Just Breathe (Live At Austin City Limits)

My favorite song of 2009.

Sacred Circles and Scaredy Cats

I'm in Hiawassee, GA right now doing a show for Zaxby's. This is a gig with a lot of down time between performances and rehearsals, so I've done my best to use my free time to work on my novel and develop my 2010 marketing plan for 7 Course. But I also decided I was too close to the Enota Campground to pass up the chance to go back and visit.

You remember Enota, don'cha? It's the setting for that snake bite incident that I won't seem to shut up about.

First of all, before you classify me as either brave or stupid, consider me neither, as any snake with a lick of sense has gone about the business of hibernating by now, so I wasn't walking into any sort of reptilian ambush. Far from it, the site was peaceful, quiet, and in the full, glorious throes of Autumn.

I took a few pictures with my cell phone - the frame of the sweat lodge, the rocks where I was laid down while waiting for a ride to the hospital, and so on. Then, I put my phone away. I meditated, prayed a prayer of gratitude, and took in the beauty of it all, the sense that, for me and me only, something transformational DID happen here. It's not something that mattered to many other folks, but for me, it was a spiritual bookmark, a moment when I realized how blessed I am, and how quickly our lives can change.

I came back here physically today. I hope to return here spiritually often, to remind myself of how blessed I am, and how important it is to reflect and act upon the lessons I learned this summer.

Before I left the site, I decided to take off my left shoe and sock, and stand barefoot in the very spot that the snake bit me. While I'd love to say it was my inner-Hemingway coming out, a 'feel the fear and do it anyway' bravado that brought some sort of emotional closure, it wasn't. It was just a way of reminding myself that I could stand - open and vulnerable - in a place that once brought me great fear and harm, and feel as safe and trusting as I could ever hope to.

That's our day to day lives - the fear of losing someone, the tenuous nature of our economy, the uncertainty of the choices we've made. Yet, we're required to stand tall on the very ground that seems to present so many perils and simply trust. Ruthless trust, be it in God, your loved ones, or your own capabilities to persevere in a world that seems to be rife with unseen briers and snakes.

There's a sign on the bridge that leads from the main campground across a flowing creek to the sweat lodge at Enota. It reads, "Please Enter the Sacred Circle with Reverence". I think the trick is not so much entering holy ground with reverence. We can all do that. The challenge is seeing that holy ground beneath us in our daily lives, and sustaining reverence each moment.

A Love Supreme

"So shines a good deed in a weary world." - Willy Wonka


If you're lucky, at some point in the course of your life, you'll find yourself surrounded by a community of friends - people who would go to the wall for you, stay aboard the rocky ride with you until the wheels come off. It may be in high school, college, or later in life, but there'll be a moment when you look around and say, "These are the people who will help define my values, shape who I am, and be there holding my hand through the most violent tempests life sends my way."

I'm grateful to say, I found this community at a point in my life where I could really appreciate it. In 2002, my friend Jessica - a vibrant, beautiful life force who spends so much time giving to others, one wonders how she has time to juggle the dual careers of actress and Pilates instructor - was diagnosed with Stage 4 breast cancer.

You've heard of Stage 4. That's the one where they tell you how much time you have, not what your odds are.

Seven years and over 100 treatments later, Jessica is still here. She's battled the recurrence and spread of cancer many times. She's still here. She's sat in more waiting rooms and taken more medications than most of us could imagine. She's still here. Not only still here, but winning this battle in a way that would restore even a hardened cynic's faith in the human spirit.

About seven years ago, as the story goes, a group of Jessica's girlfriends were sitting around, sharing wine and wisdom, helping Jessica through a rough night of dealing with her diagnosis, and they decided they weren't going to let cancer win. They were going to fight. Together. This is how Girl Fight Club was born.

Over the past seven years, this amazing group of women - and, eventually and inevitably, men - have rallied to support not only Jessica, but they've been there when other friends received bad health news, lost a loved one, or struggled with hardships. They mobilize in a way that would make the Justice League of America feel inadequate. When I see them, I often envision flowing capes and ass-kickin' boots on them.

When a certain Atlanta writer wandered into the woods and took a snake bite to the foot, the GFC went into action. I was receiving texts in ICU, and when I came home, they began a meticulously scheduled brigade of visits, bringing food, coffee, treats for the kids, flowers, cards, and books. Most of all, they listened to me as I shared my story, laughing at all the right parts, showing the kind of compassion that can't be manufactured, and letting me know they were grateful that my toes would live to run another Race for the Cure.

Last night, this amazing group of friends rallied again. Jessica's insurance has reached a point where she now has to pay for the remainder of 2009's treatments, and then her 2010 deductible. The medication/treatments alone are $4500 or so a month. Those cancer cocktails Jessica drinks cost more than ones you'd find in a Buckhead restaurant, to be certain. Action was required, and the Girl Fight Club didn't flinch. A silent auction, raffle, and benefit show by the talented cast and crew of Sketchworks was organized and executed with a sort of flawless grace that only a group of determined friends could muster. The government should take note at how efficiently these ladies made this event happen - they just might learn something.

People who don't even know Jessica donated tickets, trips, spa appointments, services and goods. While I believe part of this can be chalked up to the kindness of strangers, I also believe a part of it is because the Girl Fight Club comes from such a pure place that people are attracted to it. They see the love this group of friends has for one another, and it restores a bit of their faith in humanity. You want to give, not only because it's a good cause, but because it completes a part of you - a part of you that feels a little lost these days amongst the skeptics, cynics, and self-absorbed Me Monkeys that populate our headlines and brush up against us in checkout lines and at traffic lights.

To be a part of something divine, in a world wobbling on its axis, helps us reconnect with whatever we find holy.

To be a part of this inspiring, devoted group of friends has helped me be a better person. There's an artistry to putting love into action, and these people are in the midst of painting their masterpiece.

To be a part of a family of friends like the Girl Fight Club is the fondest wish I could have for you.


I’m a lucky man to count on both hands
The ones I love,.. - "Just Breathe", Pearl Jam

The Blog, The Book, & The Bite.

Wow, this blog has been quieter than the Jim Belushi fan page. Told ya.

First things first, it seems many friends' blogs have been eaten alive by that cyber-cannibal known as Facebook. Why post lengthy journals of your life when you can post perpetual nuances of your day? Why bore dozens when you could bore hundreds?

My love/hate relationship with Facebook hit a plateau this past month. I've been on for a year now and I have wasted countless hours there. Musings, reunions, surveys, wars of words, and quip one-up-manship. Then, as I struggled to find time to get all the things I needed to accomplish done, I rubbed the bottle, and asked the genie for all my Facebook time back from the previous year. He just laughed. Even he, said the apparition, couldn't control the timesuck that is Facebook. You can't get the genie back in the bottle, either. So, the echo of his mocking laughter has haunted me since.

I love Facebook. It's the sore tooth I can't stop touching. Where else can I go, post something witty or - on a good day - meaningful, and get such a positive reaction? It's like watching someone while they read one of my short stories, or being onstage and getting little telegrams of acceptance and support. Girls I had crushes on in high school, guys who were too cool to hang out with back in the day, teachers and peers who now tell me I'm inspiring or entertaining them the way they used to do for me. For me, Facebook is the equivalent of putting a kilo on the table for Keith Moon and walking away.

But, alas, go get bitten by a snake and you start to rethink how you're spending your time. You begin to realize that - should the credits be set to roll on your time here - you don't want your obit to read, "He really said some funny stuff on Facebook. And, er...well, he was great at Word Twist too."

And don't get me started on Twitter. Ick.

So, I have - somewhat successfully - re-channeled my need-for-attention addiction to the chance to expand my business in these confounding times, move the ball forward on "The Puzzle of Autumn" (my first attempt at penning a novel), and get into a daily routine of meditation, exercise, and gratitude.

Truth be told, I'm realizing how boorish the blog and the 'book (as in Face) can be, as almost everything written is in first person, with the 'what's up with me, as if you care' POV. This entry included, btw.

Of course, I've decided I'm less and less interested in commenting on the pop culture train wrecks, and as for politics, well, there's little I can say that Jon Stewart hasn't covered with more wit and satirical accuracy than I could ever muster.

I start my days off now with the lighting of a candle rather than the glow of a monitor, and when it's time to write something, I post one FB status for the day, and move on to chapter 3 of the novel, my corporate writing duties, or a yoga routine on the front porch.

After the snake bite, I kept waiting for this 'transformational moment' that never really came. There was no moment where I felt a vast psychological shift. But, over the course of two months, I've realized that it was a gradual, almost imperceptible one. I'm seeing what matters most, and working very hard to leave the more trivial aspects of every day life in the margins. That goes for Facebook, worry, and the pile of dishes on the kitchen counter.

The notion of enjoying every sandwich requires getting to the meat of it all and not getting hung up on the side items.

See ya back here soon.

Back on my Feet...

I'm trying to keep my updates on my recovery to a minimum, but for those who pass through this blog and are interested, it's been a little over three weeks since I inadvertently got too close to a 29 inch copperhead snake. The good news is, yesterday I shed my blue Velcro recovery boot and put on a slip-on shoe. Last night, I wandered the house barefoot without any repercussions, and today, it's been flip-flops.

My foot looks like my foot again. The pic above is pre-snake bite. Actually, Wendy had just gotten her new camera and was willing to photograph ANYTHING, apparently. But, my left foot is starting to look that skinny again. That means a walking regiment should start next week, assuming a running shoe will soon fit. Then, I hope to start at ground zero as a runner again - this was actually a good catalyst to make me WANT to run again, as my passion for it has waned over the past year. Now, nothing sounds more alluring than an invigorating three miler.


People have asked me if I've had any side effects from this. Here's what I've noticed:

*an aversion to going to the mailbox each day (my insurance is covering much of this, but man, they send you a claim/bill/statement for EVERYTHING)

*my foot is still sorta stiff - don't have maximum wiggle-ability just yet, but I'm getting there.

*The final thing, and I never expected this - I am suddenly fascinated with snakes. Not that I want one, mind you. My fear of them remains healthy, but curiosity has the best of me. I am watching Animal Planet, reading articles, and searching YouTube for stories. I'm sure this little fascination will pass, but for now, my lovely wife (who HATES snakes) has to ask what I'm watching before she can walk into the room.

I'm still very grateful for the all calls, visits, emails, and Facebook offerings of love and support. This was never a life or death thing, but since I didn't know that for the first couple of hours, it gave me a chance to do a little karmic inventory, and I am more grateful for my life than ever.

I'm gonna shut up now. Narcissistic navel-gazing is no fun to read, I'm sure. Besides, there's a snake show on Animal Planet.

My Left Foot (The Snake Bite Story, v2)

I’m a sucker for a spiritual experience. Be it as simple and humble as Sunday communion or as logistically challenging as a day trip to D.C. to see the Dalai Lama speak, I enjoy the quest for the higher purpose. That’s what led me to the Enota Camp in North Georgia on July 10th, where they offer the opportunity to experience a Native American sweat lodge, probably the most well known ritual of the Native American people. It was something I’d had on my “Life List”, and I’d heard what a transformative experience it could be. Well, it was. Not in the manner I’d expected, but transformational, nonetheless.

Lakota, a serene Native American elder, was our sweat lodge leader. She took our group of five to build the sweat lodge Friday night. The frame of the lodge was already built, but the lodge needed to be shelled by a collection of blankets and tarps that were kept in a little plastic storage shed, the kind you use to store garden tools and such.

As the blankets were being handed out, I was given a quilt that was frayed around the corners, and seemed to be…moving. It was actually vibrating and, even if it were an electric blanket, there wasn’t an outlet within a quarter of a mile. This should’ve been my first cosmic sign that I was headed for a Wild Kingdom weekend. About a dozen bees emerged from the blanket and began stinging us. I took a couple on the arm. We dropped the blanket and covered it with a larger one so the bees would stay put and the staff could deal with them later.

Next came the tarps. This is where my luck shifted mightily. Perhaps the 2 ½ foot copperhead snake was snoozing in one of the tarps I picked up, or maybe he had wandered over while we were in the middle of our bee dance. Whatever the case, I had unknowingly gotten too close to the very reptile that is aligned with a motto as bold as “Don’t Tread On Me”.

I felt a sharp, piercing pain in the top of my left foot (yes, I was wearing flip-flops, but before you call me a granola munching moron, I have since learned that a snake can bite through most any form of footwear). I have nothing to compare the pain to – it was definitely the most intense pain I have ever felt, and figure it is likely akin to being stabbed with a knife – at least on impact. The kicker is the venom. That initial pulsing of the venom is pretty brutal. I’d like to think that John Wayne might’ve at least winced.

I kicked off my shoe, and saw, just to my right, a coiled up copperhead. I’d love to tell you I said something very Sean Connery-esque, but the fact is, I think my response was “Oh my God, it’s a snake! I was bitten by a snake!” Not Pulitzer winning dialogue, to be sure. My tongue went numb for a few seconds, so for a moment, everyone just stared at me as I hopped and drooled in hope of some aid.

I was helped over to a gathering of stones, where my foot was elevated while Lakota went to kill the snake. I later learned that the elevating of my foot actually helped the venom race toward my heart more rapidly, but truly, I was open to suggestions. If someone had told me to sing Steve Earle’s “Copperhead Road” backwards to reverse the venom, I’d have done it, mandolin solo and all.

Next, and don’t ask me how, Lakota quickly decapitated the snake with a hatchet. Then, for some reason I’ll never understand, the snake was brought over to me and placed on the ground right beside me! The detached head was still moving. For a brief moment, I’m pretty certain I levitated. I’d seen this sort of thing on “Law and Order” before, where they make the perp face its victim, but not usually as the victim was still writhing from the crime. Also, I figured that moving head could still bite, and I’d had my fill of venom.

There was a little girl there – think the lead in “Little Miss Sunshine” – who began to cry and plead, “Please don’t die! Please don’t die!” I was hoping for a slightly more positive mantra to see me through. Lakota came over, held my hand and said, “Don’t be afraid. Stay calm.” That helped. Somehow, I was staying calmer than I imagined I ever would under such circumstances. She sang a line or two of a Native American hymn over me. This is when I assumed my fate was sealed. Fear and calm seemed nestled side by side in my heart. I wasn’t sure if this was a tribal version of Last Rites or a healing ritual.

“What’s going through your mind right now?” Lakota asked.

I said, “I want to know what this means.” Perhaps I worded this request poorly, because what I meant was “AM I GOING TO FREAKING DIE????” but she opted for the metaphysical response, saying “Snakes represent transformation. This is your transformation.”

All of you know I’m a pretty metaphysical cat: a spiritual martini of Christianity, Zen, and Emersonian existentialism. But I wasn’t really looking for a sacred metaphor at that juncture. I just wanted to see my wife and kids again. But the term ‘transformation’ had me pretty confident that, in terms of shelf life, my ride was here.

Luckily, my ride was there –not the eschatological one, but an actual lift to the hospital. They loaded me into a wheelbarrow – yes, a wheelbarrow – and raced me across a foot bridge, then hefted me into the front seat of a van. Two Enota employees, whose combined ages probably equaled mine, got me to there in one piece. I am pleased to say that I’ve discovered my true survival instinct, as I did nothing but make jokes the entire way to the hospital. It’s reassuring to know that, when I thought I was facing mortality, I opted to smirk into the abyss.

From here, I’ll just hit some surreal hospital high points:

*The snake was brought, in a Target bag, to the hospital with me, where he was placed on a table in the ER no more than ten feet away from me. Why I had to continue to be roommates with a guy who tried to give me the eternal eviction notice that same night is beyond me. They needed to ID him as a copperhead to insure I got the proper anti-venom, but after that, I really felt he’d overstayed his welcome. I later learned the Hiawassee hospital staff used the beheaded snake to play practical jokes on one another the rest of the weekend. Truly, that place was like “Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman” with a laugh track.

*The staff at the small mountain hospital was very assuring, though none of them had ever treated a snake bite before, which was troubling. I had visions of them checking Wikipedia to see what course of action to take.

*They opted not to treat me with anti-venom that first night, as the CDC told them that copperhead bites are rarely lethal and sometimes an allergic reaction to the anti-venom is worse than the bite itself. So, I went about 16 hours without anti-venom, and as the swelling began to creep up my leg, they realized they’d better rethink things. They readily admitted that they ‘waited too late’, and now the pendulum began to swing back from feeling like I was going to be “good as new” to wondering if, come next July 4th, I’d be running the Peachtree in the wheelchair division.

*The local pharmacist brought over three vials of anti-venom on Saturday. He was the only one who had treated a snake bite before. He was right out of a Cormac McCarthy novel – few words, and none of them cheerful. He told me I’d likely lose my foot, definitely a toe or two. He talked about how the foot turns black, withers, and dies, and how I should’ve been treated hours before. Then he shook my hand, wished me the best, and left. I never knew whether to believe him or not – he wasn’t a doctor, but he was the only one who’d dealt with a snake bite before, so this was where faith and hope really came in. Faith and hope in God, my body’s ability to do battle, in the doctors, and in the notion that this pharmacist might be a ‘glass half empty’ kind of guy who told people with sniffles that they had the swine flu.

*I received one dose of anti-venom in Hiawassee. They called it ‘horse serum’, which really made me wonder if it was going to be administered by Doc Baker from “Little House on the Prairie”. After my initial dosage, I was transported to Northside, where I got three more rounds of anti-venom. Northside gave me Cofab, which is a drug I understand is made from the blood of sheep that have been bitten by copperheads. That I now have sheep and snake inside me makes me think I’ve achieved true yin-yang, for what that’s worth.

*Northside doctors assured me that if my foot were in real peril, then infection, compartment syndrome, or tissue death would’ve taken place by the time they’d admitted me that afternoon. None of those things had seemingly occurred, and the outlook became much more optimistic. Nerve damage is still a possibility, but a full recovery is presumed.

*Since I’ve been home, I’ve been told that ‘full recovery’ could take days, weeks, or months, and that rebounding from a snake bite is as unique as, say, childbirth. Everyone’s is different, and everyone wants to tell you about their experience. Seriously, for a guy who never wants to see another snake, I’ve heard more reptilian tales of peril since I’ve been home than the programming folks at Animal Planet.

*In many cultures, snakes represent transformation and rebirth. Certainly, this incident was a bookmark in the book of my life. Beyond that, I don’t know what it means. I am pretty sure it has something to do with my motto, which I stole from Warren Zevon long before this happened: Enjoy Every Sandwich. Life is very uncertain. Every day’s a blessing, even when it seems like just another cloudy, crappy Monday. I’m sure I’ll forget that a million times more, but this little cosmic reminder has at least given me cause to pause, to be grateful, and to get a better perspective on what matters, and how so many little daily landmines don’t…matter, that is. Not in the least.

*The two greatest ironies in this experience are as follows: 1) I am not an outdoorsman. You could name fifty friends of mine who would seem more likely candidates for coming across a venomous snake. I think this is why no one could believe it at first. It’s akin to hearing Chuck Norris died in a bizarre baking incident. 2) Wendy’s greatest fear is snakes. She can’t look at them on TV or in books, she doesn’t even like the word. The hospital could’ve told her I’d been in a car wreck, fallen down a mountain, or was probed by very thorough aliens and she would’ve taken it better than the news that my flesh had made contact with snake fangs. I’m proud of how she held it together, but can’t believe I was felled by her greatest phobia.


What Have I Learned?

*Next time I go out in the wild, I promise not to do so in near-bare feet. I’m thinking of buying a pair of steel-toed boots like Joe Strummer from The Clash wore, actually.

*I promise if I ever unroll tarps and blankets in the woods again, I’ll use the kind of caution Jack Bauer takes when diffusing a bomb.

*I have the best friends a guy could ever hope for, and your love, prayers, and positive thoughts made a HUGE difference, especially when I was still in Hiawassee, away from my family and home. I can’t thank you enough.

*When it comes to ‘transformative experiences’, sweat lodges have nothing on snake bites.

Same Monkey, Different Back

I guess I should explain the title of this post. I'm piggybacking, or rather monkeybacking, off of the TC Boyle essay below. Read it if you haven't. "This Monkey, My Back" - I think it's pretty fascinating. Then go check out "Tortilla Curtain" or "If the River Were Whiskey" and fall in love with the linguistic architecture of a master craftsman.

Meanwhile, back here on Mere Mortal Blvd, I'm realizing that I am blogging less and less, and hearing from my handful of readers even less so. If I were an ABC sitcom, I'd be on the chopping block, right next to "According to Jim". I shutter at the thought.

This blog is a great place to come vent, share inspirations, and comment on the latest pop culture train wrecks. However, recently, I've been jonesing for something more. I've had more stops and starts with short stories than I care to mention over the past couple of years. My muse has seemingly found herself with a limited vocabulary of late, and her sense of adventure was waning. Moody little bitch.

A late night visit with a friend and mentor changed all that. A few chips and salsa fed the body while a 'get your artistic act in gear, son' conversation fed the soul. I left inspired, reinvigorated, and thinking, as he said, "Why the hell not, life's too short. Write something. Leave your mark."

So, this blog is about to become even less active, though I'm sure you can expect to see some vacation pics, family updates, and more than a few comments on how baseball season is shaping up as the year progresses. The big pullback for me won't be this blog - it's gonna be Facebook, which is my downfall. I've been more addicted than Drew Barrymore with a meth lab in her movie trailer.

I'm trying to pull back from Facebook, but as I've told many people, my reason for getting into acting in the first place was to get attention and see positive reactions from the pretty girls and the cool guys - this goes back to sixth grade. So, when I can post something semi-clever and entertain 600 people with next to no effort, well, that's some pretty powerful cyber-heroin, Mr. Cobain.

That said, the effort is being made to back off the stuff. A little less Face, a little more Book. I've started writing my first novel, "The Puzzle of Autumn", and that's all I'll say about it. Wish me luck, send me encouragement, and cyber bitch-slap me if you see me on Facebook on this blog too often. I've got kids to raise, a business to run, and now...a book to write. Life's too short.

Chapter One...The adventure begins. What happens next is anyone's guess. And that's the fun of it, isn't it?