I’m not aging like a fine red wine.  No, sir.  Quite the  contrary.  My cork is compromised, and I’m smelling more like vinegar … or is it urine?  Let me explain …

When I was much younger, we used to run until we vomited.  Out there in the Oregon woodlands, we opened her up for miles on end.  At the end of the course, whoever wasn’t puking their guts out didn’t try hard enough, your typical collegiate machismo.  Nowadays, I can’t reach that threshold.  My legs give out, my lungs, and just the other day it was my bladder.   That’s right, in the humidity and heat of North Carolina, I went on a run, and was eventually faced with two options: 1) Duck into someone’s backyard and relieve myself; or 2) keep on trucking like back in the day … and relieve myself.  Option number one came with thoughts of cops and subsequent judges.  Option two came with shame and a quick load of laundry.  In the end, the decision was relatively easy.  Fortunately, there wasn’t much foot traffic, just me and my wet britches hogging the sidewalk.  Someone honked, presumably the same fine gentleman with an I-honk-for-dummies sticker affixed to his bumper.  I’d like to think that I brightened up his day.  His wife may have left him, his wallet empty, but at least he wasn’t no dumb sonofabitch with wet-assed britches running in this god-awful heat.  Or perhaps the honk was from a neighbor wishing to bid adieu, who knows.  Either way, my kids found this hilarious, dad standing there in his running shorts, a big wet spot where his dignity used to be.

Ten or so years ago there would have been lies instead of confessions.  A sprinkler or a water balloon right to my manhood, blam!  But I’m over that now.  I’m not perfect, never was, and never will be.  I’ve also peed in the pool, there I’ve said it.  Some nights I snore.  Feta cheese gives me gas.  I cry at sappy movies, and then hate myself for it afterwards.  And yes, I’ve lied about the tears.  There was something in my eye, blah blah blah, you know the drill.

I blame my shame on Superman.  We watch him in the movies, admire him, want to be him.  But ultimately, we all fall short.  Each and every one of us is slower than a speeding bullet, less powerful than a locomotive, and can barely leap from bed in the morning, let alone the tallest building.

And while my kids might be older, and no longer see the big S on my chest, I’m still going to throw on my cape and imagine.  So go ahead and honk for dummies, who cares.  I’ve got miles to soar, and I’m not quite there yet.  Although, you may smell me when I get there, the stink of vinegar, urine, or worse, oh my!

In my country, they called me The Vlad Father. It is funny joke, ha ha, and I laugh. Yes, I am a fan of the jokes. The jesters would come to me, one by one, and some would make Vlad giggle. Others would fail miserably, and for them Vlad had joke of his own: What do you call jester who is black, blue and dead all over? You! Ha ha. It is funny because it is true. But there came time when Vlad’s brand of humor was no longer welcomed, and so he sneak across borders and find himself here, in America, where everyone is jester. Hilarity abounds like the young, supple breasts of Vlad’s harem. Big jokes, little jokes, and what do you need really but a handful of jokes? Ha ha.

In my country, there were no cheeseburgers or pizza.  Supersized were the buttocks of our women, and for that, Vlad had second orders.  Ha ha.  At dinner table, Vlad gorged on fatty slab of meat, what he called wife, Bathsheba.  Ha ha.  Right there on table.  She did not cross borders here into America, not because she had no love for The Vlad Father, but because we had to, as you say, haul ass, and when Bathsheba haul her ass, she need several trips.  Ha ha.  Who had time?

In my country, health care is free.  Go to clinic, get shot for VD.  That’s right, we shoot you in head with pistol.  So perhaps not free, for what is cost of bullet?  Ha ha.  There is no wait, and no complaints.  Our health care system is model for world, you should see.  We give new meaning to open up wide, for several doctors like to go to back door for knock-knock joke.  Ice cream, you scream, and orange you glad he has small banana.  Ha ha.

Oh, they say we are brutes without hearts, but in freezer there are several, of every shape and size.  You got bad heart, Vlad got good heart, or kidney, whatever you need, my friend.  We even run special: two eyes for price of one.  In America you are wasteful.  In my country, we harvest, and patch up like new again.  Lonely men buy the most lovely and perfect brides, who cannot speak without tongue, or eat without belly.  Sure, in time they smell, like normal living wife, ha ha.  Vlad makes no promise of rose garden, so push her in, pull her in, drag her in, and Vlad exchange decomposing flesh for less decomposing flesh.  The key word being flesh, my advice to get them while they are hot like pancakes.  Ha ha.

When I was boy, I had a puppy.  He was delicious.  Ha ha.

But now I am man in America, where treasury give Vlad staples, and this list of Craig give Vlad women.  Neighbors sniff air, and ask what Vlad is cooking.  It is Sarah from 3B.  Everyone said she had fresh ideas, and this is true, tasty and moist also her brains.  We have dinner party, and John from 2A, picking his teeth, says, “No, really, why isn’t Sarah here?”

My freezer is becoming full again, like back in my country.  Soon, Vlad will have blow-out sale on the Ebay.  Get orders in now, these prices are crazy, and will not last.

Yes, Vlad like new country, where everyone feeds like tick on ass of deer.  Sure, deer will die, but we harvest organs, patch up like new, and send to China, where they already own on layaway.  In meantime, bon appetite, my friends, and may Vlad bless America.

You are welcome!

I’m sun burnt, hungover, have rashes of unknown origins and in hard to reach places (ahem), and have at least one dozen mosquito bites per limb.  There’s a thorn in my foot, on the bottom.  The budget is blown, and was probably a joke or wishful thinking to begin with.  There’s a dent in the rental car I’m sure they are going to make me pay for, and the kayaks we rented are a mess.  In other words, it’s been the perfect vacation, and we’ve had a lot of fun.

Did you know that Hemingway got a dose of Edison’s Medicine, and then blew his brains out in Idaho?  That when you come face to face with a Barracuda you will literally pee yourself?  Or that Key West is 90 miles from Cuba, and no, you can’t see Cuba from the top of the lighthouse.  Don’t ask.  The guy at the front desk will throw a thumb over his shoulder and tell ya to read the darn sign.  No spitting from the top of the lighthouse, either.  No jumping, not even if you have a parachute.  But if you do jump, he promises not to yell at your stupid, dead corpse, but that your estate will be billed for the clean up.  Ha-dee-har-har!  “Next!”

People come here for the water sports, mopeds, and bars.  For five-dollar t-shirts and three-dollar baseball caps.  Bracelets and Marlin, to see a possessed doll called Robbie, and the loot that was stolen from the pirates, that was stolen from the kings, that was stolen from the people.  You can’t touch the free-roaming chickens.  It’s a ten-thousand dollar fine, or about what it costs to rent a moped.  Coconuts fall from the trees, and enterprising men of young and old snatch them up, stick a straw inside, and sell the exotic-tasting water to the tourists for a ridiculous profit.  But people pay it, because what the hell, it’s vacation, right?  People line up for blocks to take photos of the southernmost point.  People walk around half naked, wholly drunk, and buy stickers that say, Fuck you you Fucking Fuck, or, I’m not drunk, my typical state is staggering, friendly and loud!  My kids drag us to the candy store, where we find lollypops shaped like penises, and chocolate boobs on a stick.   At four they feed the tarpon, and it’s quite the bloody spectacle.  If you sign a waver they’ll hoist you a hundred feet in the air, riding a parachute and tethered to the ship.  When you’re done, there are body shots and henna tattoos.  There are topless joints of both sexes, and every gender.  For twenty bucks the tarot-card reader will meditate over the cards with you, shuffle, shuffle, have you shuffle, shuffle, and make three piles.  He’ll pick them up, and wha-lah, there’s the death card, sucker, how you like me know?  But relax.  The death card isn’t always that bad.  Oftentimes it means a dramatic change in your life, that could be good thing, or a bad thing.  Or else you’re going to die.  Either way, he wants his twenty bucks.  “But good times are coming,” he says, “so long as you escape the death card.  There’s a sun in your month of October, but in November there is going to be a big fight between you and your spouse.”

“How is that any different than the month of July,” I ask him.  “Or any month, for that matter?”

He doesn’t laugh, and neither does my wife.

And so I shut up and take my future like a man.

“Don’t spend money in January, that’s a bad month,” he says.  “Unless, of course, you’re already dead, then spend it all.”  It appears that he wants the comedic glory for himself.  He gets no encouragement from me.

There’s a guy on a unicycle juggling fire, or whatever.  A guy doing backflips.  They all want money, and make no bones about it.  “Pay up. Are we not entertaining?”

There’s a seven-mile bridge, and little deer about the size of an average dog.  Speeding is frowned upon, because speed kills deer.

The house that we rented faces the Gulf of Mexico, and the waters are broad, bright, and relatively still.  When the sun is shining it dances upon the waves, and with the rain comes the ripples.  When it’s cold we get the nipples (sorry, couldn’t help myself.)  When the sun sets, it seems to dip into the waters and spread like fire.  And then the waters engulf the bright orb wholly, it happens quickly, and the clouds are bright with color.  We drink and play board games, and drink some more.  The bottle is almost empty, “So come on, don’t be a pussy,” and glasses are filled back up again.  The game is a variant of charades, and Uncle Jack gets the card all wrong.  He’s not wearing his glasses.  The answer, of course, is slinky, but he thinks it says stinky.  So he stands, grunts, shits his pants, and waves a hand under his nose.  It’s boys vs. girls, and we’re guessing outhouse and toilet paper, shit stains.  The girls see the card, notice his mistake, and while one tries to correct him, the other is laughing her ass off, saying, no, let him go on.  This is gold.  Ultimately the boys win, and so we play another game, and graciously allow the girls a victory.  Girls put out when they win, it’s a fact of life.

But it comes and goes quickly, vacation.  Work should be so kind.  And now we’ve one day left, and the kids are eating bacon.

“What’ll it be? ” I ask.  “The beach?  Kayaks?  Paddle boards?”

They shrug their shoulders and tell me that it doesn’t matter.  That they’re happy just to be here, chilling like a villain.  In the end they opt for the kayak, a trip around the block.  Maybe we’ll see some sea turtles, or manatees, who knows?  Another barracuda.  Either way, it’s our last day, and we intend to milk it slowly, and savor every drop.

The answer is vacation, and right now, right here, we’re doing a pretty good job acting it out.  Work and school will come soon enough.