Sunday Sermon [Acceptance]

¡Hola! Everybody...
It's another beach day today! During the 60s there was a famous poster depicting a swami, complete with flowing beard and robes, on a surfboard with the caption, “You can’t stop the waves, but you can learn how to surf.” LOL! Here’s something to consider, especially relevant when life’s “waves” get too rough…

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-=[ Living Life on Life’s Terms ]=-

This too shall pass...

The last thing we want to hear when we’re in pain is some truism. We’re in pain and clichés really have no place at the moment of impact. I mean, would you tell a victim of a car accident, “This too shall pass?” Well, I know some people who probably would! LOL

Nevertheless, clichés become clichés because they contain truths. Some of the most important teachings that help us with life’s hardships are simple to understand intellectually, but harder to integrate psycho-spiritually. It is only when we are finally free from a hurtful experience that we can claim to understand a truth. The following is based on a true story... 

Being in prison is depressing, to say the least, and as the prisoner looked at his surroundings -- the stone walls, the cold cell, the bars -- he couldn’t help but feel the weight on life on his shoulders. As the days passed, and the reality of his sentence settled in, his heart sank lower. Then one day, he attended a mandatory meeting and he heard one of the speakers say, “This too shall pass.”

At first those words elicited resentment, but as the days passed, those words seemed to pull him through. He printed those words on a blank sheet of legal pad paper, and he taped it above his bed and in that way, those were the last words he would see at the end of the day and the first words upon awakening. Eventually, he would pay an artist friend two packs of cigarettes so that now he had the words artistically engraved with fancy calligraphy on heavy stock paper. No matter how hard it got, he would look at those words and remember, “This too shall pass.”

On the day he was released, except for a few books, he gave away most of his belongings. As he was leaving, a friend asked about the sign, and the prisoner left it, perhaps hoping those words would comfort the next resident of that cell.

As he went about picking up the piece of his life after release, he would continue giving away that message, speaking on it at meetings and sharing it with those close to him -- those who were suffering. And even when times were bad, he never got depressed because he remembered the truth of, “This too shall pass,” and he struggled, one day at a time, sometimes one breath at a time. There were good times too, and he made sure to enjoy them, but never carelessly or mindlessly. In times of joy, he remembered again, “this too shall pass,” and so he continued living his life on life’s terms, not taking anything for granted. At first, living in this way, it seemed as if the good times lasted much too long.

Years passed, and the rewards of his actions accumulated, the former prisoner would become a lover, a father, a dutiful son, a husband. But along with the victories came pain and he would experience the loss of loved ones, relationships lost, the trials, and tribulations of life. He buried loved ones, grieved the losses of love, and experienced the slings of betrayal. Even then, “This too shall pass” still gave him hope and served to keep him focused and directed.

And that was his message to his friends and family -- to any who would listen. Finally, he understood that depression and sadness is a form of prison that “this too shall pass” helps us pass through. It is also one of the secrets to avoid depression, which is too often taking the happy times for granted.

My name is Eddie and I'm in recovery from civilization...

The Friday Sex Blog [Open Relationships]

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Police State [Racial Profiling]

¡Hola! Everybody...
I'm doing some work on a new campaign addressing the issue of racial profiling. Below, is a perspective filtered through my personal experiences. Perhaps my experiences are similar to yours or, more likely, they may be totally alien to your experiences.

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-=[ The Five-0 ]=-

Those who would give up Essential Liberty to purchase a little Temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.

-- Benjamin Franklin

More than 40 years later, I can still remember the incident as if it happened yesterday. It was my first real interaction with a NYC police officer. A few of us were headed home after being let out of school, waiting for the “M” train on the elevated Wyckoff & Myrtle platform. It was a rainy, drizzly early spring day. My friends and I were all “A” students -- the talented tenth -- at the (even then) notorious Bushwick High School. We were just standing around cracking jokes on one another, talking about girls -- the usual fare of masculine adolescence. We weren’t being loud, weren’t breaking any laws. We were, well, breathing while Latino (we were all of Puerto Rican descent).

As we stood there bonding, a police officer approached us and demanded to know what we were doing. He was tall -- over six feet -- and towered over my then 5 feet five-inch, 125-lb frame. I had never had any bad experiences with the police; maybe it was because I looked white. My friends would always tease me that I often got a free pass. This time, however, everyone immediately became quiet and the tension was palpable.

I informed the officer that were all going home, that we had just left school. I wasn’t being confrontational, just merely stating a fact as I would if I had commented on the weather. He then asked for ID, or our “program cards.” What I remember most was that he unnecessarily was rude and abrupt.

We all showed him our school IDs and then he looked at me and said, “Get the fuck off this platform.”

We were all taken aback since we had to be on the platform in order to catch our train home. When we didn’t react, he looked straight at me but said to everyone, “Didn’t you hear what I said you little spics. Get the FUCK off this platform.” Now, the “spic” part was uncalled for, I felt. In a nice way, I informed the officer that we were all headed home and we had to take the train. Up to that point, I wasn’t arguing with him, I was trying to reason, even though he had used profanity and a racial slur. We were standing by the stairs leading down to the street.

“If you don’t get the fuck off of this platform now you little prick, I will kick your spic ass down those stairs.”

And that’s when I became argumentative and things took a turn for the worse. I stated that we all had a right to stand on the platform and that we hadn’t done anything wrong to provoke him. I asked him by what authority could he speak to us in that manner and violate our basic rights.

I’ll never forget his response. He said, in a low, threatening growl, “If you don’t get off this station by the time I count to three, I will kick you down those stairs.”

I stood there, staring at him defiantly, determined not to move. By then, my friends all of whom were intimidated, advised me, “C’mon, Eddie, let’s go, don’t get into any trouble, man, it’s not worth it.” I said I wasn’t moving.

The police officer counted:

One...

Two...

And I don’t know why, perhaps it was the look of pure hatred on the man’s face, but I decided to move right before he counted to three. I turned around and started walking down the steps and that's when I felt his foot slam into my back. I don’t know how I did it, maybe it was instinct, but somehow, as my body began its propulsion head first down the metal stairs, I reached out and grabbed on to the only thing available -- the officer's foot.

And in that way we tumbled down those long, cement-and-metal stairs, tangled in a ball, for I was holding on to dear life. After what seemed like an eternity, we landed and I immediately noted the unnatural position of the officer’s leg and his banshee howls of pain. I remember two elderly white ladies shouting and a crowd gathering. At that very moment, taking in everything, I realized I was fucked... and I ran.

After, my friends told me that the police officer rounded them up and tried to get them to tell him who I was. To their credit never ratted on me. For over two years, I was unable to take the train to school; I had to walk to school (a 45-minute walk each way) rain, cold, snow, or shine.

I was a 14-year-old honors student who never did anything wrong and my life could’ve have easily been destroyed by that one chance encounter.

The problem is that these chance encounters have (and continue to) destroyed lives and the fabric of mostly communities of color. Growing up, my experience wasn’t outside the norm. My close friend, Michael, had his penis almost shot off by a police officer. It was a Saturday night, one of our acquaintances was running from the police, passed by us, and when we heard gunshots, we all ran. My companion, Michael, who was not the target, was shot and the bullet passed through his thigh and through his penis. When we picked him up, we saw the blood flowing from his groin area. He was lucky, the main “dick vein” (as Michael explained it) wasn't destroyed, and the doctors were able to stitch it all back together again. He did have the ugliest penis I ever saw. Accostumed to experiencing trauma, we used the time-worn urban coping skill of the macabre wit to kid him and called his penis Frankenstein Dick.

My friend Shadow, one of the blackest Puerto Ricans I ever met (hence the nickname), was a Golden Gloves champion with a promising boxing career. He was going to box for the Air Force after high school. He was “accidentally” shot dead in the flower of his youth by a stray police bullet. Another stray police bullet left a friend paralyzed at 17 -- for life. Both incidents were termed as “mistaken shootings” or something like that. And those were only the most egregious infractions. I can’t even begin to enumerate all the little infractions, the almost daily “minor” humiliations and indignities, at the hands of the police. I can’t begin to enumerate the countless times parents, grandmothers even, were rounded up like common criminals during drug “sweeps” -- periodic lockdowns of whole city blocks in which the police ran roughshod, with total disregard for all basic human rights.

This is not to say all police are brutal or even corrupt. I am, however, trying to offer the insight that the relationship between communities of color and the police are strained at best. Oftentimes, structural racism is expressed through the vehicle of law enforcement. It isn’t that there are a few bad apples; the true issue is that the barrel itself is rotten.

Today, when I hold workshops teaching children how to protect themselves from those who are supposed to protect us, I hear the same stories. Stories of young people of color being thrown against a wall, or with a boot on their neck. I continue to hear stories of young men literally being undressed in broad daylight. I still hear about the humiliations and of a police force that resembles more of an occupying force than a beneficent social institution. So, whenever I hear justifications for racial profiling, such as the ones in use in major urban areas such as New York and Los Angeles, I am not surprised, for I know the drill. However, it doesn’t mean that I am not outraged.

You should be too.

Racial profiling leads to very real and harmful consequences, one of which includes police brutality and the curtailing of basic American freedoms. Yet, you will hear high-level officials defend it in the same manner one acquaintance put it to me:

Police deployment these days is determined almost strictly by rates of relative violence/crime in each police district. The rate of violence is not some subjective quotient created by a racist cop, but is determined by counting citizens reporting that they were shot, stabbed, beat up and otherwise assaulted, this is combined with citizen reports of burglary, robbery, theft, etc. You see, your racist conspiracy theory is illogical when you know that police resources are deployed based on crime as reported by citizens and not some racist plot to destroy minorities. That is logical.

The problem with this line of thinking, aside from its moral bankruptcy, is that it is not based on fact nor reason. Racial conservatives -- both black and white -- maintain that racial profiling isn’t racist. They argue, like the individual above, that racial profiling is justified since we all know blacks and Latino/as are criminally predisposed! As Heather MacDonald of the conservative think tank, the Manhattan Institute, puts it, “Judging by arrest rates, minorities are overly represented among drug traffickers” (MacDonald, 2001) . Black conservative, Randall Kennedy agrees. He goes so far as to say that arrest rates present a “sad reality” and justifies racial profiling on those grounds (Kennedy, 1999). Well, if this is true, scientific examinations of racial profiling should yield results that back up the claims of racial conservatives.

They don’t...

For example, a New York Attorney General’s study of stops and frisks in New York City, issued in 1999, recorded 175,000 encounters between officers and citizens over fifteen months. The study tracked hit rates by analyzing the percentage of stops and frisks that ended in an arrest. The data is damning. The study found that police arrested 12.6 percent of the whites they stopped, only 11.5 percent of the Latino/as, and only 10.5 percent of the blacks (Spitzer, 1999). This is exactly the opposite of what defenders of racial profiling would predict. When New York City police officers utilized racial profiling intensively, they found what they wanted less often on blacks and Latino/as than they did on whites.

From a personal perspective, I have a sneaking suspicion that those who champion racial profiling don’t do so because they actually believe it’s statistically “sound policing." I submit they support such practices because they want to justify racist practices. They are comfortable with such practices because, for the most part, it doesn’t affect them. They are not the ones being dragged handcuffed from their homes, or suffering humiliation while driving or even walking down a city street. They think it’s acceptable to commit such acts on certain Americans because they just don’t give a good goddamn -- until it happens to them...

There’s a price we all pay for racial profiling, the least of which it makes all of us less safe, as police are more determined to bust low-level black drug dealers in the streets while the big drug game is taking place somewhere in a sleepy suburban enclave or high roller penthouse loft.

My name is Eddie and I'm in recovery from civilization...

They blamed me...

¡Hola! Everybody...
I find my networking and reconnecting has been very effective in helping in the transition to a new phase in my career.

* * *

Yesterdays [No. 6]

They blamed me for their headaches,
the noisy toilets,
rainy weekends,
their growing insanity
and broken fingernails.

But I did them better,
in time,
and they finally blamed me
for deserting them
in favor of a happier woman.

And that
is a blame even they
can cherish forever.

All rights reserved

The Friday Sex Blog [Oral Consciousness]

¡Hola! Everybody…
We’re in the midst of a heat wave here in The Center of the Known Universe. I believe today we’ll hit the 100 degree mark. I love heat waves, mostly because it literally takes people out of their comfort zones. Their routines and behavior get out of kilter and they act less conventionally, if irritable. Clothing is discarded, tempers flare, passions are ignited. While people are going through this, all they do is complain about the heat. Of course, these are the same who complain about the cold. Wouldn’t it be wiser to spend your limited and finite life force on something more useful? I’m just saying…

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Oral Consciousness

We came too close again and
your tongue reached for me
and drew me into your mouth
as if I were a careless fly
doomed to the ecstasy of death
in the perfumed corridors
of your sweet,
wet throat.
 -- Eddie Rosario

     Ever notice how everything feels enlarged in your mouth? ::snicker:: A small cut or sore or a tiny grain of rice can seem huge. Observe that your lips and tongue are exquisitely sensitive to giving and receiving pleasure, tasting both the delicious and the bitter. Imagine, if you can, your whole body as sensitive as your tongue. Pretend that your whole body has that level of tongue-like sensitivity. Imagine French-kissing the computer screen or tasting the inside of your pants.

     

     Maybe it’s fortunate that your whole body isn’t like this. As it is, your potential for taste is sheltered from unwanted or a bombardment of flavors. Your tongue is sheltered by your mouth, safely ensconced behind the safety of teeth and jaws.

     A plant has no tongue and will never taste the salty sheen of a sweaty and trembling lover. Yet a flower dances and lifts its petals, dancing in the sunshine and the rain, rooting itself down in the moist, fertile earth without care of career or thoughts of death. A plant may have no tongue, but in its own way, it is singing its song of life, I am alive, from its roots to its petals.

     Try this… the next time you use your mouth sexually, be thankful that you can. Allow the experience of oral sex to expand and fill up your awareness. Explore the full landscape of oral sensations, the tastes and textures you lick, nibble, tease, and suck. Become totally immersed, as only a human can, in your oral consciousness.

     Before this birth and most likely after death, you have no tongue. I mean, who knows? But right now in this human incarnation, what is the most creative way to give joy with your mouth? How can you offer your soft tongue and skilled lips as a gift for the sake of others -- of another?

     You can certainly pleasure your lover by stimulating their neck, earlobes, nipples, thighs, or genitals with your tongue and lips. But can you push the envelope and offer your mouth for this purpose: to enable your lover to surrender as unrestricted love for the sake of all beings?

     This is the true purpose of sex. Oral sex is unique, because our mouths are so sensitive. Do you realize that more of your brain’s proportionate capacity is dedicated to your tongue and lips than to any other body part? This is obvious if you consider that a drop of salty sweat causes a different reaction if dripped on your back than on your tongue. This is even truer of a genital’s texture and taste between your lips. Your mouth knows most intimately of what it comes into contact with.

     Try tiny little licks or nibbles, movements smaller than a grain of sand. Allow your lover to feel just how sensitive your mouth is by the groans and grunts and oohs and ahs that escape you as your tongue and lips explore and discover the flavors and extreme textures of curve and ruffle that no plant will ever feel. Let your neighbor in the next apartment wonder why you are moaning so.

     Transform your tasted flavors into sounds, empowering your lover to feel your engorged responsiveness, connecting your hearts, amplifying the crackling energy of love to flow more freely between your two bodies. This is the heart of the matter: to translate your mouth’s extreme sensitivity into the service of the magnification of love. Oral sex -- the lapping/ licking of love -- erases the illusory boundaries between selves. Orally amplified love lingers long after your tonguing has ceased and your sucking has stopped.

    Anyone can feel this afterglow of love; so can a plant, believe it or not, and certainly your children and your friends can feel your open and vulnerable heart all day. Your liberated love is a blessing in their lives.

     Amplified love offered as a gift to others is what your tongue can sexually uncover. And why not? Anything less would be a misuse of this human carnal form we all wear. Plants have their own blessing -- their own sun dance. Offer your most sensitive human part as a gift of tender love amplified as a blessing to all. Stretch your limits and feel your natural radiance.

     My name is Eddie and I'm in recovery from civilization...

The Friday Sex Blog [Awakening]

¡Hola! Everybody…
Es un dia bonito aqui in the Center of the Known Universe…

* * *

-=[ Awakening to Emptiness ]=-

Oh no,
my body used to scream and,
curse that final spasm.

Love is the process
I would proclaim,
to finish it
my crime.

The other day, I was sitting down with a casual acquaintance engaged in a rather interesting conversation. As often happens when you’re having a good time, time seemed to fly and my friend excused himself. When pressed, he admitted he had to go home because he and the wife had scheduled time for sex. He didn’t seem especially excited. In fact, he looked like a condemned man going to his execution. And… his wife is a babe. She’s, like, instant hard-on gorgeous.

Sooner or later, even sex with someone you love can become routine. It can become a dry series of rituals which one has to perform dutifully.

The irony is that sex is so full of promise. Passion with skin on fire and almost unbearable bliss. The weeping embraces of vulnerable rapture -- yeah those moments when you make that noise that sounds like a chuckle married a sob. Those moments of transcendent merger as oneness… but usually, sex is pretty much mundane.

Men get hard, pump and grunt, squirt, let out their tension and relax. Women get wet, moan and hump, clutch and weep, and snuggle in affectionate comfort. Initially exciting, sex can become quite predictable. Even good sex can become standardized: you both learn each other buttons, which you push in order to get the right responses and then… pooof. Gone…

In this way sex somehow mirrors life in general. It’s actually less than you hoped. For almost anyone who’s been around the block a few times, sex and life become a comfortable or customary enjoyment, a habitualized routine of pleasure, comfort, and pain that is neurotically consoling at best, and often meaningless.

This is a good thing, dearest. Meaninglessness is a sign of growth. When something becomes boring it means that you are ready to delve deeper. When you are humping away in dissatisfaction, you are ready for deeper sex. Sex that feels empty reveals a deeper truth: sex is empty. Just like any other moment in life.

When you surrender yourself to the possibility of experiencing sex completely, you feel two things. On one level your genitals are engorged, your breathing is heavy, and your passion is inflamed. On another level… so what? You’ve been there/ done that and nothing fundamental has transpired. This moment of sex -- like every moment -- is amazingly rich and deliciously textured, but also strangely and paradoxically empty.

What happens if you dare to venture is that you come to the realization that nothing specific is missing from your sexual life. Of course, you can improve your sexual skills -- communicating your emotions more fully and enjoying multiple orgasms that last for hours -- yet, when your preoccupation with new pleasure and achievement wears off, you are again confronted with the awareness of a sense of emptiness.

The truth is all life is like that. We spend most of life energy trying to attach to or create something concrete in a reality where the only truth is that everything changes, nothing stays the same. You are not the same person you were when you first starting reading this. Biological processes have killed off cells and replaced them with new ones. Five years from now, your whole body will have been replaced using this dying/ birthing process. If you’re even a little awake, deeply held opinions and how you see yourself has changed and will continue to change. All around you, everything is dying and being reborn and dying again. Lovers come and go, loved ones pass away…

Every moment is empty in the sense that if you try to latch on to it, it slips through your fingers like the proverbial sands in the hourglass. The truth, dearest, is that every sexual moment is empty, insubstantial, unreal. And yet it is also true that every sexual moment is full, tangible, and explosively alive. Like a vivid dream, each moment is intense, spontaneously dynamic, and just as spontaneously gone, as if it never happened. Sex can be tender, a miracle of love, yet at the same time inconsequential. Sex is at the same time intense and vanished, and even when it’s utterly blissful, it is also utterly empty.

Immature lovers get lost in the brief rush of pleasure. Depressed adults stay stuck in the unsatisfying embrace of “not enough.” The truth is that every moment is substantially insubstantial -- both tangible and empty. The mature lover surrenders beyond the attachment, naked and vulnerable as life.

But to get to this level requires letting go of your neurotic need to feel good (or bad) about sex. My father, a wise man, advised me in my young adulthood to be a selfish lover. I think he meant for me to enjoy the thrill of romance and fascination for as long as it lasts because I would have to learn how to dance in the middle years of unsatisfying but decent sexual routine.

But this is where it gets really good (or beyond good or bad): eventually, when you have been shorn of your naïve hope, you will have no other choice but to relax within the reality of the emptiness. In this way, and only in this way, you’re able to wear love’s raiment of open bliss; to withstand the boundless luminosity, and you awaken to the awareness that sex is an intense revelation of what is.

Love,

Eddie

The Friday Sex Blog [Flowery Combat]

Hola! Everybody…
I spilled a full cup of freshly brewed Bustelos on my brand new keyboard, day before yesterday. I ran it through the faucet and tried to dry it out, but it’s actin’ funny now.

Again, some of you will see this as sexist...

Flowery Combat

And how could I possibly have known
that all my martial arts
would fail me
against the flowers and the laughter
that were your forward troops,
the outstretched heart
of your army?

Dearest: 

You are attracted to mutual sexual energy. Yes, it is true that you love your friends and family as well as your lover. But the unique aspect of intimate relationship is not love; its uniqueness is due to the attraction of the polarity between the masculine and the feminine -- the yin and yang of sexual attraction.

Every man and woman embodies both masculine and feminine energies, although each individual’s proportion is unique. This proportion determines your sexual gifts. It also influences whom you will find sexually attractive and who will be attracted to you.

Let’s try this for a minute. If you had to choose, would you prefer sex with someone who is radiantly alive, fresh and juicy, longing to surrender to your loving -- or with someone of deep integrity who sees through to your heart and wants to take you with confidence, passion, and total presence?

If you have more masculine sexual essence, then you will be attracted to a more feminine lover. By feminine essence I mean to describe the feeling of light, which feels as love and shines as all life. A feminine lover will splay open as radiance, full of life-force, yearning to open as love and receive your deep love. A feminine lover’s smile can literally light up your life and inspire your heart. Most women and some men have a more feminine sexual essence. (And please: having a more feminine sexual essence has nothing to do with juvenile notions of manhood, or a lack thereof.)

If your sexual essence is more feminine, then you will be attracted to a more masculine lover. By masculine here I mean to describe the quality of consciousness. In this context consciousness is manifested as a deep and penetrating presence. A masculine lover will take and ravish you with deep and intense loving. A masculine lover can crack you open and expose the heart of a moment with humor.

If you are like most people, heterosexual and homosexual, then you don’t have a balanced sexual essence (though a few believe they do). Everybody has some feminine and masculine characteristics -- especially on the surface. But deep down where it really matters, in the heart of your heart’s desires, your sexual essence is probably quite noticeably more masculine or more feminine. Deep down you desire to ravish or be ravished sexually, whether or not you that opportunity to enjoy this depth of loving in your life.

The masculine and the feminine are the Yin and Yang of love’s play -- they attract each other like magnets. Because of that, you will attract a lover whose essence is your polar opposite, a lover who, deep down, wants to take what your enjoy giving, who wants to give what you enjoy taking. 

And it is within this polarity that lies the delicious torture, this dance of love, this “flowery combat” of intimacy. But the very thing about your lover that drives you to bliss, will drive you crazy. The lover who really turns you out in your sexual heart will also frustrate you to no end in the more mundane, superficial parts of your life. For example, if you have a feminine essence, then your masculine lover’s confidence will turn you on, except when he or she is rushing like a bull in a china shop when discussing your feelings in a moment of conflict. If you have a masculine essence, then your feminine lover’s spontaneity and liquid sexual responsiveness will turn you on, except during times of psycho hysteria and unpredictable shutdowns.

In moments of deep connection and communion, the masculine and feminine open as an extraordinary gift -- two facets of one jewel, two facets of one reality. But in the more mundane moments, the shallower, everyday-dust-of-life moments, their differences can clash. For example, when trying to communicate something verbally, the masculine wants to understand the problem and get to the point, looking for a conversation that will travel as straight a line from point A to point B and hopefully with a resolution when all is fucking said and done. The feminine sees talking as it would a dance, as a way to connect to feeling, to be together, enjoying the currents of a shared life-energy.

What often happens, the more masculine partner gets frustrated by the feminine’s seemingly impractical style, while the more feminine partner is frustrated by the masculine’s strict adherence to a know-it-all matrix of The Way Shit Really Is.

Deep intimacy is based not on getting what you want, nor on compromising yourself, but on giving the deepest gifts of your sexual essence. Observe your superficial masculine need to solve a problem or your superficial feminine need to connect with your partner emotionally, and instead, offer your deepest heart and open completely to the moment.

If your feminine lover is babbling on about nothing in particular, offer your deep and unrelenting presence without turning away or zooming out; penetrate your feminine lover’s heart with your gift of absolute presence.

If your masculine lover has reduced life to problems, solutions, and projects, overwhelm your lover like a monsoon of liquid light, soak your lover in love’s deep waters.

The masculine: “I am consciousness, and you are mine, my bright bitch.”

The feminine: “I am light. Take me… if you dare!”

Manifesting as feminine radiance and attending as masculine consciousness, every moment opens as one conscious light. Play your differences with humor, opening as one, loving as two.

My name is Eddie and I'm in recovery from civilization...