Look At That Guy’s Face!

I’ve been experimenting with beards lately, but after a couple of starts and stops I found myself in a conundrum.  I’m too lazy to shave but can’t stand the itchiness and overall feel of a beard.  And then I had one of those EUREKA! moments which come to me on a daily basis.  I find the vast majority of EUREKA! moments to be false alarms, but not this one.  This was truly a legit EUREKA!.

My new look would not be a single look, but a three week cycle of beard growth.  I have decided to shave once every three weeks (and a few of those lower neck shaves in between to make sure everyone knows that I am not just incredibly lazy).  That 3rd week is a little tough as I do get itchy in that week.

Two weeks would have actually been better, except that I have a slew of doctors, therapists, ADHD coaches, and grocery store clerks that I visit on a two week cycle, and what would they think?  They would think that I meticulously cut my growth to the exact same amount every day, as that is how they would see me every time on that two week cycle.  No, I can’t have them thinking that of me.  I mean, I do have some self esteem left in me yet.  So no, a three week cycle it is.

Which brings me to the joy I get from my 4-year-old son who, due to my beard obsession, has been trained to comment on all of the baseball players’ beards and long hair that he sees as we scroll through the highlights of every game every day.  His cute commentary has now jumped from the television screen to real life as the other day he saw a long-haired bearded man (wearing a Hell’s Angels leather jacket in the brutal heat of the summer) stop in front of our house, and he pointed his finger at him and yelled “Daddy, look at that guy’s face!”

Oh, my cute little Dragone-lite is a chip off his pappa’s block, and I couldn’t be more proud.



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My Thirst For Knowledge

I’ve never fully understood the expression “thirst for knowledge” until today, at 5:30 in the morning, when I woke up from bed very, very thirsty.  I could feel a hairy lump in my throat which could only signify one thing – the onslaught of a summer cold.  And speaking of cold, I have chosen to quench my dehydration with a steaming hot pot of coffee.  Throw in some ADHD stimulants and Voila!  Let the day begin.

Now back to my thirst.  I had a dream last night of a fine powdery blue excrement that was excreting from my skin.  It gave me a sort of sickly, pale complexion which made me think of how sickly and pale my entire life is.  I had to examine my skin with a magnifying glass, under the glare of this ultra-violet light that I bought to ward off the winter blues.  Hmmm … I’m not sure its working as advertised.

Anyways, I was so incredibly thirsty that I just gulped down that pot of coffee / ADHD stimulant medication mixture so quickly that I started seeing stars spinning around me out of control.  And that’s when it hit me.  I’m not just staring into my 12 by 8 foot mural of Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” superimposed by a giant Batman heeding the Bat-Signal which adorns the ceiling of my bedroom, I am truly thirsty.  And still thirsty.

Well the coffee is all gone, so I can no longer blame my thirst on any of my physical yearnings.  Therefore, I must be thirsty for knowledge.

I’ve been seeing this psychotherapist for a few months now.  Oh no, its not what you think.  I’m not having encounters of the romantic kind with her.  Its strictly psychotherapeutical.  Damn Microsoft Word spell-checker, do I have to input another word into your incomplete dictionary?

Anyway, Jennifer as I like to call her (my psychotherapist, not my spell-checker), has been such a mystery to me.  I mean, she knows so much about me, yet I know so little about her.  What’s up with that?  And so, as any competent academic worth their salt would feel, I feel thirsty.  Thirsty for knowledge.

Where does Jennifer live?  Is she married?  Is she happily married?  Where does she go shopping for her tight-fitting yoga pants?

I have trusted my handy Google assistant to research this knowledge for me.  Jennifer, as it turns out, lives in the suburbs.  I know this for a fact because her white suburban SUV parked out in front of her office is also parked out in front of the house that Google View has shown me.  Therefore, she must be married.  I will hypothesize no children, as I do not see any child seats in her car.  Therefore, she must not be happily married.  Therefore, she must be open to affairs.  Therefore, she must be attempting to seduce me with her yoga pants.  Where does she get those yoga pants?  Well, some things in this universe must be kept a mystery, otherwise what’s the point of it all?

Damn I’m good.


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My Dingy Basement

I’m starting to get used to my dingy little basement.  I have been banished here for 3 months now by Mrs. Dragone, or shall I say the ex-Mrs. Dragone.  That’s right, its unofficially official.  The ex-Mrs. Dragone may have tried to slay me with her sharp sword made of molten silver saturated with garlic powder (in case I am also a vampire, which I am), but she did not succeed.  She only made my wings soar higher.  Harder.  Better.  Faster.  Stronger.  And a single man I am once again.

I shall embrace the hollow pit of a feeling in my stomach by spending the day tomorrow racing roller coasters with my hands held up in the air.  I shall fantasize about having my wrists tightly secured to Olympian gymnastic metal rings, held high in the air, while beautiful women tickle my armpits.  I shall scream like a little girl.  No, even worse, like a little boy.

I have fallen in love with the demonic posters that adorn the walls of my new dingy bedroom.  Held up by masking tape, these collector’s items came free with the various Xbox games that my teenage son spent my money on.  My teenage son who is no longer the master of this dingy little basement, for he has moved on to bigger and better basements in his mother’s house where she lets him drink and smoke pot to his lungs’ content.  These demons surrounding me do in fact belong to me.

Now don’t you worry about me, dear readers.  I have endured far worse at the hands of psychotic exes.  My party has just begun.


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So its been 16 months since this DRAGONE reared its ugly head onto your screen.  But 16 months in my writer’s world means nothing to me.  Being a fictional character means that 16 months pass like 16 minutes.  Why, I haven’t even aged a bit.  My writer, on the other hand, OY!

Since I exist only on the piece of paper you are reading …. oh wait, that was last century for you guys! … I mean only on the computer screen that you are reading … oh wait, that was last decade for you guys! … I mean only on the smartphone screen that you are reading …. um where did I want to go with this?  Speaking of smartphones, my phone is so smart that I can use it to talk to people in real time.  Can yours do that?

So while I waited patiently, as patiently as a timeless essence like myself knows how to wait, my writer decided to begin writing a real blog.   About his real life.  So apparently he has this ADD and it makes him all fucked up and shit.  But he really likes it.  Even though his marriage is going down the crapper.  Wow, I’m so glad I’m not a real person.

So the reason for this blog post is just to say “HI!  I’M STILL ALIVE!”  I haven’t forgotten about you!  Have you forgotten about me?  Please say you haven’t!  Even if it’s a lie!  Even if you haven’t read my older posts!  Even if you haven’t read this post!  Just tell me that you love me!  I get off on that.

But seriously, where has the time gone?

And now, I shall dissolve back into the infinite ether …


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Happy Anniversary

Happy Anniversary my dear blog.  As of January 1st its been one year.  An easy date to remember.  Good for me, since I am not known to have a very diligent memory.

I spent the first 6 months of 2016 churning out content viewed by a few of you.  Many posts drew houls of laughter from myself.  As I tell my virtually entirely international classes of high school students, the jokes I tell in class are mostly for myself.  If anyone else benefits then all the better.  One local student told me recently, in a gentle tone assuming that I did not realize, that “they” don’t get my jokes.  “I know”, I told her.  The jokes are just for you and me.  Two smiles and 19 blank faces.

astronaut-in-space-4k-imageI spent the second 6 months of 2016 preoccupied with applying to be a Canadian astronaut and as a result did not blog hardly at all.  I made it past the first few rounds and was mentally gearing up for the physical tests that would come next, but it was not to be.  Not that I thought I would actually make it as one of 2 astronauts hired from 4000 applicants.  But I did hope, actually expect, to be among the last hundred or so going through rigorous testing and competitions as I imagine happens on the reality TV show Survivor, even though I never watched any episodes.  I would have been good.  A wily old coyote with surprising physical stamina and an overachiever under pressure.  But maybe only in my dreams.

Happy Anniversary my dear blog, and Happy 2017.  The truth is out there.


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Walking in High Heels

I think I know what it feels like to walk in high heels.  You see, several times a day I need to walk outside of my front door.  To the car, to the garbage bins, to whatever.  But since I’m too damned lazy to bend over and put my running shoes on properly, my heel has no chance of making it inside the shoe.  And since I don’t want to ruin my running shoes by continuously stepping on the back and folding it over, I simply touch it delicately with my heel as I tip toe to the car to retrieve my phone.  Or to the garbage bin to throw out some putrid smelling compost filled with raw meat and soiled diapers.  Or out to the street to get a proper view of the storm clouds rolling in.  I can’t just sit at home all day and rely on the weather radar.  I want to see it with my own eyes.flip-flops

I suppose I could invest in some nice comfortable flip flops.


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Yay Blippi!

blippiI haven’t a clue how popular or obscure Blippi is out there beyond the walls of this house.  Not a clue.

Over here his videos are the go-to toddler intoxicant to smooth over the early morning madness of necessary bathroom time, finding clean underwear, steamrolling wrinkles out of my shirt with friction heat, preparing some sort of “lunch”, and checking the clock every time it’s within sight.  Yay Blippi!

My armpits still stink and I realize that I forgot to use soap.  Not a problem.  I’ll shower again.  Yay Blippi!

My stomach’s about to explode from last night’s chip and dip.  Better go do it fast, but no worries about my toddler climbing the table and swinging from the Christmas tree.  Yay Blippi!

Who the hell is texting me at 6:30 am?  Oh wait, that’s not a text, it’s my phone buzzing to remind me to check the sports scores.  And the highlight videos.  I don’t have time, but I make time.  Yay Blippi!

My toddler doesn’t like change.  As in, change out of his PJs, out of his diaper, sneak on his clothes, his shoes, even his coat.  All while he is mesmerized by the man called Blippi.  Yay Blippi!

Now, how to turn off Blippi and make the dash for life to the car?  I know – promise my toddler a donut with sprinkles on the way to daycare.  Yes, that does contribute to my running for the sarcastic “Father of the Year” award, but you gotta do what you gotta do.  It’s a jungle gym out there.




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