The Tourist
member
I spend most of my time repairing knives from various cutlers, that's what a "tinker" does. However, sometimes a friend or client gives me that "put up or shut up" debate about complaining without actually playing the game. Fair enough. Here's how I would form a company.
First off, it would be small, not big. Never big. If it had to go "big" I'd sell it to Buck or Microtech.
Second, you have to pick a path. We have enough cheap 'black' crap to re-shoot the movie "Red Dawn." I want to be around knives, and I believe Knives of Alaska is on the right path. Besides, Ernie already makes the best hard-use knives, anyway.
Third, no middle managers. My office is on the production floor. Oh, you need a clean space for computers. However, if I cannot smell swarf and jewelers' rouge then I'm too far away.
Each production employee will be issued a "letter set" punch with his/her initials. Somewhere on each knife they are to tang-stamp their code. Each employee is required to spend a certain portion of his day re-sharpening and repairing the knives he actually made.
Each new knife will be packaged with a collapsible box of the appropriate size, imprinted with the factory address and pre-paid postage. After repair, the knife is shipped back with a new return box.
All knife blades will be constructed of proven alloys in the high-carbon, low chromium family. (Technically, this also includes D-2, etc.) All blanks go to Paul Bos. Mr. Bos will be given a special direct line to my office which we will refer to as the "Oh frak!" line. When that ring tone goes off, production stops and a re-inspection starts. The production line is "grounded."
All knives are sharpened with proven, Japanese principles and tools. All of them, every stinkin' one of them.
And the knives will be expensive. No short cuts, no "bulk purchases" of materials, no discounts, no sweetheart deals with distributors, and no slick magazine adds. Soldiers to be deployed may walk onto the premises and choose their own knife and paper-shred their own invoice. They also get a phone number--of the guy who built their knife.
Oh, we'll have music, pizza, motorcyle parking and decent wages. But we won't have time-clocks, Deming tapes, dress codes or excuses. But when a friend of yours sees my pocket-clip on your jeans he's going to ask two questions.
"How did you ever afford that...?"
"How many times have you cut yourself?"
First off, it would be small, not big. Never big. If it had to go "big" I'd sell it to Buck or Microtech.
Second, you have to pick a path. We have enough cheap 'black' crap to re-shoot the movie "Red Dawn." I want to be around knives, and I believe Knives of Alaska is on the right path. Besides, Ernie already makes the best hard-use knives, anyway.
Third, no middle managers. My office is on the production floor. Oh, you need a clean space for computers. However, if I cannot smell swarf and jewelers' rouge then I'm too far away.
Each production employee will be issued a "letter set" punch with his/her initials. Somewhere on each knife they are to tang-stamp their code. Each employee is required to spend a certain portion of his day re-sharpening and repairing the knives he actually made.
Each new knife will be packaged with a collapsible box of the appropriate size, imprinted with the factory address and pre-paid postage. After repair, the knife is shipped back with a new return box.
All knife blades will be constructed of proven alloys in the high-carbon, low chromium family. (Technically, this also includes D-2, etc.) All blanks go to Paul Bos. Mr. Bos will be given a special direct line to my office which we will refer to as the "Oh frak!" line. When that ring tone goes off, production stops and a re-inspection starts. The production line is "grounded."
All knives are sharpened with proven, Japanese principles and tools. All of them, every stinkin' one of them.
And the knives will be expensive. No short cuts, no "bulk purchases" of materials, no discounts, no sweetheart deals with distributors, and no slick magazine adds. Soldiers to be deployed may walk onto the premises and choose their own knife and paper-shred their own invoice. They also get a phone number--of the guy who built their knife.
Oh, we'll have music, pizza, motorcyle parking and decent wages. But we won't have time-clocks, Deming tapes, dress codes or excuses. But when a friend of yours sees my pocket-clip on your jeans he's going to ask two questions.
"How did you ever afford that...?"
"How many times have you cut yourself?"
