Zach Selwyn

Actor. Musician. Host. Writer. Dinner Guest.

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  • In these scary times, we all need a little sports and a little humopr to get us by – Zach has been hired by theoddsfactory.com/runthetable to host a comedic sports trivia show EVERY DAY!!! 2pm EASTERN/ 11 am PST.

    You can win $100! – Test your sports knowledge and LAUGH!

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    Attack of the Show entertainment ESPN G4 hosting humor MLB NBA NFL NHL quarantine sports trivia Zach Selwyn
  • The wait is almost over! Missi Pyle & Zach Selwyn are this week’s guests and we play “Fake or Florida” – here’s a preview! http://bit.ly/1LaN6u0

    Posted by Anna Faris is Unqualified on Monday, March 7, 2016

    Download the episode TOMORROW!!!

    Anna Faris Anna Faris is Unqualified funny Missi Pyle Mom Podcasts Sim Sarna Zach Selwyn
  • alloutsee below! Zach brings his worldwide knowledge of slang words to Sirius XM/ Shade 45’s hip-hop radio show “THE ALL OUT SHOW” once a month. Make sure to listen in and hear Zach and Jude play origin games and chop up the English language… on SHADE45 Sirius/XM

    https://zachselwyn.files.wordpress.com/2015/03/zach-selwyn-interview-pt-1.mp3 https://zachselwyn.files.wordpress.com/2015/03/zach-selwyn-interview-pt-2.mp3
    hip-hop radio show Sirius XM slang words worldwide knowledge Zach
  • Zachariah’s new song explores the corporate logo marketing travesty that all of us 90’s kids endure every time we see a Nirvana or Ramones shirt for sale in Target or Wal-Mart. Back in 1992 I had to go to the concert to buy a $30 shirt. Now the logo is on onesies.

    DOWNLOAD SONG HERE! – https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/nirvana-t-shirt-single/id1035706248

    dave grohl kurt cobain nirvana Ramones Zach Selwyn Zachariah t shirt
  • Re-Examining the 1997 NBA Draft – If I Had Been Selected…
    (Originally published @Nerdist Sports 2017)

    At the end of my senior year in college – despite having not played organized basketball since high school and maintaining a 1.8 blood alcohol level for four years straight, my friends dared me to declare for the NBA draft. I wrote an official letter the NBA commissioner David Stern and presented my accolades: Six-foot-two. 3.8 G.P.A. Fraternity scoring leader and dunk contest winner on the 8-foot hoop in the parking lot.

    I wasn’t selected.

    Looking back now, I have to argue that I might have been a better pick than 75% of the players in the 1997 NBA draft. Sure, the draft produced perennial all-stars Tim Duncan (#1), Chauncey Billups (#3) and Tracy McGrady (#9), but for every one of those guys, there are three Ed Elisma’s (#40), Bubba Wells’ (#34) and Ben Pepper’s (#55). Who’s to say that if I was chosen in the late second round I wouldn’t have made a better impact than a guy like 44th pick Cedric Henderson?

    I was too short to be a forward, my high school position. My handle wasn’t strong enough to compete for a point guard slot, so basically, my only shot was to be drafted as a shooting guard – and my guess is I would have been picked somewhere around 46 – where Orlando took Alabama marksman Eric Washington. (Whose best year came with the Idaho Stampede in the NBA D-League in 2010).

    Due to some late garbage time minutes, I estimate I would have averaged roughly 1.2 points a game… Which is more than draft picks C.J. Bruton (#52), Roberto Duenas (#57) and Nate Erdmann (#55) ever averaged in their careers.

    The 11th pick of the draft was a guy named Tariq Abdul-Wahad. Nobody past the top 10 picks truly ever made a big statement in the NBA. Sure, Stephen Jackson (#42) was a key piece to the 2003 Spurs, Bobby Jackson (#23) was a sixth man sparkplug and Mark Blount (#54) was a dependable center for a few teams – but overall, 1997 was pretty mediocre… Even though I once bought into the ESPN theory that Jacque Vaughn (#27) would be the next Allen Iverson.

    My own personal draft journey began after a two-game playoff run in the annual 1997 fraternity basketball challenge.

    It was in a game against Pi Kappa Alpha. Their starting point guard tried to take me off the dribble to the left. I stuck my arm just above his bounce and poked the ball free into the open court. I ran after it, scooped it up and laid it in for the victory. My fraternity, Alpha Epsilon Pi had won our first play-off game in 10 years. In our next contest, we gave the brothers of Sigma Alpha Epsilon a good run, and I poured in 21 points. Ultimately, we lost on a late technical foul call when I got kicked out for calling the referee a “dickbag.”

    It was after that game, while consuming a lot of Natural Light beer, that I decided to declare for the draft.

    On draft day 1997, I sat on my mother’s couch with baited anticipation as the others had their moments. I ordered some pizza for my family. My mother thought I had lost my mind.

    As the evening progressed, I had seen enough of the long, tailored mustard and pinstriped suits making their way to the podium to shake David Stern’s hand. I watched as guys like Tony Battie (#5), Danny Fortson (#10) and Antonio Daniels (#4) put on those crisp new NBA caps. I accepted the inevitable as the first round telecast came to an end.

    The second round was only on the radio, so I sat in my Civic, listening in.

    “And with the 48th pick in the 1997 NBA Draft, the Washington Bullets select Predrag Drobnjak from KK Partizan, Serbia.”

    Really? A guy named Predrag was taken? Nobody could even pronounce his name. So what if he was a six-foot-eleven three time Euro League National Champion? I played on the frat tournament second runner-up team!

    Most of the players from the ’97 draft ended up overseas, injured or, in Ron Mercer’s (#6) case, involved in a strip club assault or two. I was no different – except for the fact that I never played one minute in the NBA.

    Then again, neither did Serge Zwikker (#29), Mark Sanford (#30) or Gordon Malone (#44).

    I still think I would have had a shot.
    Ed. Note: Zach Selwyn currently averages 15.2 points per game in his over 40-YMCA league.

    @nerdist basketball Comedy David Stern NBA NBA Draft sports sports writing tim duncan
  • -3
    my behind the stage seats

       HOW TO SURVIVE A GRATEFUL DEAD SHOW WHEN YOU LOSE YOUR FRIENDS IN THE PARKING LOT * By Zach Selwyn

    My old college friend Bernard (Or “Burner – for reasons that don’t need to be explained) called me the day before Father’s Day. He had an extra ticket to the 50th Anniversary Grateful Dead concert in northern California. I informed my wife that I would be traveling to the show the following Saturday night.

    “Haha yeah right,” she said.

    “No. I’m going.”

    “Stop it. Now, what do you want to do for Father’s Day? Should we meet the Bartons for brunch? Or do you want to have people over to bar-be-cue?”

    “I hate the Bartons,” I said. “I want to go to the Grateful Dead.”

    “Are you serious?”

    “Yes.”

    “Well, take your son with you, don’t you think he would enjoy it?”

    “Uhhhhhhh….”

    I didn’t think that was the brightest idea. The smoke and the dancing and twirling was completely mind-blowing to me when I was at my first show at age 18. Back then I was scared shitless. Too many drugs, too many lost souls… too many people having a lot more fun than I was. I told my wife that I’d rather let my son find his own musical path. (Then again, if he’s following 5 Seconds of Summer around the country in 10 years I may have failed somewhere.) Plus, I told my wife that a 9-year-old boy does not need to see his 40-year-old dad clink Absinthe cups with a dude in hiking shorts who made Silicon Valley millions by inventing the Nook.

    “Do NOT drink Absinthe,” she demanded.

    “I won’t, I promise.”

    Eventually, I got the green light – and I called Burner back and committed to his 70-dollar ticket. Which I soon found was WAY too expensive for my shitty seats behind the stage where just a few songs into the set a man would face-plant and nearly die on the concrete right next to me.

    Recent online ticket prices for the Santa Clara shows had settled at $20-$40 depending on where you were seated, way down from the rumored $1500 nearly a month earlier. This was due to the “Soldier Field Panic Purchase” that nearly every Dead Head and ticket scalper had fallen for when their final two shows of this “Fare Thee Well” concert were originally announced… Thinking the tickets to Santa Clara might be listed at the same price as the Chicago shows, folks bought up dozens of seats at face value, only to find themselves losing money when trying to unload the tickets in the parking lot the afternoon of the show. (Steal Your Face Value, anyone?) Even Burner was left with a handful of tickets that he ended up trading for “pieces” (pipes or chillums), 50th anniversary bandanas, T-shirts and at one point a foot long joint being sold by a spritely blonde nymph out of a giant cardboard box.

    -2
    $15 super joints from a beautiful blonde girl

    Now, a fair amount has already been written about these shows – if you want to hear about the set lists and the fan reactions to Trey Anastasio and the supposed $50,000 “fake rainbow” – go Google that now. This is my personal adventure about smoking a lump of hash with a crazy looking scallywag who was dragging a dirty pet pit bull named “Iko” around on a hemp dog leash – and becoming so cosmically altered, that I managed to lose my friends for the duration of the show long before the first note of Truckin’ was even played.

    It was a surreal experience to say the least. When I last saw the Grateful Dead in 1995, the crowd was pretty much the same… just about 20 years younger. But now, those folks have grown up. Gone are the days of living in the Vanagon and hopping from town-to-town. The “Only Users Lose Drugs” shirts I used to fawn over had been replaced by at least 25 men happily wearing a t-shirt reading “Grateful Dad.” (Thank you, honey for not getting me THAT for Father’s Day.)

    -1
    At least 25 of these shirts at the show.

    A vast majority of the well-off crowd could be found eating sushi and sipping wine in the safe “red” parking lot, while the more traditional “Shakedown Street” blue parking lot catered to the jewelry designers, pushers, providers, dealers and, yes, the guys selling veggie burritos. (At $5.00 a steal – considering it was $11.00 for a nitrate-riddled hot dog in the stadium). Bottom line was, it was a very balanced scene. Which is how I went from talking about music with a doctor who lived in Marin County – to witnessing a hippie trade a T-shirt for a Churro – to eventually asking the aforementioned scraggly looking pit bull owner if I could have a hit of his joint.

    “It’s hash bro,” he said.

    “Nice,” I said.

    “Nice,” he responded.

    I took a long drag from the tightly rolled spliff. It was licorice-like in flavor… and reminded me of smoking hash on a Eurorail with a Spanish stranger during a train ride from Switzerland to Germany in 1996. I exhaled.

    “Nice.” I said again.

    “Real nice,” he said and pulled off the joint again.

    I stared up at the clouds.

    “Nice,” I laughed.

    “Totally nice,” he replied.

    We stood and watched the sky for a few minutes. I started to realize that for the past ten minutes, I had managed to keep a totally coherent conversation going by merely uttering the word “nice.”

    -1
    The author, moments after the hash took over…

    I shook off my daze and decided to gather myself to find Burner and our other friends and head inside. We were 30 minutes away from the opener and I didn’t want to miss it. I looked back at my hash-providing friend and we shared an ever-knowing look of “I’ll never see you again, but thanks for the time together.” I threw up a peace sign. As I walked away to find my buddies, I heard him utter one final word as a fare thee well to our little session.

    “Nice.”

    Back on Earth, I was suddenly totally confused. Burner was gone. Swirls of dreadlocks and weathered faces engulfed me. I wasn’t sure if I should head back to the blue lot and skip the show altogether or saunter forth inside all alone. Like a wilderness-trained tracker, I decided I’d take some photos to document the beauty of the signage and the sky and the colorful people and cars all around me. Scrolling through my camera roll a day later, all I can find is a few pictures of the stadium and a wasted girl passed out on a lawn. I definitely could not find my friends. I was high and wandering… but at least I had a ticket to my seat.

    -5
    This girl was FINISHED before the show even began

    Having lost buddies at concerts over the years, I am somewhat used to making friends and surviving. This was certainly not the first time I had been alone at a Grateful Dead show… In fact, at the LA Sports Arena in 1993 I accidentally left the concert mid-song and walked 23 blocks away until I was lost in a Ralph’s parking lot deep in South Central Los Angeles. Luckily, the night cashier slipped me a Fentanyl and called me a taxicab. Once I lost my buddy in Santa Barbara and ended up sleeping in a bush after a Neil Young concert. At the Dead show, however, I wasn’t truly worried, because nowadays we are all lucky enough to have cell phones.

    I looked down to text my friends. No service. Of course. No fucking service.

    I made my way inside and ogled the crowds flittingly dancing along. Anticipating the first note of the show that would send me into another stratosphere. They started with Truckin’. The place went nuts.

    Then the guy next to me almost died. His friends pounded his chest until he sat up and they forced water down his throat. Scared and afraid, I went to get a beer. I met some kind gentlemen in the beer line. We spoke about how awesome the show was that we were missing… by waiting in that beer line. I looked around. A girl next to me made sure to use all 9 pockets of her leather fanny pack. At least three guys purposefully wore cargo shorts to show off the “Jerry Bear” leg tattoos they had done in the 90’s that they were waiting all these years to uncover once again… Finally, a woman carrying a six-month old baby in what seemed like a paper bag attached to her back came dancing through the crowd. The kid’s head bobbled furiously, unstable and terrifying. In Los Angeles, the helicopter moms of Orange County would have screamed, rescued the baby and brought it to the nearest hospital. At the Grateful Dead show, however, grown men laughed and spewed forth dragon breaths of marijuana smoke into the sky as the baby drifted right through the haze. It was absolutely disturbing. I could not imagine my kids in this environment. As much as I would want them to appreciate what the music can do for everybody, the last thing I would want is my kid getting a second hand weed buzz around a group of folks sending wafts of OG Kush into the atmosphere.

    7cfda8b0f9e27a255b5a2faefda9f5f0A few songs later, I had settled down. It suddenly hit me that I was completely alone and that my conversations with strangers were fun but fleeting. I wasn’t making any new friends… I wasn’t analyzing every note Trey played… The worst part was, I was barely even seeing the show from my seat behind the stage. I watched the majority of it on a big screen. So, I wandered around and decided to talk to the security guard. His name was Reed.

    “What’s crazier, a 49ers game, or this?” I asked.

    “Well, different crowds, ya know?” He said. “Niners fans drink a few beers and try to look tough. These folks drink 10 beers and dance around like fools!”

    “So is this the rowdiest show you’ve ever seen here?” I asked.

    “Oh hell no, the worst was the WWE Wrestling event. I broke up about 30 fights, had to throw a guy down some stairs.”

    “What’s the weirdest show you’ve ever seen here?”

    “Kenny Chesney. Was like a Gay Pride Parade met the deep south.”

    He shook my hand and walked off.

    A few beers later, I was overwhelmed by hippies praying to the miracle rainbow in the sky yelling out things like “It’s a gift from JERRY GARCIA MAN!” (If you can imagine a bunch of high people reacting to a rainbow at a 50-Year Grateful Dead anniversary show, it’s EXACTLY how you picture it…) The argument that the rainbow has been faked is everywhere online, but in truth, if the Dead had 50K to blow on a holographic rainbow, I would hope they at least should have tried to construct a hologram Jerry Garcia instead. (Shit, I’d have settled for hologram 2Pac.)

    As the evening went on, as a way to remember what I was going through, I began dictating voice notes into the “recorder” app on my iphone. These are the translations as best as I could decipher them:

    A: I have just spent the last hour hanging with a giraffe

    -4
    I wasn’t tripping. I had spent an hour hanging with a a giraffe.

    B: (Me singing a song idea for my band to record in the future) – “Sunday Ticket, who’s got my Sunday ticket… man are you with it? I wish I could stop and smell the roses – but the elements of elephants are lost among the doses – I suppose it’s the way of the Dead – I suppose it’s the way of the Dead” (Then yelling): “WAY OF THE DEAD!!! MY NEW SONG WOOOOOOHOOOOOO!!!!”

    C: Hot dogs, nachos, chicken fingers… hot dogs nachos chicken fingers…

    D: What hole have these people been hiding in since 1995?

    The last note made sense. A lot of these fans were folks who looked like they never recovered from Jerry Garcia’s death. They had been in exile, awaiting the return of the Grateful Dead for years, sort of like those Japanese soldiers you read about who were trapped on islands with their loaded weapons unaware that the war had ended months earlier.

    The highlight of my night came during the song St. Stephen. I had never heard the tune live – nobody really has – and it lifted my spirits high. For five minutes, the long drive alone had been worth it. So had the hash and the lost friends and the $70 seats. I reached high for the sky and let out primal screams of joy and happiness and thought about my kids, my wife, my career, my goals, my dreams my family. I was genuinely ecstatic. I had found my top of the mountain… It was one of those moments that I remembered having as a kid – worshipping this band for slices of perfection like that – when everybody is smiling and nothing can go wrong. A moment of calm and peace I hoped would never end…

    Of course, an hour after the show I found myself cursing technology and feeling depressed about having to wait in a two-hour line for an Uber.

    GratefulDead-SantaClara-1I left the venue alone. Got to the hotel alone. I was in bed by 1:00. I woke up before my friends – who had stumbled in at 3:30 – and shook off the cobwebs before beginning the long drive back to L.A. As I listened to the radio and heard reviews of the show it became clear how awesome the evening had been. I re-played to my voice memos and shuffled Dead songs on my iphone the whole drive, wondering how I could call my work and get out of it Monday so that I could stay and watch the second night show instead. Thankfully, I decided one amazing show was enough and I rode down California 5 with Santa Clara and the Grateful Dead in my rear view mirror. As I watched northern California disappear behind the rolling hills, one word came to mind as I smiled and traveled the golden road home…

    NICE…

    Buy Zach’s FIRST ALBUM “Ghost Signs” on itunes!

    https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/ghost-signs/id59015651

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  • Z36974ZACH joins RUDE JUDE and ROSS from BINARY STAR to talk hand jobs, proper towels for that time of the month and some secret slang!

     

    more here: http://foreallyshow.com/

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Read Zach’s New Short Story “My 10-Year-Old has Become a Sneakerhead…and it’s All My Fault.

  • January 10, 2017
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Homepage · Uncategorized

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My wife recently began complaining about a mysterious “putrid foot stench” emanating from the closet in my 10-year-old son’s room. After moving around some stuffed animals I had used to hide my stash spot, she came upon the source of the funky smells that had started making their way throughout our entire house… She found the shelf where I had been storing all of my son’s old basketball shoes.

My dad got him a tiny pair of Air Jordan XIII’s when he was a baby, which he wore once. His first nice pair of Nikes was a 2010 Air Jordan 2 in the “candy blue” shade, which he wore for about a year. Then, at eight, he scored a slightly worn pair of Lebron Soldiers before moving up to the blue, white and gold Under Armour Steph Curry 2’s. When his foot got too big for those, I treated him to the latest Kyrie Irving Nikes, which he recently outgrew. When we went to a Clippers game, Raymond Felton handed him a pair of his game-worn sweaty shoes (which only ripened with time) and I recently passed him the size 23 XXL Shaquille O’Neal shoe I once drunkenly bought at a silent auction a few years back for $200.00. (Luckily this shoe lives in a glass case).

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This absurd size 23 Shaq shoe seemed like a good purchase when I was drunk.

Since his birth, I have managed to save 11 pairs of outgrown basketball shoes, along with his game worn Felton’s and the Shaq shoe –  hoping that one day they might be worth a fortune and possibly cover a few college tuition payments.

However, my plan didn’t exactly win over the entire household.

“Who the hell saves smelly basketball shoes?” My wife asked.

“Trust me, someday they’re gonna be worth a lot of money… People ALWAYS want basketball shoes.”

“Right,” she argued. “Because Nikes with dog shit on the bottom fetch a high price on ebay these days.”

I knew she wouldn’t understand why I was doing this, so I had to tell her the story of my own personal basketball shoe heartbreak…

In 1985, I begged my mom for a pair of the first pair of Royal Blue Nike Air Jordan shoes. The minute I outgrew them, about six months later, my mom sold them to the used clothing store Buffalo Exchange in Tucson for about $3.00. Since my foot was growing at a rapid rate (I had a size 13 by 8th grade) my mom refused to buy me any more expensive basketball footwear until my foot stopped growing.

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So, between those amazing blue Air Jordans – and my eventual 1989 Nike Air Flights, I was stuck playing ball in K-Swiss, a $15 pair of Cons and even a horrendous pair of high-top Ponys.

pony-city-wings-2
I showed up for tryouts in these around 7th grade. I can’t believe I made the team.

Today, if my mother had saved those original black and blue Air Jordans, they’d probably be worth over $5,000. Instead, they are probably in some desert landfill somewhere, long ago discarded as trash, when it reality, they are some of the rarest collector’s items in the sneaker game today.

If you have ever driven by a store like Supreme or Undefeated on Fairfax Boulevard and seen a line snaking around the corner for 300 yards, you have seen the pop culture phenomenon of sneaker collecting first hand. “Sneakerheads” are people who collect, admire, re-sell and worship sneakers – going so far as to be able to recognize knock-offs from the real deal by the tiniest angle of the tread on the bottom of a pair. The sneaker collecting business is mainly relegated to basketball and skateboarding shoes and some kicks have fetched upwards of 25 grand on ebay and other high-end marketplaces…  Shoes like my original blue Air Jordans are in rarified air amongst the sneaker nerds of the world.

Back in 1985, of course, nobody knew this. Kids were busy collecting comic books and baseball cards, not old shoes. My baseball cards are not worth the cardboard they were printed on. My comic books? Let’s just say I saved the wrong ones. (Anyone want to buy a Thundercats #1?) If you were lucky enough to collect basketball cards in the early to mid-80’s, there is a chance you may have a valuable rookie card if you have, say, a Jordan or a Charles Barkley. In reality, most of my friends back then liked basketball, but would have rather owned nine Wally Joyner rookies than a 1984 Sir Charles. So, if you were the kid who collected basketball shoes, you weren’t considered smart, you were considered a hoarder… or just certifiably insane.

“Mom, don’t throw those away!” My son yelled when he saw the stacks of shoes sitting in the “sell back” pile that we bring to a used clothing shop on Larchmont Boulevard every month.

“Oh no, daddy hasn’t got YOU believing this shoe nonsense now too, does he?”

“They could be worth a lot of money!” He cried.

My son gathered his shoes up and walked them back towards his room where he stashed them. I was impressed. He was becoming my little 10-year-old Imelda Marcos.

smelly-feet
My son doesn’t mind the smell…. as long as they’re valuable someday.

As my wife watched him, she gave me a death stare and shook her head.

“Look,” she said. “Maybe you should teach him to save something that nobody has thought about saving yet.”

“Like what, Crocs?”

My wife laughed.

“Just something that doesn’t… smell like a feral squirrel crawled into our house and died.”

My wife and I went upstairs and talked to our son about his unique collection of used, sweaty basketball shoes. After some deliberation, it was decided that I would be selling a few select shoes on ebay for him – and that we would put the profits towards some new kicks. His choices were the latest Chris Paul’s, the Kevin Durant KD 9’s or the Russell Westbrook “half boot-half basketball shoe” model that looked like something off of a Bell Biv Devoe album cover from the 90’s.

He adamantly demanded that we not buy him those “Wack-ass James Harden Lunch lady shoes.”

james-harden-shoes-0
The James Harden “Lunch Lady” shoes.

The first shoe I listed on my ebay was his first pair of baby Air Jordan XIII’s. I put an offer up to “Buy it Now” for $50.00.

They sold in 30 minutes…

 

*Zach Selwyn still owns a pair of Nike Greg Oden shoes from 2008.

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