So I get the “how did you become a Red Sox fan” question often, being as I was born in Moscow, Idaho and waged most of my teenage riot in the Spokane Valley. The quick answer is Spike and Hendu. The long answer is as follows:

The Inland Northwest during the late sixties and early seventies was a deep shade of Dodger Blue. The Spokane Indians had been Los Angeles’s AAA farm club since 1958, so naturally every snot-nosed brat’s default team was the Dodgers. Things didn’t change much in 1977 when the expansion Mariners played their inaugural season in Seattle. Even two years later, as the Mariners partnered with Spokane’s minor league team—unceremoniously dropped by the Dodgers in 1971—a following didn’t take hold locally. There was a good degree of pessimism surrounding the future of the Mariners, as it was only ten years earlier that the Pilots carpetbagged their way through a single season in Seattle before moving on to Milwaukee to become the Brewers. Not to mention that for most of the decade Spokane had become a transfer point for a supply chain of minor league “talent” for, first the Rangers, then the aforementioned Brewers.

While my memories are clearly colored by youth and pubescent irrationality, that brief three-year period in which the Indians were the Mariners AAA farm club were seminal. Genuine talent seemed to be coming up through the system. Ballplayers like Jim Maler, Dave Edler and Kim Allen, while rarely making a lasting impression on the other side of the Cascades, were stars at “the Fairgrounds”. Which, naturally, is when Dave Henderson showed up. An outfielder with a distinct swagger and enduring gap-toothed grin, Hendu was badass in that unique, early-eighties way that Miami Vice was badass, or the Sugar Hill Gang, or Tron. Don’t ask me to explain it.

In 1982, Hendu made the big league club and quickly made an impact. Following Henderson’s departure, Spokane was again dumped as a AAA affiliate, but it seemed to matter much less, at least to me. By that time I was finally developing a partiality for the Mariners, in spite of the ownership’s soon-to-be-legendary cheapskate tendencies. On August 19th 1986, in the middle of another last-place season, GM Dick Balderson pulled off the first of what would become routine salary dumps. Henderson and shortstop Spike Owen—only a few months after being named team captain—were traded to the Boston Red Sox for Rey Quinones and cash. It was Henderson’s free agent year and, as would become an annual tradition, the Mariners weren’t going to pay him.

There I was. The leaves were about to change, the evening air carried with it that crisp bite, and I was feeling cheated. Seeing no indications that the Mariners would be anywhere near the postseason within the foreseeable future, I found myself breaking one of the cardinal rules of serious fandom: rooting for the name on the back of the jersey. The American League Championship Series paired the Red Sox against the California Angels. Spike Owen promptly hit .429 and Hendu was responsible for one of the most dramatic moments in ALCS history when he drove a two-out, two-strike split-fingered fastball from Donnie Moore into the Anaheim Stadium left field seats in game 5. This is what it felt like to cheer on a winner. Shit, I was all in. The Angels never recovered from the game 5 loss. They dropped the last two at Fenway and I finally had a rooting interest in a World Series. Of course, it had to be that World Series, the 1986 World Series… the less said about that, the better.

But that really is the crux of the thing. The lurching, bipolar thrill ride of victory and defeat during the fall of 1986 was both a crucible and harbinger of future angst. Granted, I’m far from the first person to reach this conclusion, but back in the pre-2004 (or pre-2007 for that matter) days, there was very little choice in becoming a Red Sox fan. Regardless of how you may have gotten there, once you were in, you’re in for life.

Sweet Jesus, if you ever needed further proof that rock ‘n roll is indeed six feet under, here it is. Seriously, I love coasters as much as the next suburban jackass but “Life in the Fast Lane”? How do you work booze, cocaine and unchecked narcissism into an amusement park ride?

Back in the nineteen-eighties, there was this contraption that we called a “television”, and on it we would watch music videos on a channel called “music television”—or MTV for the sake of brevity. A common visual motif among these nascent rock spectacles was the use of what’s known as a white cyclorama—simply a large space, painted completely white, with a curved transition from the ceiling to the floor. What it allowed was for the subject (in this case, the band) to stand out on a perfectly blank, seamless canvas. As my puberty coincided with the advent of the MTV, that aesthetic was hardwired into my unconscious at a very absorbent age. I’m happy to announce I’ve finally been able to channel this predilection for sparsity via my most recent collaboration with New Radiant Storm King. Clouds Cover Everything is nearing completion and below is a small taste, courtesy of Carl Derrick. More later.

I don’t know why, but as summer approaches I always get a powerful yen for bourbon—specifically, the Tennessee sour mash of one George A. Dickel. Now, technically, this isn’t bourbon per se, due to the charcoal filtration that most Tennessee whiskey receives (including the swill of the inferior Jack Daniel’s) but I appreciate the way the word flows off the tongue.

This led me to invent a cocktail: a fiery blend of bourbon and Dr. Pepper, only later to discover that said drink had already been claimed and named. But, as I rarely allow facts to impede my personal aggrandizement, I refined the concoction and renamed it Dr. Dickel. The invention goes back to the summer of 1998, during production of the film The Wind, on which I was acting as Production Designer. A low-budget independent thriller, The Wind was being filmed in and around the Connecticut hometown of writer/director Michael Mongillo with family, friends and a few hired pros. Being in the “friend” camp, I stayed at his parent’s house, which was also being used as a location. In spite of the hard work, long hours and turmoil that weirdly cling to indie filmmaking like crab lice, there was a summery vibe to the proceedings, as though we were at sleepaway camp learning how to make a movie.

Mike’s mother Lucille was taking on the daunting task of running craft services and the bulk of her supplies were downstairs in the garage. This is where I discovered a stash of Dr. Pepper one late night after a particularly arduous day of making props and dressing sets. Whether it was the inspiration of exhaustion or simple convenience, an immediately logical pairing came to my mind. I married the spicy/cherry soda with Dickel’s finest in a tumbler with ice and offered a toast to the day’s toil. Over the course of the next two weeks, a nightly tradition gradually took shape, with Lu and I—and whomever else had the time or inclination at that hour—gathering out on the covered porch of the ranch house to imbibe and listen to the warm fugue of crickets.

The cocktail provided a soothing elixir to the harsh reality of making a movie from scratch and the tradition was revived several summers later, when a handful of us found ourselves back at the Mongillos’, this time working on my feature Broken. The scale was somewhat smaller but the feeling remained, evoked as much by the bittersweet, suburban vibe as the good doctor himself. Yeah. So that’s how it is with recollections and distillations. Thank God it wasn’t Mr. Pibb.

Don’t say you weren’t warned. What started out as a sardonic joke has materialized into full-color, three-dimensional, dice-rolling reality! As of April 2, 2008—the day AFTER April Fool’s Day—the feature film Broken will be available as a Special Deluxe Edition complete with a board game based on the film. In the tradition of classics such as Candyland®, Sorry® and Life®, Broken the Game takes players on a careening journey through the world of Todd Kellogg. Will you make it to the Dairi Quik to pick up a bag of Pizza Things? Will you ever find something good on TV? Why does it feel like you’re always moving backwards? These questions will all be answered (or at least asked) when you play the one board game that demands that you stay on the couch and have another beer.

Available exclusively from www.pedxing.com.

In keeping with the month ending lamb-wise, the hotly anticipated DVD release of my feature Broken saunters lazily onto Amazon.com today, March 20, 2008. I was thinking about working a sidewalk sale across from Greeley Square to push a Genesis reference (because, really, you can’t have enough Genesis references) but I figured, A. It would be way too cryptic and, B. I’d have to contend with the pirates who have the entrance to the Manhattan Mall pretty well occupied.

But back to Broken, the DVD features the complete cut of the film, trailers, production design samples and a conversation between Paul Phipps and I. Damn, that sounds so good, I might buy one myself. Seriously, I’m extremely pleased with how it came out and fairly confident that “if you get it, you’ll dig it.”

And, as an extra special bit of supersized madness, Amazon.com soon won’t be the only place to find the DVD. Within the next 2-3 weeks, Broken will be available directly from the Pedestrian site: www.pedxing.com… as a Deluxe Limited Edition with Board Game! Yes, you read that correctly.

Stay tuned.

March 19, the baseball season is scratching at the door and I’m visited by that stringent brew of optimism spiked with a stiff dose of unbridled hatred. Hatred for the Yankees, of course. Since moving to NYC ten years ago, my natural dislike of them has ulcerated into an eternal flame of malice. I’m sure it’s not healthy. It’s certainly not sensible, especially in the two-titles-in-four-years reality of Red Sox Nation. But, fuck it, that’s baseball. Try explaining–in cold, clear-eyed terms–Walter O’Malley’s insurmountable development obstacles to someone raised in Flatbush in the fifties. Baseball is about love and rage and heartbreak. There is a certain degree of holistic logic to it all anyway. An emotional attachment to the names on the back of the jerseys and an antagonism to enforced tradition is, after all, how I became a Red Sox fan in the first place. Long story, some other time… maybe when the smell of freshly-cut grass has taken hold.

Ought eight is getting off to a frenzied pace. A couple weeks ago I received the initial run of the Broken self-distro campaign—10 crates of DVDs—which now stand as a quaint half-wall in the apartment that I share with my new bride. Two weekends ago, I flew cinematographer David Wexler out from L.A. so we could start work on a New Radiant Storm King video for a song from their upcoming album… and discuss the logistics of the “still-in-infancy” project Days Between Driveways (a film that, quite honestly, won’t resemble anything ever seen before and may be the most outlandish, misguided idea I’ve ever attempted). I’m running on stale caffeine and fumes. But it feels good.

As 2007 drew to a close, I came to realize some superficial similarities and stark differences in my favorite album and movie of the year. 

Band of Horses’ sophomore release for Sub Pop Cease to Begin opens with Is There a Ghost and closes with Window Blues–as disparate as two songs on the album could be–and in between are the peaks and valleys of a band growing increasingly more confident. Ben Bridwell’s vocals, while still haunting, aren’t nearly as awash in reverb as they were on Everything All the Time and the guitars are prominent and clean, creating what truly feels like an epic record, in spite of its 35 minutes.

No Country for Old Men continues the Coen Brothers’ facility for crafting precise film-length set pieces. Essentially a monster movie wherein the monster is a hit-man armed with a cattle stun gun, the film creates a bleak, beautiful landscape where everything is fair game. Much like the experience of watching Miller’s Crossing, where each shadow, sound and piece of scenery is expertly placed, “No Country” feels like a two-hour film class (but in a good way). 

The similarities are pretty evident to anyone with an appreciation for both the rugged, Neil Young-flavored indie rock of Band of Horses and Cormac McCarthy’s dry, Texas desolation. There’s a sparse loneliness to both that speaks to a rural terrain both idyllic and painful, inhabited by nothing but dust and phantoms. On the Coens’ side, much of that is due to Richard Deakins’ masterful cinematography, an aesthetic that harkens back to the classic grandeur of John Ford, yet filtered with a trailer-park vérité. For Band of Horses, its a progression of roots music stoked by bands like Uncle Tupelo and Eleventh Dream Day.

What I’m starting to find more interesting are the differences, primarily in the unapologetic sense of hope running through Cease to Begin, as opposed to the coal black cynicism evident throughout No Country. When Bridwell sings, “…the world is such a wonderful place,” you get the sense that he’s trying, really trying, to convince himself. This is a world unrecognizable, even ironically, in the Coens’ scrubland of west Texas–illustrated in screaming, 72-point type as Tommy Lee Jones pontificates on facing the kind of evil that goes beyond understanding. Humans will do bad things to one another, that’s an incontrovertible truth.

Taken together, both represent the culture of a damaged era. The question concealed within each is, “how do we heal?” That’s a tough question. Shit, it’s one for the ages, in fact. Personally, I’m discovering that the difficulty in the answer to that question is likely what’s been driving me to keep writing and making films. I’m sure it goes for others, as well.

Thus begins my campaign to get Andre Nolan Dawson into Major League Baseball’s Hall of Fame. It’s time to ratchet this shit up, especially in light of this month’s Mitchell Report. Dawson was a major leaguer for twenty years, most—if not all—spent battling chronic knee inuries. He was named the National League Rookie of the Year in 1977, won eight Gold Gloves, four Silver Sluggers, played in eight All-Star Games and, along with Willie Mays and Barry Bonds, is the only player to have hit 400 or more home runs and stolen 300 or more bases. In 1987, a free agent and desperate to escape the concrete-like turf of Montreal’s Olympic Stadium, he offered to sign a blank contract for Chicago Cubs’ general manager Dallas Green, who promptly filled in the figures for the base minimum. Dawson repaid Green’s big-hearted generosity by hitting 49 home runs and winning the Most Valuable Player award, after finishing second twice before. And what’s most timely, this was accomplished before what now looks to be forever branded as the “steroid era.”

Okay, so he was my favorite player. He even managed to play for my favorite team briefly, if uneventfully. I never claimed objectivity (in the interest of fairness, he was responsible for one of the most inane malapropisms ever uttered). But fuck all that. If it weren’t for that satanic invention called Astroturf, Dawson’s two healthy knees would’ve braced him for the kind of statistical numbers in the eighties that we grew accustomed to seeing in the nineties. He would’ve been the pre-Barry Barry, sans supplements. But that’s alternate-reality shit and Hall voters steadfastly believe in “sticking to the numbers,” or so they claim. I’d like to see the theorem of how Ozzie Smith’s admittedly dazzling fielding acumen can cancel a putrid career at the plate. Then there’s Gary Carter and that shibboleth of the lazy sportswriter: “intangibles.” Being old enough to remember the Expos lineup in which Carter and Dawson both played, I’d proffer that the Hawk and Larry Parrish (later Tim Wallach) instilled more fear in opposing pitchers. And if I have to hear any more “career cut short” bullshit from Kirby Puckett apologists, I will set myself on fire.

Andre Dawson was as fierce a competitor as baseball fans will ever witness and one of the best athletes to play the game “the natural way,” to paraphrase former teammate and current Hall of Famer Ryne Sandberg. Give him a plaque.