually winds up amongst my Japanese waterstones!
My wife goes to the mailbox this afternoon, and gets the bills, my latest police wants and warrants, fan mail from lonely redheads and another wad of brochures and medication coupons from Hypochondriacs' Haven.
But today there's another box. I rattle the contents and sniff the shipping tape. Yup, no question there, my trained nostrils lock in on a Kershaw grip! I balance the container on three of the fingers of my togishi trained right hand--it's a smaller knife, asymmetrical in shape, one end heavier than the other.
Yikes! It has to be another Barge!
Almost from instinct, my wife gets me a roll of blue painters tape and a few drams of Patron tequila. My trembling finally stops.
Muscle memory inks the bevel. My amygdala slowly calms as my frazzled adrenals go into limbic shut-down as cortisol floods all my internal reptilian versions of right and wrong. I wait as the distilled blue agave cactus ambrosia quells my shattered psyche.
The stones are soaking. And like Leonidas, I have been here before. The only question now is will I return with my shield, or on it...