praise for
days of naze
what do you see when you look at the moon?

days of  
n a z e  




strung out 
brush with greatness 
soul food  


An obnoxiously large

(101k .wav) audio greeting

from the Author.

January 21, 1999   
The following episode may be unsuitable for some adults.

In parentis loco: The dirty truth

You haven't lived until you've been shat upon.

And I don't mean metaphorically...

Bath time can be a very pleasant evening ritual for a dad. The soothing music of running water. The slightly perceptible warmth in the air wafting up from the liquid. The unwrapping of the progeny, who through no guile of their own, flatteringly echo your form in miniature and baby fat.

Jack, all of 5, climbs in himself; David, 3, I gently lift under his arms as he extends his legs forward anticipating the sitting position.

And there I preside, as the bathroom lifeguard, on the throne. The boats, the empty containers, squirt gun (not a good idea), and Batman in numerous forms (oh my god, "ba'man" was like the 3rd word David spoke) keep them occupied until it's time to wash. If I've gotten home late I'll be eating leftovers (having long since cast over any sense of bathroom propriety).

Occasionally the water beckons. Before David, there was quite a bit more room in the tub. Back then I would sometimes get in. Very relaxing and quiet.

Except one time.

The water was working it's magic on me. I had emptied my mind of the ceaseless internal chatter. In fact, my eyes were closed. The splashing and baby chatter stopped for a moment or two and then continued. Something tells me to look. And out of the corner of my eye... holy crap! This little angel in front of me just pooped into the tub! Words cannot convey the horror.

In a lifetime of tightly circumscribing the bounds of contact with solid waste, here I was in what is essentially a very large, used toilet bowl. Worse yet, what was I going to do about it?

Don't get me wrong. Early on I was known to gag during the baby cleansing ritual, but now I'm a veteran. In 5 years I've changed thousands of soiled diapers and probably more than half of all of them. But that's with the aid of wipes, diapers and various implements between the mess and my person. This! This is only one step up from being the diaper itself.

After reluctantly forgoing a call to HazMat, I lifted little Jack out of the contaminated area and wiped all over noting which towel to incinerate, ran to the kitchen and grabbed a plastic colander and fished out the offending material.

Out come the panoply of disinfectants, the same ones I grumble about Cathy buying with their hydrofluorocarbons and sorbitol. Spraying, scrubbing, shower rinsing the tub with the hottest stuff the overtaxed water heater can supply. And then the same for myself. And then another bath for the relieved one.

Except he's flying solo on this one.

[At the exact moment I wrote the sentence above, David called out with the kind of strangled cry that demands immediate attention. Cathy and I rush in to the darkened room. I figured he had pulled the nipple out of the bottle and soaked his bed. The odor immediately set me straight. His cheese sandwich dinner was all over the bed, but looking slightly different from the way it did on the plate.

Four and a half years ago I would have freaked. Vomit on sheets. Been there, done that. Console the little fellow. Strip the bed and change the pajamas. Cath gets fresh sheets and blankets, I wipe him down and he's back to bed.]

So when I win my Webbie Award (ha!), there'll always be someone that can say, "hey, I know you -- you're the guy who got crapped on."


p.s. Eeeewwwww!! I can't believe I actually wrote this!

p.p.s. A very shy person from the University of Illinois, Springfield rolled the days "what-the-hell-are-you-doing-with-that-nasty-web artifact?" hit meter to 2k at 11 a.m. Pacific on 1/11/99, but the prize (for hit 2001) was claimed by one of my very first guests... the frayed one himself: Floyd a.k.a. Derek Powazek.

Derek Powazek / Joseph Fiennes. Switched at birth?

p.p.s. "Before I subscribed to the new days notification list, none of it really made sense. But now... hell, it's still the same mess it ever was."






previously on days of naze: 
geek of the weak
pre-game stupid
my affair with a greek woman 
brain baker
occupational hazard
i blame them
brilliant mistake
pleasure victim 
the stupid rules 
driven to distraction 
my corner of the planet 
spawn apologist 
interview with a madman 
an introduction 

what have you done for me lately?
new praise.

May you never be more active than  
when you are doing nothing.  


in the feedbag: 

book: Thank you, Pooh by Ronne Randall.

web: This is the only kind of spanking I believe in.

game: Rogue Squadron. Moff Seerdon must die!


   stupid    strung out   naze   brush   soul food 


e-mail We few, we happy few...  


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