Watch enough action movies and you get used to seeing heroes tend to their hard-won flesh wounds by roughly stitching themselves back together by hand. Weaving needle-and-thread to bind their open seams, they take on the pains they’ve incurred and use handcraft to heal under their own power.
It’s that kind of medicinal agency that draws, I think, the storyteller. There’s olden magic in having an audience, and a protective power in being in command of attention. From what I can tell, the more saddled you are with an excess of emotion, the more beholden you are to its weight, the more willing you are to search for ways to temper that burden by seeking reactions from others. Maybe you do this by being funny. Or learning to rhyme. You entertain so that in those moments of praise your world can be at peace, on your terms. Relief from the tumult. A way to be happy.
When I was a child what I thought would make me happy was to work for the Muppets. The Henson band’s sketches, songs, and stories spoke to my soul, whether their antics exemplified the times we soar or the times we suffer.
Thanks to the tactile nature of the creatures and the animating humanity that their performers brought to the roles, the Muppet characters always felt real to me, even knowing as I did that they were the product of grown-up make believe. Grown-ups were a little scarce in my life as a child, my parents were still navigating their own youth, but I did of course recognize that someday I’d need a grown-up job. Making merry with those unique TV and movie star puppets seemed the surest course to a life of satisfaction and achievement.
My rainbow connection always ran deep. It began with my paternal grandmother. She had a rare degenerative illness that was making it increasingly difficult for her to move, but she lived and loved to watch. Her TV kept her mind active. She might have had the 80’s most extensive video collection, featuring everything from high end cinema to soap operatic Touched by an Angel fare, half of which she’d recorded off cable herself using her time-bending VCR. (A substantial portion of the other half she’d ripped off from department stores by stuffing the tapes into the side of her wheelchair in an act of disabled societal rebellion.)
With my parents off at work, Nana and I would spend the days watching and rewatching the reruns she’d captured. I’d fetch her the Italian cookies she favored from the pantry and she’d reward me by cuing up another episode of my favorite show, the one with the colorful, singing puppets. She loved to spoil me—excess was her love language. We’d watch for as long as we were unsupervised.
The Muppets taught me what was funny about irreverence. They taught me what was dignified about being sad. Theirs was my most played cassette tape, which miraculously remained unwarped despite countless plays—to this day, I can recite every word, every inflection, to every song it featured.
Jim Henson’s was my introduction to death. Though I was only a kindergartener, I still remember learning the news one early morning while my aunt ferried me to my bus stop. It was a devastating way to learn that beautiful things end, that heroes are mortal.
My grandmother’s mortality would become a growing specter, one that hung low over my aunt too, as their lives would each be cut drastically short by a curse of family genetics that, as it developed, not only stole their mobility but their capacity to speak and be understood. But boy could they laugh.
I’m something of a happy accident. My parents had me when they were young, teenagers, and they split not terribly long after—shortly following the birth of my younger, less unexpected sister. In our little world, love and affection from both was never in short supply, but guidance was a little trickier, and they just didn’t always model maturity in ways I could totally trust. Still, they went to pains to nurture their sensitive and creative-minded little boy.
Though they were almost themselves babies, they already knew well the pain the world could inflict on the unprotected. To ready me, each passed along their own kinds of amulets, tools they’d used as wards against the dark. For my dad, that meant fiction—escaping into literary realms to immerse in their wonder and revel in their order.
My mom, however, had always needed to keep her hands busy. Quiet activity was what gave her ever-racing mind rest. Drawing on lessons her mother’s mother had passed along to her, she taught me how to sew.
I was about 10, and there were toys I wanted that could not be bought, and so her lessons would teach me to make them for my own. She showed me how to stitch and to make little cotton-stuffed globes and shapes and most importantly how to tie off the thread-knots that allowed progress to be halted without fear of coming undone.
We started off with a little ragdoll, the likeness of the first superhero I’d imagined and hastily crayoned into existence. From there I was off, turning out a full line of 8-inch original inventions that went from my drawing books to materializing in my hands. It was time consuming, exhaustively so. With uncharacteristic patience, I learned how many tiny stitches it took to assemble each arm and leg. I got a sense of the form. I was invested enough to keep going.
This budding seamster period came during a time when my beloved Muppets were in a Hollywood hibernation. With Henson dead, the franchise’s television and film prospects were dehydrating fast, teetering near to the edge of show business also-rans as their primary output pivoted to straight-to-video fare.
Frustrated by their absence from the spotlight, I decided I’d pen my own comeback series for the troupe, which would be yet another variety show. Using our bulky, teal new Macintosh desktop computer, I wrote a series of scripts with the aim of bringing them to videotaped life on my own. The dreamer in me ascendant, I fantasized about being plucked from obscurity and drafted into the Hensonian/Muppet majors.
There was only one problem—while I had an impressive collection of Muppet dolls and puppets, there were some significant figures missing. Producing my story would require the complete cast.
So, if I wanted to make my picture, there’d be some assembly required.
I started small. My mother brought me to a craft store where we gathered the textures and fabrics I’d need to construct each character on my own. We bought Styrofoam and wire, as well as how-to books that were wildly insufficient for my specific aims, as they concerned themselves mostly with puppets made of socks or paper bags. We got ping-pong balls—the key ingredient which since Kermit had brought that glint of life to the famed felt creations.
I began my foray into trademark infringement by constructing the outcast I most identified with, Gonzo the Great. The mechanics of his mouth were too complex for me to figure, so I settled on making a simple doll, like the miniature ones I’d begun with, that would be at scale with two-foot Kermit and Piggy and the rest of my Fisher Price-manufactured possessions. Besides figuring a solution to his signature hooked nose by embedding a bent coat hanger, I was proudest of his outfit—a plaid vest I’d ably scissored into shape, shoes I colored to look like bowling ones, and a body I’d painstakingly markered to transform a simple white sheet into a patterned burst of colors. His mouth was stationary, and he admittedly looked a little rough around the edges. But I’d wanted that oddball Gonzo in my world, in my room, for many years, and now here he was.
My next creation was one born of envy. In the picture frame that had been at my bedside since I was a toddler there was a photo of my uncle as a child holding beside him a perfect replica of Animal, the temperamental drummer of the Electric Mayhem. The baby of his family, he and my grandmother had loved the Muppets together, too. And by this time, he was a committed, noisy musician, so I’d felt like there was always a hint of magic in this little photographic premonition. But I could never get over how much I wished that toy had been kept by my family until I was ready for it. It was a tiny picture that caused a lot of yearning.
Now, though, I’d have my chance at a recreation. We’d found the perfect material for Animal’s furry complexion, and the character’s maw was simple enough for me to unpack its mechanics and construction. Feeling a growing confidence from the success I’d had with Gonzo’s likeness, I sawed a Styrofoam ball into quarters to make a head’s mount, perfected the shape of his bushy eyebrows (which were not mobile like the real one but at least matched the look), and after many painstaking hours and a handful of needle-pricked fingertips, ended up with a reasonable working facsimile of the puppet I’d fantasized about owning.
My design was not without its incompletions. While I could “make him talk,” the only element that could be manipulated was the head. It sat atop the inert doll-like body, instead of being a casing that could hide an arm to operate within (which I knew would bring imperfections and complications when I shot my intended pilot). My Animal looked the part, though, and as its final flourish, I cut up one of my most cherished tee shirts and fitted it to him—its image of a creepy enlarged fly felt just rock-n-roll enough to suit the wildman percussionist.
I couldn’t have Gonzo without his compatriot Rizzo the Rat and so he became my next project. Again, the wire mechanism that operated the real model’s tiny mouth was beyond my ken, but outside of that inability I was most pleased with this doll, as it came out wholly looking the part at perfect scale with the rest. The tiny backwards baseball cap (made from a fabric Chicago Bears helmet) and varsity jacket he’s costumed with continue to amuse me today.
By this point the prospect of me qualifying myself for the Muppet big leagues was feeling increasingly real. I’d been at it for years to this point—wasn’t teaching myself the best audition tape I could offer? I certainly thought so. I started to see myself as one of the human players participating in the story with the rest of the hand-animated creatures.
And so it was that for my next act I would not only complete the rod-and-hand style puppet that defined the Muppets, but I would make one in an image of my own. I’d take the sum total of everything I’d learned to that point, everything I’d taught myself, and shrink myself into a puppet person.
What came out was a success. Thanks to a pair of straightened-out coat hangers, and a torso that could sleeve my arm, I had finally made a creature that could fully and convincingly be animated, arms and body as well as mouth and head. Made of Styrofoam balls, his eyes would deteriorate sooner than I’d hoped, but his jet-black hair looked real and his jean-jacket was stylish and his shirt underneath a smart floral pattern. I’d done it—created something that could enter the frame of my intended picture as a statement of purpose, that proved I was worthy of inclusion in my heroes’ merry band.
Still, there were a few things that irked me about this creation, which I dubbed “Max” if only because it reflected the degree of my efforts, and besides seemed punchy enough to suit the group. I didn’t think those windows to the soul, the eyes, had come out well, regretting my decision to forgo ping pong balls for something more disposable, and his colorful ensemble gave him a slightly sillier veneer than I’d hope for in an alter ego. He worked, though. I began teaching myself the rhythms and techniques of operating the completed puppet, mimicking the lively style Henson, Oz, Goelz, and company had perfected. Controlling this fabric brought to life birthed a sensation of discovery. I was onto something. I was psyched.
I quickly followed up with another human reflection of myself made whole cloth. I was in middle school at this point, and my ambitions were climbing. With this version, I would rectify the errors of all my previous creations. I’d solve the realistic peepers puzzle by extending the puppet’s brown hair down his brow, creating an impression that his eyes were hidden behind bangs, which at the time was very much in style with wannabe skaters like me. I’d make his black jacket and fittingly ‘90s maroon striped tee shirt removable, and leave his abdomen a white fabric that looked like an undershirt. Whether by penning in palm lines or punctuating his sneakers with an unlicensed swoop, I paid extra attention to detail. Its completion was my most satisfying achievement to that point. I never named him, though. It didn’t seem like I needed to.
(I really was getting hubristic around this point. While the details are fuzzy, I know that once I’d reached the height of my powers I made one more complete puppet that, along with a deeply saccharine mixtape featuring “Can You Feel the Love Tonight,” I gifted to my longtime crush. Perhaps needless to say, we never spoke again.)
I never shot the Muppets video project I’d scripted. For all the progress I’d made, for as much as the idea had motivated me, getting the dolls in front of the camera was ultimately too scary. Maybe my creations would clash too powerfully with the factory fabricated originals. Maybe it was performance anxiety, or that in the years since writing it, as adolescence bloomed, I’d grown more insecure, ashamed to remain so attached to something so juvenile. Maybe I was too proud and concerned it just wouldn’t look right. I don’t know—it’s something, silly as it is, that I regret. It would have been a nice memory to make, to have.
Years later, Jason Segal would be chosen to resurrect the dormant Muppets brand for a feature film. When he predicated the project upon a POV puppet character of his own, the neurotic Walter, who idolized his forebearers and struggled to assimilate with them, I could only greedily imagine the universe where commitment and opportunity alternated our roles.
My path wasn’t without its small victories, though. My mother, a font of pride, found a way to get my entire collection of hand-sewn oddities put on display at our local public library. I think I was proud, though I know I was also mortified. I’ve always been a blend of shy and outgoing, and showing the world what came of how I spent my private-time felt exposing. Still, I can’t pretend there wasn’t something I relished about the opportunity to be recognized as an artist, a maker of things.
There weren’t any more Muppets made by my hand after all that. (Although a few years ago my sister gifted me a complete set of the materials I’d need to give it another go. It moved me near to tears. I have yet to feel stout-hearted enough to dive in, though I always mean to.) There was, however, a day when I took my masterpiece to the stage. I think it was the bravest day of my life.
By now I was in 8th grade, reaching for the precipice of high school—which we all knew brought with it the promise of new roles and identities, new adventures we’d been primed for by popular culture and Americana, and the fast-tracked bridge to teendom’s glory days.
I was ready for the change. I’d begun middle school wearing holey sweats to school (in the crotch—yikes). I felt romantically flustered (which, it turns out, would continue unabated through the entirety of high school). Perhaps like all of us then, I felt misshapen and misunderstood. I was eager for the next threshold. So I decided to run for office.
In high school, there would be both the class government and the student government. Sort of like local politics versus national ones, only with the reputational importance inverted. In an uncharacteristic act of daring and ambition, I ran for student government rep. I couldn’t tell you why, exactly.
Actually, there’s a lot I couldn’t tell you about that campaign. But what I can tell you is that when the race culminated and it came time to speak before the entire gathered class of 400 to attest to my qualifications to be their voice on the high school council, when they gave me a podium, when it was my time in the spotlight-
I brought to the stage my latest little thread-fabric-and-wire creation, crouched behind the lectern, and asked my classmates for their approval by funneling my voice and self through my personalized, hand-crafted Muppet.
25 years later and I still can’t believe I did it. Nor can I remember it—when I try to my memory brings me to a third-person perspective, disassociated, as if I’m watching the spectacle unfold from the room’s last row. I have no real recollection of any feedback that I got, not even from my friends. I know I was not hoisted aloft by a sea of fellows admiring my wayward courage.
I did get the job, though. It is, however, probably notable that there were only two candidates for two seats.
Nothing about my time in office matched the terrifying thrill of that moment on the stump. What had started with capturing the likeness of the Muppet known for being a weirdo, Gonzo, with whom I felt such kinship, culminated with an aggressive bid to lay claim to that title among my peers in real life.
It was then that my puppet crafting practice stalled. I can’t place why exactly I didn’t continue, as I knew the next hurdles were things like moving eyes and more complex models. Likely it parallels the reason I don’t recall my hunched-down and obscured public address, which we can attribute to the minor trauma my let’s-be-kind-and-call-it-bravery incurred. Like the daredevil Gonzo, I’d been drawn to the death-defying act, and earned the embarrassed battle damage to show for it, as my trophy.
In honesty, I remember nursing the feeling that I’d deserved more recognition and credit for doing what I did. I gave them a performance, hadn’t I? Something rare and personal, and turned a boring and ordinary school function into a show. In my romanticism, I maybe even thought, in my 13-year-old brain, someone would come to me for once with a crush, instead of the other way around. I thought that I was trying something hard and maybe here today I can admit thought I’d earn some respect for it.
And maybe I even got it. Maybe there were thoughts about me that were beyond my blinkered sight. And maybe not, which would also be fine. Again, 25 years.
There’s nothing that makes you feel more like a failure than unattended ambition. It’s a crushing freight that only gets heavier the longer you go. The thing that makes creating things at least a partially effective balm for struggling with confidence is that when you succeed you’ve given yourself hard proof of existing in the world. It’s there no matter how translucent you feel.
Whether I can summon the particulars of the memory or not, I did once take the stage naked in my ambitions, clothed only in my toy. It was ridiculous, which was just what I was after. That had been my grown-up dream all along. After all, I hadn’t really wanted to work for the Muppets. I’d wanted to be one.
I just couldn’t wait for the job interview.
Today, thanks to the wonders of social media, you can find all manners of amateur Muppet makers online. There are more of them than you’d likely imagine, and they create high-end replicas that could easily pass as exquisite official merchandise (no one tell Disney). Many participate in communities that share tips and offer instructions and connect you with others who likely shared your childhood aspirations.
I can’t express enough how glad I am that these resources concerning my obsession weren’t available when I was young. It would have been too difficult to measure up, made my dreams feel too common to sustain me. It would have distracted me from the doing. I’d have never figured anything out for myself.
I wish I could say that all these years later that I’ve overcome the feelings of insignificance that I struggled with as a child, but I still on occasion get weepy when I hear Kermit sing “Not Easy Being Green,” or Gonzo croon “My Way,” or “I’m Going Back There Someday.” The rub of it is, I like that I still connect with those things in that way. The depths of depression can, at times, produce sonorous echoes.
Since then, I’ve grown, but I’m not sure I’ve really changed. I still get off on telling the world the three scariest sentences I can think of:
“I wanted to show you something. I made it myself. I hope you like it.”
That’s other key thing my mom showed me about sewing—when you want to hide your messy seam, you’ve got to flip your stitches inside out. That keeps the frayed parts underneath.
I enjoyed reading this today! I had no idea that you loved the muppets - I do too and Rizzo the Rat and Beaker are my favorites to this day. Amazing that you learned the skills of how to make them too! I especially loved the reference to your grandmother and watching the movies with her xo