I hope you stay in charge of your mouth. I hope you stay in charge of it.

At my other blog in my other life, my physical location is listed as Uzbekistan. I did that because I didn't want anyone to send me emails asking me if I wanted to "make a sex party." After all, nobody actually lives in Uzbekistan, do they?

Well, my shorty moved his profile to Uzbekistan too. He tends to be a copycat. He's also a hep cat, and knows the lowdown on most anything cultural, especially if it's political or involves loud music. I'm in the dark. I look prettier that way. I deliberately avoid the news media, except for the Daily Show and the Colbert Report and watch those only cos they say dirty words and make me giggle. Today he introduced me to the work of some guy who everyone probably already knows: Matt Taibbi. He knew I would like a writer who peppers his paragraphs with words like "horseshit." Yeah. Kind of. We watched him a little on YouTube. He's cute, with a rapidly receding hairline and a gap between his front teeth. Even so, I prefer him on the page where he seems crustier. I like my crust.

I was looking him up on Wikipedia and found out that in 1992, "Taibbi moved to Uzbekistan, but was forced to leave six months later after writing articles critical of the country's president, Islom Karimov." I love that we shared a country, albeit 16 years apart and in my imagination. I think it's super neat that he played professional basketball in Mongolia. And Matt apparently pissed off a ton of people when he wrote "The 52 Funniest Things About the Upcoming Death of the Pope." I can identify. Nobody really appreciates it when I talk about Jesus's big schlong and his gift for getting a party started right.

I haven't written anything since I signed off of that other blog. I sort of wonder if I've run out of steam or material. A state of semi-happiness tends to do that, I've heard. (Note the hedged "semi.") As I was tucking myself up in my bed to read through Skype to Alex, I realized "Wow, my life isn't half bad." I mean, I don't work these days, because of my sundry "medical" conditions related to not wanting to be around people much. I'm sure social security is going to decline my application for early support, but for a few months, I should be okay. I have this house and my little garden. I don't have to worry when the month is approaching its end and rent is due. I've got a guy I'm crazy for who makes me feel loved and safe and special, even though he lives halfway around the world, in Paris.

Loved and safe and special don't come easy for me. And why should they? Many of us have our wagons hitched to a somewhat crappy childhood after all. And life certainly can be nasty, brutal and short as an adult. Well, less of the short and more of the shitty. Times are hard. People pretty much suck. My cat killed a bird. My neighbor is psychotic.

But here I sit, ankles crossed and finger in mouth, trying to think of something funny to write. I have a room of my own, for god's sake. (I wish the 500 pounds would follow.) Cat Power is playing on the radio. The mood is set. And all I have to say is, "Hand me a cup of cocoa and a cookie. I'm happy. "

Weird, huh?

More soon on Matt and the media and the state of this shithole we call America. More on me and my moods and my mouth. I swear I'll stay on topic next time. For reals.

And nah, that's not me. That's The Duke Spirit.