Puppets...and Stuff...

Before I begin, yes, this is the five hundred word start to my paper. And yes, it’s also my updated proposal. I don’t know if they’re supposed to be one in the same, but I can already see the change in direction with my writing. That’s the point, right? But, I digress. I’m not sure exactly where this idea is going or what the finished product is going to even remotely resemble, but I’d like to make a puppet and write about it…and stuff.

Puppets? Yes.

Let me explain. I just had my prescription for Percocet filled because of a slight re-fracturing of my knuckles, settled down on the couch and browsed through the Netflix movie selections while waiting for the painkiller induced euphoria to kick in. A furry little red creature with wide, excited eyes, a bulbous orange nose, and an endless grin plastered on his face caught my eye, directing me to the title above him. Being Elmo: A Puppeteer’s Journey was splayed in thin, white and orange lettering across the top of the page, and I looked to the description…

“Narrated by Whoopi Goldberg, this documentary follows the career of puppeteer Kevin Clash, the soft-spoken man behind the furry red monster, Elmo.”

I’m sold. I clicked play faster than you can say, “TICKLE ME ELMO!” and spent the next hour and sixteen minutes glued to my computer screen. When I finished, I lay back in bed and thought how interesting it would be to make a muppet. That’s when it hit me.

I’m going to make a muppet, and I’m going to document it. The final piece will be, tentatively, divided into a few sections:

·         The introduction, I guess. I’m not even sure what that means anymore. I suppose I could talk about the history of muppets and Jim Henson and whatnot.

·         The building process. I’ll delve into mechanics, as well as the emotional and creative aspects of the process, using interviews hopefully.

·         The identity of the puppet. This will focus on the puppet itself, who the puppet and what part of me and my personal life and personality the puppet embodies. Interviews will hopefully be used for this as well.

·         Puppet in action! Hopefully, I’ll find some form of audience, hopefully a group of children, and try and brighten their day with ray of happiness in the form of a talking piece of foam and fleece.

·         Conclusion…kinda…sorta… Explicate the experience as my own puppeteer journey, of sorts.

This is clearly nowhere near even being a complete idea, but I think I’m really onto

something. I will use puppet builders, puppeteers, and children for interviews. Secondary sources are also endless. There’s an endless supply of muppet movies, muppet books, muppet documentaries, muppet-building guides, you name it, and it’s there. I know this is going to change, and I’m excited to see where it leads. Time to start building… 

EXTREMELY Abstract Proposal

1.      What is your project?

I currently have two ideas that I can’t decide between, so I’m basically relying on discussion in class to guide me toward one. I either want to highlight one of my Navy SEAL father’s war stories, or delve into the life and work of Norman Keith Collins—the tattoo artist infamously known as Sailor Jerry.

2.      What process will you use for primary research? (Who, where, what, etc.)

For the Navy SEAL combat story, I suppose I’ll just interview my father and a few of his buddies, if they’re still alive. He’ll be in Afghanistan for a few months, so I’m prepared to spend countless hours on the telephone. For Sailor Jerry, I am going to try my hardest to get to people who know him, interview tattoo artists who carry on his work and/or people who have his tattoos, and maybe even do a little primary research on myself in the form of a brand new tattoo…

3.      What directions do you imagine your secondary research going?

Books, movies, maps, stories, whispers, rumors…secondary research is relatively broad. It’s too soon to really tell right now.

4.      Why is this an interesting subject for you?

Naturally, I’m interested in what my father was doing while he was away for an average of nine months of every year. He’s done some incredibly brave and extraordinarily interesting things, and I’d like to really dig in to that. As for the Sailor Jerry idea, I was damn close a few nights ago to getting the hula pin-up girl tattooed on my forearm in my rum-induced drunken stupor, and to be quite honest, the idea hasn’t fully escaped me. I’ve always been tentative about tattoos, as to whether I want to commit to one or not, and maybe this will serve to sway me one way or the other.

5.      What questions do you have about the topic as you enter it? (These are important because they will help shape what you do at the beginning, but they will almost certainly change as you work on your project.)

Why do you do what you do? Why did he do what he did? Why? Why? Why?

Long Grey Line

 

   

The gentle swoosh of a fine amber spirit splashing smoothly over sparkling and flawless frozen cubes follows the delicate tinkle of cold, clear diamonds dropping into a crystal glass. A lighthearted tune feebly crackles out of the small black radio placed on the bedside table, barely heard over the buoyant voices of the young members of the Brotherhood. They drift and lounge about the room conversing freely, tightly clutching expensive bottles of liquor. Clothed in handsome custom threads, sporting glitzy watches and flashy ties and ornate rings, they casually press quickly emptying glasses to eager lips. Two mellow lamps cast expansive, golden circles across the tastefully furnished room, illuminating each man’s fresh, almost tranquil face. The silly antics of two of their number force wide grins across their Brothers’ calm faces, and it’s not long before the entire room is in a joyous uproar. The booming laughter of the young men starts deep within them. It bursts forth from the depths of their souls—bouncing reverberating echoing resonating inside their hearts and minds, rising to flushed cheeks and twinkling eyes—and explodes from the goofy grins plastered to their faces. Yet behind the relaxed smiles and carefree chuckles, a somber specter skulks. The ghostly apparition of Grey walls and battlements and Grey towers and turrets, against a Grey sky scattered with Grey clouds, always lurks in the back of each of the Brothers’ minds, reminding them of their ultimate purpose.

            These are not ordinary young men.

Clean-cut. Competent. Cocksure. Closely cropped hair frames confident faces, above brawny necks that sit atop broad shoulders, as calloused hands protrude from tailored cuffs. They move with the poised self-assurance of lifelong athletes, each movement calculated and deliberate. Their eyes, though sparkling with happiness, are momentarily dulled by a flash of Grey, betraying a deeper, darker sentiment—this glowing moment of carelessness and bliss only a brief respite from the constant presence of the Grey constantly following them. No matter what their various reasons are for subjecting themselves to the Grey, they are forever bound by the Grey.

And they are bound by Duty.

And they are bound by Honor.

And they are bound by Country.

Within Grey walls, constant frustration, depression, and failure clashes with exhilaration, appreciation, and commitment to mold the Brotherhood into the finest, most loyal, most knowledgeable, most disciplined young men alive. Through constant subjugation of any individual thought, the Grey somehow produces freethinking leaders of exemplary caliber.

            Sacrifice. Pride. Integrity.

            Duty.

            Honor.

            Country.

They are the Brotherhood. They are the Long Grey Line.

LIFE RIDES WITH THE HELLS ANGELS

http://life.time.com/culture/never-seen-hells-angels-1965/#1

If the purpose of a photo essay is to convey a certain story or evoke a particular set of emotions in the viewer, this series of photographs easily and artfully accomplishes this objective. These thirty four images of the outlaw motorcycle club, the Hells Angels, captured by photographer Bill Ray in the mid-1960s, instantly instilled a sense of intense longing deep within me. The exact derivation of this of this yearning proves to be somewhat of a mystery at first, yet by examining these photos more closely, I’m able to pinpoint the desires and emotions conjured by these powerful images of outlaw freedom.

The pure, I-don’t-care attitude of the fallen angels and their old ladies is captured in each and every photograph. Carefree facial expressions and relaxed body positions are contrasted with the often extreme nature of their actions and dissent of their law abiding and enforcing counterparts. Whether they’re slyly smiling, helmetless and defiant, flipping off the photographer while on the back of a motorcycle hurtling down the open road like a bat out of hell, or rebelliously smirking while receiving a rough pat-down or interrogation by an obviously disgruntled and uncomfortable policeman, the Hells Angels always appear calm, collected and disinterested.

The stark disparity between the untroubled, insolent attitude of the outlaws with the clear discomfort of upstanding members of society forced to interact with the Angels is emphasized by the usage of black and white photography. Strict usage of blacks and whites and grays suggests the sheer extent of separation between the outlaws and the society they’ve shunned, playing into the constant reminder of the risky life these men lead. By displaying a series of black and white photographs containing a pictures of a leather-clad young man drinking beer from a garbage can, a tranquil-faced daredevil pulling a wheelie with his old lady bravely holding on, tense police standoffs, painful hospital visits, two tough guys seemingly kissing for shock value, and countless bandits with wild eyes and tousled hair riding iron horses, the photographer appears to imply a certain message—

True freedom can only be attained by not giving a fuck.

A desire for this true freedom is the longing I felt when I first gazed upon this gritty, honest photo essay. These photographs encapsulate my craving to give up everything to gain everything, to reject common law and create my own set of rules. I want to not give a fuck. 

Two Photographs

Left Behind...

My apologies to you all for being so unbelievably late starting this blog. My first weekend back in Bozeman, I found myself in a little scuffle with a vicious duo of  rather unsavory characters. These ruffians seemed to believe it would be wonderfully entertaining to attempt to practice the detestable art of pickpocketing on me as I walked down Main Street. It was clear that the dolts who chose to rob me had surprisingly good technique, yet they made one damning mistake.


Let me explain, for I may, or may not, have some first-hand experience in the matter...

First, you must pick your mark, or target. Study the way your mark moves, how he carries himself, where he keeps his hands, and most importantly, where he keeps his valuables. You have to know everything about your mark to conduct a proper lift. Next, you must distract. Because they were working as a team, one of the hooligans "accidentally" bumped into me while walking toward each other on the sidewalk, and began apologizing profusely. During that brief period of confusion, I was momentarily distracted. In the same moment as the collision, the second hooligan made the lift.

Well, he tried to make the lift.

If he had used the proper hand configuration to make the lift, he would have had my wallet and subsequently disappeared, presumably leaving me to discover my missing item when I returned home. But he didn't. The would-be-thief used his thumb and index finger to pull the wallet from the back pocket of my jeans. One who is not familiar with the art of pickpocketing may ask, "Why would that matter? What difference does it make?"

It makes all the difference. When the thumb and index finger are used to make a pull, the other three fingers softly press up against the mark's body, causing the mark to instinctively look at the place of contact. The proper technique

Not finished....apologies.