Arousal by the bucket

on the joys of greasy old tools

Skippy dropped a bucket on the bench top.

Take that knife if you want it.

The handle, the feel, the fit in my hand - oh this tool felt so perfect, so right.

I got it as part of an estate auction. The guy had literally hundreds of screwdrivers. Take anything you want from there..

I began to paw through the bucket.

He was right. There were a LOT of screwdrivers there. Some seemed odd.

Others?

They just felt good in the hand.

I liked these tools.

Their former owner?

He had good taste.

The tools he chose just felt right - their size, shape and weight?

They just felt good in the hand.

I put the knife in my truck. I could imagine myself whittling slab cuts later that evening. I was ready to head for home but was interrupted.

You see dear reader, it was then that I found the pliers.

They were sublime - drop forged, needle nose, no grips, a strong pivot but not too tight.

They moved effortlessly yet seemed to be reliable and tough.

Most of all though?

They felt good in the hand.

I could imagine being very happy to reach for these pliers when I need to pop off a chain.

They’re not just functional.

There’s something about how they feel in my hand that I just want to find excuses to use them.

I could show up at neighbours’ homes clicking them open and shut: Y’all got anything needs twisting?

I could work at a piercing shop, pulling septum rings through for purple-haired ladies who believe they know better than the rest of us.

And I’d be happy. Because no one could take away the pleasure of using a tool that feels this fucking good in your hand.

No one should get as aroused as I do by a bucket of greasy old tools.

Or maybe they should.

When in doubt?

Go play with your tool you fool!