Zach Selwyn

Actor. Musician. Host. Writer. Dinner Guest.

  • New album available TODAY! CLick and download – ! Enjoy!!!

    Skywriting

     

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  • 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

  • Bill-Walton-1  Recently, on social media and my website, I have made no secret of my modern return into the world of competitive basketball. I play full court four days a week at the Hollywood YMCA and recently entered a Three-on-Three tournament against other fathers at elementary schools, which I happened to have won. (My proudest athletic achievement in my life to date – not counting the time I took Colton – the star 7-year-old pitcher – DEEP in a father-son Little League game last summer…)

    -5
    Ray, me and James – LCS 3 on 3 Dad Champions

    I have re-discovered a love for the game I haven’t had sine 1993 and I’m actually a better player now than I have ever been.

    Throughout my life and into high school, basketball was everything. As a 6’2” inch eighth grader, I was groomed by my coach to become the next great Arizona Wildcats big man. Unfortunately, I haven’t grown an inch since eighth grade. I switched to the wing, where I lacked certain skills, but was still able to hold my own mainly because I was actually grabbing the rim with ease and in top physical shape. However, around age 18, I discovered the usual pitfalls – Weed, beer and women – and decided that since I had no chance, or interest in walking on my college team, I would hang up my Air Jordan XII’s and I only stepped on the court a handful of times over the ensuing decade.

    -8
    The author (circa 1992) on the left just before discovering cannabis.

    A few years ago, however, I was listening to UCLA great and fellow Grateful Dead-Head Bill Walton broadcast an Arizona- Oregon basketball game, when something he said struck me deep inside. After he spent a few minutes comparing some obscure 1970’s Bob Dylan song to the Oregon Ducks’ fast-break technique, he discussed his history of injuries he attained while playing. At the end of this sidebar, Bill Walton claimed to have broken his nose 13 times.

    “That’s what happens when you play defense with your face,” he exclaimed.

    He also mentioned his surgically fused ankles, incinerated spine, broken wrists, 36 surgeries and broken leg – all suffered on the basketball court. Walton’s lifelong injuries, along with his 1978–1979 year-long protest of the Portland Trail Blazers unethical treatment of his injuries, gave him the record of missing the most games during an NBA playing career, when taking into account the number of years he was officially listed as a player on a team roster. He spoke of how debilitating it became to walk and I researched even deeper to see that Walton once even contemplated suicide due to severe depression from debilitating back pain.

    However, Walton then made a comment that made his life on the disabled list seem even more surreal… He observed a certain move power forward Solomon Hill had made and remarked, “That is a move to study – for those of you who are still lucky enough to play basketball…”

    Lucky? How could 13 broken noses and suicidal thoughts be considered lucky? I felt that I was lucky to have quit basketball with my original nose still in place. What was Walton talking about?

    Attempting to find out, the next day I dusted off some 10-year-old shoes and made my first trip to a court in what was nearly five or six years. I checked out a basketball at the YMCA that looked as if it had spent a good majority of its life underwater, and went to shoot around. It took me awhile, but eventually I was making short jump shots and working on my cardiovascular fitness while running up and down the gymnasium floor. Some of my old spin moves came back to me, and I put up a couple of nice finger rolls and hit some three pointers. It actually felt amazing.

    -1About an hour later, a few guys asked me if I wanted to play “21” with them, but I declined, afraid of shooting 9 air balls and getting embarrassed. Instead, I continued to work on some post moves and drives and watched them from the corner of my eye. They were laughing, having fun and playing just above the level where I was – which made me think I might have hung in there if I had accepted their challenge. Instead, I returned my ball and went home and told myself I’d be back the next day.

    I did come back the next day. And the next. I ran that court nearly every other day for months until I was actually joining the games of 21 and winning a good majority of the time. For the first time in over a decade, I was having a lot of fun playing basketball. I soon found myself in the full court games and now, three years later, found myself coming home and discussing the games with my wife as if I was playing in the NBA Finals. It became an obsession to the point where if I missed a lay-up during a game, I got depressed for the rest of the day. Still, it drove me to come back again, improve and remedy the situation.

    -4
    My shrink had me draw a self portrait of what made me happy. Statistics are “close enough…”

    My wife thought I was nuts. Every time I would bring up my day on the court, she would roll her eyes and remind me that I’m more Kevin Arnold than I am Kevin Durant. She also warned me to be careful, to which I reminded her that I was playing against a bunch of guys in their 30’s and that I was in better shape than most of them.

    And then, about six months ago, I got smashed in the nose by a teenager who lowered his shoulder into me on a penetration. My nose now cracks in both directions when I try to move it, but I luckily avoided a full break. Then, a couple weeks later I was slightly concussed after being run under by a guy who was pissed that I was outplaying him. I ended up sitting out two days nursing my brain – which luckily was not permanently damaged. In December, I took an elbow to the bridge of my nose, which caused it to bleed profusely all over the court and earned me 75 “likes” on Instagram.

    -3
    Blood on the basketball court. 75 “likes” on Instagram

    In February, I jammed my left thumb so hard during a rebound that I am still having trouble operating the zippers on my jeans. Then I jammed my right pointer and ring finger in consecutive games. I’m consistently fighting shin splints and a bone spur. Finally, last week, I discovered that I have bursitis in my right shoulder and that I might not be able to play for three weeks or so. This will be my first trip to the disabled list in my athletic career. And I’m a month away from 40. According to my dad, the injuries will now just start piling up. In short, I am about to enter my Bill Walton years. Now, my family is giving me all kinds of advice.

    “Maybe think about not playing anymore,” my mother offered. “You know, you’re no spring chicken.”

    I hung up on her.

    “A spin class is much better on your body,” my dad suggested. I simply sent him pictures of my three-on-three trophy and told him I’d be back on the court in a month.

    “Don’t do anything stupid, you don’t want to really hurt yourself,” my wife told me.

    I rolled my eyes and studied Russell Westbrook highlights like it was important game film.

    During the past week, I have found myself watching Bill Walton again. I guess recently there have been petitions to remove him from the Pac-12 broadcast booth, which upsets me entirely. Sure, he can go on tangents about the time Bob Weir and him spoke Arabic to camels in the Egyptian desert, but his unique and loveable qualities are what make him a treasure in the booth. He’s not a cookie-cutter color guy. He’s quotable and full of basketball wisdom. In fact, he may be my favorite college basketball announcer working today. Not only does he know the game, he makes it fun. I know he seems like he might be high or severely “out-there” once in awhile, but his love for the game is like nobody’s I’ve ever heard before. Not only that, his passion for the game is what got me playing basketball again.

    Rock & Pop - Grateful Dead - Bob Weir - #fl_0108
    Bob Weir of the Grateful Dead in Egypt ’76

    Without Bill Walton, I’d still be jogging three miles on a treadmill. Not competing and not getting any sense of accomplishment.

    For that, I thank you Mr. Walton. For inspiring me to lace up my sneakers that early morning three and a half years ago and return to the sport of my youth.

    Bill-Walton
    Walton at the height of his game resembling the lead singer of My Morning Jacket. (1978)

    The evening after I won the three-on-three “Dads” championship, my wife said I had a “glow” about me. I knew what she was talking about, because I felt it. It was a sense of invincibility and achievement. I felt young again. Above the rim. It brought to mind a famous Bill Walton quote I had read years ago when he said, “You don’t win championships by being normal, by being average…”

    I may have only defeated a bunch of dads in a Saturday pick-up tournament, but for those of us who are just hanging onto the final glimpses of what we might be able to accomplish as men, it was as if I won an NBA Championship.

    Now if you excuse me, I have to go ice my shoulder. I’m planning on returning to the court earlier than expected…

    -6
    The LCS “3 on 3” basketball trophies I won. My proudest athletic achievement to date.

    Buy Zach’s BOOK at amazon.com!

    http://www.amazon.com/Talent-Will-Get-You-Nowhere/dp/0983723737/ref=la_B00QL0F634_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1427556976&sr=1-1

    **UPDATE!** Read Bill Walton’s email to ZACH below following the publication of this essay!!

    Bill.Walton <bill.walton@billwalton.com
    to me
    all good things in all good time

    here we go—-forward, furthur,
    good everything forever, BW,
    and please don’t play defense with your face, there’s no future in that

    BUY ZACH'S BOOK at AMAZON.COM!

    READ SOME WALTON-ISMs HERE : http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/b/bill_walton.html

    announcing Basketball. March Madness Bill Simmons Bill Walton Chuck Palhuinak ESPN essays funny Grantland hoops humor NBA UCLA Zach Selwyn

  • In the late 90’s I was lucky enough to sleep with a Playboy
    Centerfold. For the sake of this story, let’s call her “Miss July.” She
    wasn’t the current centerfold by any means, in fact her issue had
    already been off the racks for nearly seven years at the time of our
    tryst, but she had been a popular Playmate in the 90’s… and one that I
    had admired for years. For some reason, the planets aligned and she
    and I shared a three-night fling at our respected apartments doing all
    we could to pretend that we had anything in common outside of our bed
    sheets.

    Following our little hook up, I rifled through a used bookstore for
    her back issue, buying at least six copies to give to my high school
    friends. I called nearly every guy I knew to share in my glory and
    walked on air for a good three months after our encounter, knowing
    that I had achieved one of the ultimate male fantasies. I even sent a
    back issue to my dad. After all, Playboy was my bible growing up and
    bedding one of the world’s most beautiful women suddenly made me feel
    like I could accomplish anything in my life.
    Last week, while walking through a grocery store with my 10-year-old
    son, I ran into Miss July in the produce section. At first, I stopped
    and stared at her, like every man in the store had been doing since
    she walked in the vicinity. She was still gorgeous and shapely and
    wearing an outfit that only a Playmate can get away with.
    Her breasts were still high and on display. He hair still blonde and
    bountiful, with ringlets cascading beneath her shoulders – as if she
    was currently in the middle of a photo shoot. I ogled for a minute,
    before coming to the realization that she was, indeed, Miss July. My
    Miss July. The girl I had slept with all those years ago. I hadn’t
    thought of her in so long, I assumed she had moved to the other side
    of the country where I would never see her again.

    And now here she was fondling a pair of avocados.

    44db37438d3358678714a52d6f5ae34e

    “Why are you staring at that girl?” My son asked, snapping me out of
    the coma my 40-year-old mind had drifted into.

    “Oh, I think I know her,” I said, secretly hoping that he might
    recognize her beauty and high-five me after we left the grocery store.

    “Cool,” he responded. “Can I play on your phone?”

    I gathered my thoughts and strolled around to the coffee aisle. I
    wasn’t sure if I was going to say hello to her, afraid that she would
    think I was some stalker from her Playmate days. I also didn’t want
    her to blurt out something stupid, like “Oh my GOD! You were that guy
    I slept with in the 90’s!” Worst of all, I thought, she wouldn’t
    remember me at all. I let my son pick out some cereal as I mulled over
    my next move.

    Like most happily married men, I still harbor the memories of my
    single years when one-night stands were so daring and fun and
    whimsical. After all these years, they hold a nostalgic place in my
    heart as something fantastic and perfect – when in reality they were
    normally panic-riddled and led to health concerns and loneliness.
    My week with Miss July began at a nightclub in Hollywood. She was
    gorgeous, fending off the masses with her icy stare and constantly
    turning down drinks from potential suitors clamoring to be in her
    airspace. I had no idea she was a Playmate at the time, but she
    certainly had the look. She was dressed to the nines in a fur jacket
    and sipping on a vodka drink when my friends dared me to go speak to
    her. As I was in my cups, I waltzed directly up to her and began
    rubbing her jacket.

    “Interesting. A New Zealand back country field rabbit coat… Very
    rare,” I said.

    She laughed and stared me deep in the eyes.

    “Are you on ecstasy?”  She replied.

    “No,” I exclaimed. “Not at all… why?

    “Normally when I wear this coat out a bunch of druggies just want to pet it.”

    I laughed and thought of a quick comeback.

    “I’d rather pet you,” I blurted out confidently.

    She actually laughed and wrote her number down on a bar napkin. I told
    her I’d call her and I did – the next day – breaking any rules which I
    had learned from popular movies like Swingers. She was surprised to
    hear from me. We made plans to go out to a Casa Vega, a Mexican
    restaurant in the valley for margaritas the following night. When she
    cancelled on me two hours beforehand, I thought I was doomed. When I
    asked her why she had to cancel, however, my eyes lit up.

    “I have to fly to Iowa for a Playboy convention in the morning, I’m so
    sorry,” she said.

    “Why? Do you sell advertising for them or something?” I inquired.

    “No, silly – I was Miss July a few years ago! I thought you knew…”

    I didn’t know. Now I did. I immediately called my friends and sang
    them J. Giels Band lyrics through the receiver. Yes. My baby was a
    centerfold.

    Playboy Playmates

    A week later, we hit Casa Vega. At one point she went outside
    to smoke and I let her go alone. (I was trying to quit at the time).
    When a guy at the bar saw this, he motioned to me and said, “Dude, you don’t let a girl that hot out of your sight for any amount of time.”

    I ignored him, assuming she would brush off any potential creeps and
    return back to our bar stool where we’d finish our drinks and continue
    our evening. After 20 minutes, however, I began to grow nervous.
    I went out to the smoking section, and sure enough, there they were:
    MEN. All kinds… Guys who had intended to come inside for dinner but
    were so mesmerized by her beauty that they decided to hang outside a
    little longer. Guys who didn’t even smoke were bumming cigarettes from
    her and chain smoking. One guy even flipped her a business card and
    said, “I scout for Playboy, if you ever want to be in the magazine,
    let me know…”

    She laughed and to my surprise grabbed me by the arm. All the men’s
    faces dropped as they saw this 23-year-old kid with a Strokes haircut
    coyly slip his hand around the top of her waist. Dejected, the guys
    all walked inside with their heads down, preparing to settle for
    baskets of chips and salsa and not the ravishing creature who I was
    lucky enough to be spending the night with.

    We went to another bar and then went to my place. Two nights later, I
    joined her at her place. We went out once more, on a Saturday, but she
    got swept up in a crowd of famous actors and I stood around waiting
    for her to return to me, feeling like the unpopular kid in junior high
    who can’t muster up the balls to ask a girl to dance. Eventually, when
    she began partaking in their bottle service vodka, I grew frustrated,
    knowing my time was up. Without even saying good-bye, I grabbed my
    jacket and made a quick exit, calling my buddies to meet me for a
    heartbreak beer at Coach and Horses, my old favorite dive bar.

    “So what if it’s over?” My buddy said. “You were with a Playmate!”

    “Yeah dude, my last hook up was with the hostess at Yankee Doodles in
    Agoura Hills,” said another.

    As the drinks flowed, my confidence returned and I quickly got over
    the fling with the help of some good friends. The next day Miss July
    and I exchanged a few phone messages, but never reconnected.
    Even though it was over, I was still waking on air, feeling as if I
    had done all I could and was now exuding an air of confidence that
    nobody could touch. I even kept two of her back issues for myself. One
    to put on the coffee table, and one to put in a pristine cellophane
    folder where it would remain intact on my bookshelf until the end of
    my days… It still sits there today.

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    As I rounded the bread aisle, I saw her again. As luck would have it,
    we were approaching the check out line at the same time, inspecting our carts and reaching into our wallets for ATM cards. I purposefully took the spot in line directly behind her and noticed as she unloaded
    an unusual amount of dog food onto the conveyor belt. She also bought butter, apples, avocados, bananas, Kombucha and a pre-made tray of
    sushi. I was still staring. My 10-year-old took advantage of my distant
    gaze and slipped two packs of M & M’s into my cart. I didn’t care. I
    had butterflies in my stomach as if I was back in that Hollywood
    nightclub 17 years earlier… But then it hit me: I was married. I was
    standing with my child. I had no reason to not say something. If
    anything, I thought, it would extend the memory a few more years. I
    decided to go in for the kill.

    “Is your name Taylor? (Not her real name)” I asked.

    She looked up at me and smiled.

    “Yeah, who are you?”

    “My name is Zach,” I said. “Not sure if you remember me, but we sort
    of dated about 17 years ago… we met at a nightclub and went to Casa
    Vega…?”

    She looked me over, perplexed.

    “Were you that drummer?” She asked.

    “No, but I play music…”

    “Oh, you were the guy who knew Green Day!”

    “No,” I said.

    “Oh. Did you know Quentin?”

    “Nope,” I responded, realizing that I was barely a flicker of memory
    in her mind all these years later – whereas she had held the top spot
    in my gallery of former flames for close to two decades. I was a bit
    embarrassed.

    “Oh, wait!” She said. “Did you used to have long curly hair? And you
    lived on Harper Avenue and you played me Crash into Me by Dave
    Matthews Band on your guitar?”

    The cashier chuckled.

    “Uhh, yeah, that was me,” I said, blushing.

    26288a71d9878f6519c7ca018a8dca5d-36296
    23-years-old with a Strokes haircut…

    She hugged me as if we were long lost siblings. I felt my wobbly arms
    go around her body once more, immediately wondering what would have
    happened if I hadn’t been so stubborn at that bar all those years ago.

    My chest pressed against hers and for a brief moment I was 23 again,
    stupidly running around Hollywood with a group of horny friends
    worrying about nothing but a 10 a.m. commercial audition and where I
    was going to be drinking that night. She pulled away and paid for her
    groceries and stood behind the bag boy waiting for me to pay and
    rejoin her. When I did, we caught up briefly and I introduced her to
    my son… who seemed to not have any interest in this beautiful woman
    that his dad was talking to.

    As it turns out, Miss July still did Playmate conventions. She was
    living in the valley, had been married for a year but was divorced and
    was raising her 3 small dogs, Gucci, Dorito and Mr. Farts-A-Lot. She
    didn’t go out anymore, was disappointed with Tinder and loved
    The Big Bang Theory. I felt like she was reciting her “Turn-On” list
    from her Centerfold interview page – but had updated it as a
    middle-aged woman.

    We exchanged numbers and she remarked on how handsome my son was. I
    told her I’d invite her out to see my band if we ever played again and
    I watched her speed off in her Prius. I thought back to the nights we
    had shared together and then looked back at my son, blissfully playing
    on my phone, seemingly unaware of what had transpired between his father and
    that mysterious girl in the produce section 17 years earlier.

    As we drove home, he handed me back my phone and stared out the
    window. As I watched his eyes dart around the city, I thought of his
    future and how he was still so young and innocent and had the entire
    world ahead of him. I realized how happy I was to be spending my life
    with my wife, my daughter and him, and not a smelly pug named Mr.
    Farts-a-Lot.

    And then, after a few minutes of driving, he broke the silence.

    “Dad, I wanna learn some Dave Matthews Band songs on guitar,” he said.

    They grow up so fast…

    READ ZACH’S NERDIST STORY “RE-EXAMINING THE NBA DRAFT ID I HAD BEEN SELECTED!”

    https://nerdist.com/re-examining-the-1997-nba-draft-if-i-had-been-selected/

    CVH4QMaI

     

    bukowski david sedaris essay fiction hugh hefner humor Playboy playmate sex short story stories writing Zach Selwyn

  • Buy Zach’s Book “Talent Will Get You Nowhere”Talent

    Available Now on Amazon!

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  • Comedy Comedy Central dong on the whiteboard funny lonelyisland rap sketch SNL TBS Zach Selwyn Zachariah

  • Zach wrote and produced this piece for TBS Digital starring the Sklar Brothers.

    Sklar brothers

  • I could have fucked one of my teachers back in high school. I didn’t. But I could have. She was into me… She told me I made her ‘quiver…’ She said I looked like a movie star. She tried to kiss me. This was 25 years ago… I still think about it.
    Nowadays these stories are everywhere. Open any internet browser and you are greeted by a photo of a young teacher who was recently arrested for seducing their 16-year-old Biology student with marijuana and booze and throwing group sex parties and shit. Their mug shots get splashed all over websites and people everywhere shame these women for fucking underage boys…

    Texas-High-School-Teacher-Arrested-for-Allegedly-Having-Sex-With-Student
    A Texas Teacher recently arrested for having sex with an underage student

    Back in the day you never heard about this type of shit. If you did, it was always a creepy male Phys Ed. teacher who wore New Balance sneakers and sported a filthy Don Mattingly moustache. Now it seems these sex-starved teachers are women who look like Charlize Theron with John and Kate Plus Eight haircuts.

    In the early 90’s, these women didn’t exist.

    Except in my high school.

    118443
    My boyhood hero Don Mattingly definitely had a ‘Molester ‘stache.’

    During my senior year, a really cute teacher’s assistant/college student named Debbie joined my AP English class. She was responsible for grading our shitty essays about the “Grapes of Wrath,” and helped with our teacher Mrs. Kelly’s syllabus… and she also happened to give me ‘fuck me eyes’ nearly every single day.

    One day after school in the parking lot, Debbie caught me by my Dodge Lancer as I was preparing to roll a Mexi-shwag joint to smoke with my boy Adam.

    “Zach, can I talk to you for a second?” She asked.

    At first I thought she was going to criticize my schoolwork or something, but instead she ended up asking me on a date.

    “Look, Zach – so I know you mentioned that you want to be an actor when you are older… and uhmm… Well, Les Miz is coming to the U of A next Saturday and I actually have an extra ticket – so if you want to go…?”

    She smiled at me. The ‘U of A’ was the University of Arizona… and I had been hanging around the campus since I was a kid. I had always noticed the frat guys and the cute girls, but here was one of them actually… hitting on me. Or at least I thought she was. She was confident and she certainly had something none of the high school
    girls I had been dating had… a MAJOR.

    I wasn’t sure if this invite was a come on, but I liked it. I felt invincible and dominant. Typical 17-year-old shit. I nodded my head, told her, ‘sure’ and we made plans to meet around seven at Centennial Hall on the Arizona campus to see the show. She even gave me her phone number just in case I got lost. Cell-phones weren’t a thing yet, but she promised to check her answering machine from a payphone.

    I went back to see Adam.

    “What was that all about, dude?”

    “Dude, I think I might fuck the English T.A.”

    shelley-dufresne-32
    Another cute teacher’s “underage sex” mug shot from 2016.

    I went home and told my mom that I had plans to go out on Saturday night. My mom went ballistic. My mom can read anybody. Especially back then. She immediately began getting suspicious of this woman’s intentions.

    She wanted to know who she was, how old she was, what exactly this teacher wanted with me, etc.

    “Mom, don’t worry, she’s like, 22, and she just knows I want to be an
    actor – that’s it!”

    “Don’t kid yourself, Zach, this woman has ulterior motives… don’t be so naïve.”

    Amazingly, I somehow convinced my mom that this could be my only chance to see Les Miserables, and since my mother is a Broadway Theater geek, she relented at the last minute and let me go. But with a warning…

    “Keep in mind, Zach, you have way too much going for you to
    impregnate a teacher.”

    I ignored her and drove off to meet Debbie at the show.

    Debbie was waiting in front of Centennial Hall as I walked up from the free parking spot I found six blocks away. I had no interest in dropping $4.00 on the valet… although today, that seems completely reasonable. Meanwhile, Debbie had dressed up for the occasion, much differently than her usual school jeans and sweater. She was wearing an above-the-knee dress and a leather tank top with fringes angling from them. This was no high school girl…

    Meanwhile, I wore Banana Republic jeans and my favorite striped shirt from a long extinct mall fashion store called Structure.

    During the show, Debbie ‘accidentally’ grabbed my arm a few times as if we were watching a horror film like Nightmare on Elm Street. The thing was, the show wasn’t that scary… It also wasn’t that good.

    It may have been the touring company, or the Centennial Hall acoustics, but I was lost for most of the performance. About the only thing I remember about it was that I was hiding a massive chubby in my pants and that New York Yankees pitcher Tommy John had a kid who was performing in the show… I thought that was pretty cool. (Taylor John RIP).

    After it wrapped and we stood and applauded, Debbie suggested we walk around the university for a little bit. She actually asked me if I would be interested in getting a beer. I was 17. I rarely drank in high school, but I did have my stepbrother’s fake I.D. He was 5’9”. I was 6’2”. It only worked at one liquor store on Columbus Avenue where the clerk actually believed me when I told him I had,  “A big growth spurt last summer.

    “I could have one, I guess,” I said.

    Debbie smiled and we walked over to U of A Liquors and she bought a six-pack of this relatively new beer called Icehouse.

    icehouse09
    Remember this?

    Growing up in Tucson, you spend a lot of time drinking beer in the washes and deserts hidden off the sides of the streets. She found her little familiar spot where she liked to drink with her college friends and we drank and talked for quite a while… about my Hollywood dreams, our English class and movies we liked. Eventually, near the end of beer number two, she told me that she thought I have “it” and told me that she was confident that I will absolutely make it as a huge movie star.

    She then leaned in and began kissing the side of my neck for roughly four seconds.

    “Woah,” I said, pulling away and hiding my awkwardness behind a weird laugh.

    “I…I…I’m so sorry!” She blurted out. “I thought you wanted this!”

    Debbie turned deep red. My stomach twisted. That sinking feeling in the stomach where you just don’t know what the right words are.

    “Look, I’m only 17, ya know?” I said.

    She wasn’t comfortable. She began rocking back and forth.

    “I’m so stupid, this was – this was so stupid,” she said.

    “No, no, it’s fine – I just – I’m not sure it’s… right,” I said.

    “You’re really sexy, Zach, you know that, right?”

    “Uhmm, Thanks,” I said. “I mean, you’re sexy too but…”

    And then we sat there in silence for close to ten minutes. Those awkward high school silences…

    maxresdefault
    If Debbie had looked like this, the night may have gone differently…

    “Listen,” she said sometime later. “Can we please never tell anybody about this – especially Mrs. Kelly?” She said.

    “I will never tell anybody,” I promised. Another five minutes of silence followed before I suggested it was time to call it a night.

    As we made the walk back to my car, I began to feel somewhat guilty. I was sort of one of those high school make-out kings – the guy who always loved kissing almost more than anything else… I thought, that when we got to my car, I would grab her and kiss her – just to lift our self-esteem and make the night less disappointing and more epic… But when we got back to my Dodge… I just couldn’t do it.

    I looked at her. She seemed confused. She seemed lost, most likely feeling guilty. I told her that Monday morning would be no different than any other day. I told her she shouldn’t worry and that I wouldn’t tell a soul. I thanked her for the ticket to Les Miz and I drove home and masturbated into my pillow.

    25-years later, a big part of me wishes I would’ve had sex with her… This was the pre-internet world. Nobody would have cared. She would have not been able to ‘friend me’ on Facebook or post pictures of us in that wash posing with beers in the Tucson night… There would have been no mug shot… She probably had an apartment nearby the campus and life would have just rolled along so easily back then… My God, it would have been so simple to get away with it and I would have a killer story for my friends when I got to college…

    Alas, the moment faded, much like my movie star dreams… and my adolescent fantasies. That following Monday morning in class was far less awkward for me than it was for her, although we never seemed to even acknowledge one another.

    I recently typed Debbie’s name into Google and found out that she was newly divorced and a mother of three… She was in Scottsdale. She looked old.

    It’s funny how life speeds up and people come and go from your lives – I often think back… What if we had fucked? Maybe she gets pregnant and I have a 26-year-old son in Scottsdale right now? Luckily, I don’t. Life is pretty fucking crazy.

    I never saw Les Miz again.

    I’m not sure if they still make Icehouse beer.

    I haven’t smoked Mexi-shwag in decades.

    But you’re God damned right I got an ‘A’ in Mrs. Kelly’s AP English class…

    Please watch Zach’s NBA2k Vlog from New York City!

    band teacher bukowski comedic funny short story gmail Hyena jude Angelini. hot teachers Justin Bieber Les Miserables Sedaris sex short stories Talent will Get You Nowhere tucson youtube

  • Move over Jimmy Fallon –  Zach informs you about the latest Jingle Punks happenings – Lil Dicky, Hoodie Allen and MORE!

    <p><a href=”http://vimeo.com/110420785″>Featuring Hoodie Allen, Lil Dicky, Meow Mix, and more</a> from <a href=”http://vimeo.com/jinglepunks”>Jingle Punks</a> on <a href=”https://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a&gt;.</p>

     

    Hoodie Allen Lil Dicky Meow Mix

  • funny-tinder-profile-chickshorrible-tinder-profiles-0   kern-dergs-tinder 

    My Wife and I Spent a Week on Tinder and it Almost Wrecked Our Marriage * 2015 by Zach Selwyn

    Having been lucky enough to fall in love at the dawn of the internet dating era, I was never able to partake in the highly sexually charged world of apps like Tinder, Plenty O’Fish and Match.com. I have never sexually texted any girl – besides my wife – and certainly will never be able to type in the words Let’s Netflix and chill to anyone – unless all I truly want to do is come home and, well, watch Netflix and chill. My Facebook profile has always said, “married.” I have never “swiped left,” “matched” with anybody or desperately called the It’s Just Lunch girls in any airline in-flight magazine. Some might say I’m extremely lucky. Others can’t believe how much fun I missed out on by not being able to explore the overtly sexual side of the smart phone.

    Last week, while scanning my Facebook page, I noticed an advertisement for a new Jewish dating app called JFIIX that had posted to my page. Not being sure how or why a singles ad would appear on my page, I glanced at it for a brief moment, silently shocked at the pure magnificent beauty of the girl being featured as a lonely Jewish single. She was mesmerizing. Beautiful and stunning with green eyes and perfectly structured face. My first thought was, after years of dating and befriending hundreds of Jewish women – was that Jewish girls do NOT look like that. Not to sound like a jerk, but looking back at the girls in my life – and according to my friends who had experience on JDATE and other apps –very rarely did a Jewish supermodel with eyes like the girl in that photo show up in synagogue.

    JewgirlSure, there are your ScarJo’s and your Mila Kunis’s and of course Bar Rafaeli, but to tell you the truth, the majority of Jewish girls I remember dating in the 90’s did not resemble Scarlett Johannsen – in fact, most of them looked more like David Johannsen.

    So, I had an idea. I was going to write a true, investigative article into the world of online Jewish dating apps – or as some call it, “Jewish Tinder.” I decided to register as a single man in his 30’s on JFIIX with the intention of seeing what type of Jewish women were out there in the dating world today as compared to the swimsuit model featured in the ad. The hard part would be convincing my WIFE to let me do this.

    “I think you’re an idiot,” she said immediately.

    “Why? This is going to be hilarious!” I responded. “I’ll only go on a few dates, get my material and delete my account.”

    “What if I registered on Tinder and went out with a few dudes, would you be cool with that?”

    She had a point. No, I didn’t think I could handle my wife hitting the town with some Los Angeles business owner who might just sweep her off her feet with his Tesla, Clippers tickets and full head of hair. Still, I argued that a Jewish dating site would not offer me any temptation. After all, I was, in general, not attracted to Jewish women. My wife then made me a deal.

    “If you do a week on your Jewish dating site, I get to do a week on Tinder.”

    It was the hall pass agreement for the screen generation. Here we were, two middle-aged married people agreeing to explore the dating world as a social experiment for one week. The goal for me was nothing more than a good story and maybe a few laughs. What transpired was a total nightmare.

    I began by creating my online dating profile. JFIIX uses Facebook as your homepage, so I had to alter nearly every detail on my personal life. I considered naming my profile “Guns ‘N Moses…” but I didn’t. I used a photo from 9 years earlier, described myself as a “working musician” (Only 24% true… half the time) – and listed my religious affiliation as “Casual.” At further glance on the Jewish dating apps, other options to the user are to declare themselves, “Orthodox,” “Reform” and my favorites, “Willing to Convert” and “Not Willing to Convert.” There is also something called “Frum,” which did not stand for “frumpy” but for someone who lives by the strict laws of the Torah.

    Having known plenty of women who have converted to Judaism over the years for marriage, I never made my wife convert because, well, frankly she was raised Athiest and I just didn’t care. Judaism has always been more about a culture than a way of life for me anyway, so I listed myself as ‘Casual’ – which I hoped just revealed that I was happy to sit around the house in sweatpants and watch Woody Allen movies.

    Meanwhile, my wife was busy setting up her Tinder profile in the other room. I heard her giggling as she uploaded a photo. I was immediately losing my mind. I texted my buddy Adam, who is one of those guys who crushes on Tinder, and told him to look out for my wife’s profile. Within an hour he sent me screenshots of her online details, revealing that she had used a past bikini modeling photo, listed herself as ten years younger than she is and put her age-dating window between “21 and 32 years old.” After all, my wife is a little older than me – and when we met, when I was 26, she said, “Funny, ever since I was 18 I have been dating 26-year-olds.”

    Well, now I was 40 and way past her window. Which is maybe why she agreed to do this horrifying but exciting experiment with me in the first place.

    54bd1d52674e0
    The kind of cheesedick I imagined asking out my wife

    Once our profiles went online and we were invited to “start searching,” I quickly became aware of the reality of online Jewish singles. Most of them were better looking than I had expected, and I initially matched with one reformed girl named Sadie who was only on my feed because we both liked The Allman Brothers Band. A second match came an hour later when a fairly cute girl named Heather approved my photo and said I looked like a rock star. One half-Asian girl who said she, “loved Jewish guys,” said she was simply looking for a good time. It was then that the Jewish guilt kicked in pretty harshly. I felt like I was in a brothel or some lascivious red light district. I felt like I was betraying my kids, my wife my existence. I hated myself. I quickly signed off and decided to pull the rip cord on this entire story.

    And then my wife got asked out on a date.

    “You’re not going, “ I screamed.

    “Bullshit I’m not,” she said. “This was your stupid idea… You go out with your Jewish girls and I’ll go out with Dante.”

    “Dante? His name is Dante?” I exclaimed. “You can’t go out with a Dante!”

    “Sorry, you’re watching the kids Saturday and I’m going out to dinner at some place called Craig’s.”

    She slammed the door and left me in the living room, gutted. I was a pile of nerves. Lord knows what type of animal this Dante was. Date rapist, swindler… talent agent. It was as if I was awaiting some horny high school guy to take out my daughter and I was a frantic ball of tension and stress. I immediately called Adam to find out what to expect.

    “Do you know anyone named Dante?” I asked.

    “No, why?”

    “Because he’s taking my wife out on a date Saturday night.”

    Adam did not know Dante, but he knew of the bar Craig’s. According to Adam, Craig’s was a scene, full of beautiful people, celebrities and rich guys who have trophy girls on their arms everywhere.

    He described it as, “the kind of place that David Spade brings a Playmate to.”

    Oh crap.

    worst-tinder-profile-pics-1-2-s-307x512
    How I imagined ‘Dante.’

    I asked Adam if he would spy on my wife this coming Saturday, hanging in the bar and stealing glances her way to make sure nothing creepy was going on. I even offered to cover his dinner and drinks if he did it. He agreed.

    Meanwhile, the next few days, I didn’t sign onto JFIIX at all. I spent my time in the gym, getting my aggressions out and dreading the Saturday night when my wife would Uber to the restaurant to meet Dante, who at this point, I had decided was either African American or Greek – based on the hundreds of Google searches I made for “Dante- images.” The one rule I made was that he could not pick her up at our house, and she agreed. However, the anxiety-ridden toll of this experiment was already hanging over my head pretty heavy. It wasn’t as if I expected my wife to sleep with this guy, but I worried about someone we knew seeing them or Dante’s reaction when my wife informed him that she is married and has two children.

    I decided to get back on JFIIX. Amazingly, 29 girls had requested a chat. Maybe it was the photo I was using. One of them was named Perla, and she claimed to be new in town from the Ukraine. I broke down and sent her a message. She asked for more photos. I uploaded a few more. I was feeling ashamed and guilty and almost began searching for apartments to rent in Koreatown following what was to be my impending divorce.

    worst-tinder-profile-pics-1-3-s-307x512
    I really hoped Perla didn’t look like this.

    Perla wanted to get a coffee. She uploaded an attractive photo of herself in a bikini standing near the Dead Sea in Israel and I suddenly found myself typing, “Have you ever been to the Bourgeois Pig on Franklin Avenue?”

    It was on. Saturday morning I was meeting Perla for a latte in the darkest coffee shop I could think of. My wife ignored me as I dressed myself conservatively and strolled out the door to go on the first date I have been in since 2001.

    Perla looked a little different than her photos. For one, her long black dress covered what appeared to be an increasing paunch in the stomach area. Not that I’m some David Beckham-like specimen, but at least I didn’t post a photo of myself with Photo-shopped abs. Perla had played me. She was at least five years older than her listed age of 33, her hair was wiry and curly and had stray greys everywhere. After ordering two coffees and a muffin, Perla revealed that she was recently divorced and had two kids. One was named “Absalom,” which meant “Father of Peace” in Hebrew, and the other was “Raananah” which meant, “Unspoiled.” She said she was pretty religious and ultimately wanted five children. She also mentioned she was working on a children’s book. I told her I was a touring rock star with lots of girlfriends and that I was due back on the road in three days to open up for My Morning Jacket. That sealed it. The rest of the date was pretty much silent and I shook her hand good-bye, promising to call her soon.

    Meanwhile, back home, my wife was hours away from her date with Dante. It was then that Adam called me and told me that he had a hot date that night and that there was no way he could spy for me that night. Crushed, I begged him to make it work. He told me to relax and I went home and started drinking.

    My wife took off at 7:30, as I was bathing the kids. Before she left, I instructed them to say in their cutest voices, “We love you mommy,” and it was a success. The last thing I wanted my wife to have on her mind before submitting to a stranger’s bedroom was the angelic voices of her kids saying good-bye.

    After they went to bed, I paced the house like a maniac. One bottle of red wine led to some beers and eventually I was passed out drunk on my couch with the baseball playoffs on in the background. When I was startled awake by a fire engine, it was 11:30. She still wasn’t home.

    I called Adam, who was out in the valley with his Tinder date. He said not to worry… he said Craig’s was a late night place anyway. I called Craig’s, and asked if a beautiful woman was making out with “a Greek or African-American man at the bar.” They put me on hold and never returned. I frantically texted my wife and got no response. I went to bed. At around 12:45 the door opened and my wife ascended the stairs, skipped brushing her teeth and passed out.

    “How was Dante?” I asked the following morning.

    “A perfect gentleman,” she responded.

    “What did you do?”

    “Not much,” she replied. “He took me to dinner at Craig’s, where I ran into Tony Halvarr – remember him from my acting class? And then we had a glass of wine at the bar with these hilarious guys who were in town training for the US Olympic volleyball team – then we went to some club – oh my God I can’t believe I even went to this place – where it was that model Amber Rose’s birthday celebration… She used to be married to Wiz Khalifa – and then some DJ – DJ Premiere? Do you know who he is?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Anyway, he was spinning. Then there was a fight and then we left because the bottle service was waaaay too expensive and I noticed it was 11 so I came home.”

    “No – you came home at 12:45,” I said.

    “Oh, really? Wow! Whatever the case, it was nice to feel 25 again! He’s super cool – 25 – and sells edibles for a THC company. He wants me to go to some basketball games with him this year, so we might keep in touch… Amber Rose was really nice by the way!”

    Amber-Rose-Booty
    My wife’s new friend, the extremely talented Amber Rose.

    The rest of the day was full of uncomfortable silences and me inaudibly moping around the house. I had nobody to blame but myself. As per our agreement, my wife and I deleted our respective accounts and agreed to never do something like this again.

    What I derived from this social media experiment is that there are a lot more men than women trolling for quick hook-ups and conquests on these apps, and unless you can find a stunning photograph of yourself in a bathing suit, you can almost forget being asked out by anybody. Then again, this is Los Angeles, the most image-conscience town in the world. Perhaps out there in America, say in Des Moines or Peoria, there are actually decent people looking for significant others and not relying on a 10-year-old photo to stir their loins into a sexual frenzy. These apps might be effective for folks out there who can’t find the time for dating or casual meet and greets. If you are currently finding love and interesting conversation through dating apps like Tinder, JFIIX, Zoosk, Christian Mingle or even the fascinating Farmers Only – I can only wish you the best of luck.

    And if you get sick of looking for love in all the wrong places, you can always move to Los Angeles. I know where Amber Rose is having her birthday party next year…

    Buy Zach’s Book “Talent Will Get You Nowhere” at Amazon.com!

    TWGYNSlidehttp://www.amazon.com/Talent-Will-Get-You-Nowhere/dp/0983723737

    Amber Rose dating funny jewish story Hot Jewish girls Jewish Tinder marriage Swingers Tinder Zach Selwyn. short stories
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Posts By zachselwyn

Zach’s New Album “Hacienda” is Almost Here! Watch the Promo!

  • September 15, 2018
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Hero · Homepage · Music · Zachariah & The Lobos Riders

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Will NBA 2K19 Finally Kill My Son’s Fortnite Addiction?

  • August 25, 2018
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Homepage · The Writer · Uncategorized

By Zach Selwyn

Special to Nerdist Sports

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Following my epic journey to New York City last September to cover the launch of NBA 2K18 – the most highly anticipated game of any sport title in recent years, my son dove head strong into the game with a fervor and passion like I’ve never seen before. He had become a beast at 2K17, but perhaps it was the 2K18 backpack and hat I was given at the event had made him want to earn virtual currency to upgrade his player and to finally “run the neighborhood.” As an out of touch dad, I had just become familiar with the controls for 2K17, so when I found out how much different the shooting controls were in the new game, my son’s LA Clippers quickly disposed of my beloved Phoenix Suns in a 120-65 drubbing. (Granted, playing as the Suns in 2K18 pretty much guaranteed an L, but he didn’t need to take me by 55 points…)

I vowed to get my game up and running, and I eventually did and our Win/Loss board, which started out with him and 11 straight W’s to kick-off the season slowly started tipping in my favor… I had become a beast, taking him off the dribble, throwing alley-oops and setting perfect screens for my man Devin Booker to pull up and yell, “water…” A father-son battle royal was officially born.

BUT, suddenly, a new game arrived and our father-son bonding was brought to a halt. All rise and welcome Fortnite. Suddenly, the screams of “Montrezl” Was replaced by my son yelling “Rez me” (resuscitate me) to his friends over a headset. Dad was suddenly no longer welcome in the TV room where the gaming console was set up. Llamas had taken the place of Lonzo’s. Skins took the place of Scalabrine and “Legendary Weapons” referred to something other than Larry Bird or Magic Johnson.

I was angry, at first, annoyed that seemingly an entire generation of boys had abandoned sport games for the Fortnite phenomenon. Suddenly, I was making him earn $25.00 to buy V-Bucks just to get a new battle outfit, or “rare skin.” Before, I was happy to have him build teams by opening packs on 2K, because as a lifelong sports nut, I loved building up my teams with him… Now, I was disappointed that this weird game about storms shrinking, Slurp Juice and Rockets… but not “James Harden” rockets… Just, well… rockets blowing people up.

I hated Fortnite.

fortnite-switch

The only thing that kept my son’s NBA addiction in the picture was the fact that non-stop videos of Gordon Hayward, Josh Hart and Karl Anthony Towns playing the game kept him aware of the game. We also went to an E3 Fortnite event where Paul George and Terrence Ross took some selfies with them after a 3 hour group battle with professional gamers who have made more money with a joystick than I have in my entire adult life.

“Llamas had taken the place of Lonzo’s. Skins took the place of Scalabrine and “Legendary Weapons” referred to something other than Larry Bird or Magic Johnson.”

But September 7th is right around the corner… and NBA 2K19 may just be the game that finally kills my son’s Fortnite addiction. Not only that, the number one draft pick is my man on the Suns, DeAndre Ayton… Might this be the year they make the play-offs for the first time since 2003?

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Long suffering Suns fans finally have a new hope…

“The Suns suck, dad,” my son said before loading up another game of Fortnite.

So, it is with great pleasure that I got invited to the NBA 2K19 launch event this year in Brooklyn. At a recent event in Los Angeles, I was able to preview the game and interview game designer Mike Wang who explained the small changes in the upcoming version… like a little red line that detects the defensive presence during an offensive player’s shot (letting you know it was a good shot). Wang also explained the overhaul of the one-on-one on-ball defender against a ball handler matchup which he said will make this “more of a game of skill from here on out.”

“People do appreciate that we are moving towards a skill-based game,” Wang explained. “You can now brag to your friends that you beat them with your moves, and that it wasn’t “the game” that beat them.”

The lay-ups have shot meters, the lucky shot factors are down and the days of pressing buttons and hoping for an easy three are over. Of course, it goes both ways and after enough game play, a 2K player can improve his skills the better he gets to know the game.

“There are a lot of big changes that I can’t really talk about today, but I think you guys are going to be really happy with it,” Wang teased.

My son is extremely happy. Since 2K19 was announced, he has been back to watching his heroes, Jesser and Cash Nasty preview the games and yell obscenities at air balls and bad pack openings… He’s back on the real court as well, and he constantly talks about how he is counting the hours for when he can pick up his pre-ordered $100.00 LeBron James edition of the game and start dominating me once again.

Then, as I chose to play with the other 2K cover athlete, Giannis Antetokounmpo, my son told me to expect Giannis to change teams the following year.

“It happened with Paul George on the Pacers, Kyrie on the Cavs, then LeBron… it’s the curse of 2K… every cover athlete changes teams the next season,” he said.

“Damn, man, maybe the Suns will sign him in 2020,” I said.

“Dad, the Suns suck,” he said.

“Not this year,” I said.

On September 7th, we can finally settle this…

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Me with CJ McCollum at last years 2K event

*Zach Selwyn is currently hosting the TV show “Postcards From History” for the History Channel premiering in late 2018

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Watch Zach Cover the Hermosa Beach Strand Protests! #REALFAKENEWS

  • August 14, 2018
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Comedy · Hero · Homepage · Sketch Comedy

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Five Guys from Germany, 1000 Cigarettes and Sink Pubes: My AIR BNB Nightmare

  • June 28, 2018
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Comedy · Hero · Homepage · Short Story · The Writer · Uncategorized

 

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My wife and I received an Air BNB request online two weeks ago… It read as follows:

We’re five guys from Germany who don’t do drugs. We are excited to visit LA and really enjoy clubs and West Hollywood.

“What do you think, babe?” My wife asked me. “Should we accept their request?”

“I dunno,” I responded. “Five guys? Clubs? West Hollywood? Sounds like we’re inviting a bunch of Europeans over for a Bacchanalian orgy.”

“You’re an idiot,” she said. “They seem nice AND they said they don’t do drugs.”

“When you have to tell people you don’t do drugs, it means you definitely do drugs.”

“I’m approving them. We can always charge them if they mess anything up.”

I don’t know if I am the only one whose mind works like this, but when I hear that a crew of 25-year-old German dudes want to “go to clubs and enjoy West Hollywood,” I immediately think of that scene in Wolf of Wall Street when Jordan Belfort waltzes into his apartment early from a business trip and finds 25 guys sucking each other off on his $50,000 couches.

When you “Air BNB” your house out, you can’t help but formulate some concerns. We have rented to people of all sexual orientations and we are not bothered by any of it, however, in the six years that we have been doing this, I still haven’t come to terms with the fact that at some point, two strangers from Idaho fucked in our bed the night after they took their kids to Universal Studios.

My wife and I have been Air BNB’ing as long as it has been approved in Los Angeles. We own our house, travel often and don’t stress out when a family of four comes to LA and wants to rent our place for the week. We are often out of town during these times and for years most of our vacations have pretty much been paid for.

When we first began doing this, we rented our place to some younger twenty-somethings and their abhorrent treatment of our property became a serious issue. One six-person rock band from Brooklyn decided that our couch cushions would make fine ashtrays. Following another rental, three bachelorettes from Colorado accidentally left two dildos in my 9-year-old son’s bedroom.

After that, we decided that our home would be rented to families only.

But then we had the request from the five guys from Germany. Since we were going to be out of town that week and we didn’t have any other requests, it seemed like a safe option. Not only that, but the money we would get for the week would sure help us pay some badly overdue bills.

“Fine,” I told my wife. “But if our place gets wrecked that’s on you.”

We traveled to Tucson to visit my mom for a week and asked our dear friend Lauren to help check them in as they arrived. She called us that night with some interesting news.

“They seem sweet,” she said. “It’s weird though… all of them shave their legs.”

“Told ya, they’re male escorts,” I blurted.

“Shut up… maybe they’re like, on a swim team or something,” my wife offered.

“Well, they’re all in their early to mid 20’s,” Lauren relayed. “Good looking guys… but they are using one of your potted plants to put their cigarettes out in.”

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I envisioned this happening in my bathroom

500 miles away, I decided to just let it be. There wasn’t much to worry about. I had hidden my guitars in the basement, my vinyl collection was labeled off-limits (A 6-year-old had ruined a treasured Dire Straits LP I had left on the turntable a couple of years earlier) and we had a grand total of $32.16 in cash in the house. My wife’s jewelry was locked away in her closet and about the only valuable thing in our home was a shoe San Antonio Spurs guard Tony Parker had given me about 13 years ago… So what if they shaved their legs and smoked? Outta sight outta mind… We spent the week in Tucson hanging with my mom.

When we got back to our house on Saturday night, we anticipated the place would appear like it always does post Air BNB… Most people do their best to tidy up, take out trash, re-set furniture and clean out their leftovers from the fridge.

Upon entering our house, the first thing I noticed was that the entire place smelled like Axe Body Spray. Like, the entire house. Every room, every hallway, every bathroom… It had a post 9-keg fraternity party eminence to it.

 

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My entire house smelled like this guy

When a toilet paper roll was finished, rather than replace the roll on the dispenser, they managed to just toss the empty cylinder behind the toilet.

We pride our house on our “Kids Art Wall” where we encourage guests to add to the collection. Over the years, dozens of kids have contributed drawings to the wall and it’s a fantastic little abstract collection of developing artistic minds across the world.

Needless to say, these guys didn’t add anything to the art wall.

They also did not bother to turn off any light in the house.

Nor did they take out the trash… at all. In our backyard, stuffed in about 25 paper grocery bags, resided the ruins of their week… hundreds of beer bottles, countless empty boxes of cigarettes, discarded Red Bull cans and bottles of Starbucks Double Shot Cappuccinos. There were over a dozen empty pizza boxes from three different delivery joints nearby and nine discarded Jack Daniel’s bottles… Not to mention the new cigarette butt succulent plant they had crafted. Maybe they didn’t do drugs, but these guys fucking partied.

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Birds-Eye View of our new planter

According to my calculations… and to the grocery store receipts I found in one of the random trash bags, these guys lived on beer, cigarettes, pizza, energy drinks and coffee for five days. That was it. There was NO sign anywhere that a single meal other than pizza had been consumed. There was, however, one ominous item listed on a grocery store receipt from Thursday: MAYONNAISE.

“What do you think they bought mayonnaise for?” I yelled to my wife across the house.

“Uggh, there are shaved pubes in the sink!” she responded.

As I went around the house opening every window to air it out, I could only imagine what kind of debauchery these Euro-bros got into in our house. Was there any freaky sex? Any late night drug use? Did they jack-off in every room? After finding a piece of pizza jammed  in our pool filter, my wife panicked, called our cleaning lady and told her she would have to work a double shift the next day. After finding an empty carton of cigarettes that said “Smoking Kills” on the floor of my daughter’s room, we decided to sleep on the floor in the one room where we do not allow renters to use rather than in our own beds.

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My daughter’s room. Morning.

The next morning, the Axe Body Spray scent was still lingering. We had taken out the trash and emptied the fridge, but our cleaning lady had the hardest job. When she was done for the day, she mentioned that these five guys had managed to use 32 bath towels during their five day stay. 32 fucking towels. When I was 25-years-old, I owned ONE bath towel that I washed like every six weeks! Who the fuck did these guys think they were?

I decided that a quick internet search on these guys might alleviate my concerns. The kid who had booked the place and had been responsible for the payment was listed as simply a “coach” in Munich. Not sure what kind… Soccer coach? Life coach? Sober coach? (Doubtful). Whatever the case, I checked out his Twitter account and he had recently tweeted about his upcoming trip to the United States. It read as follows:

Me and the boys are going to Hollywood to parteeeey with movie stars! Then VEGAS BABY VEGAS! What happens in Vegas STAYS in VEGAS!!!

After realizing that this guy was still quoting Vince Vaughn from Swingers, a 20-year-old film, I felt a small bond with him. He had probably tried to find a decent place in LA to rent, but was met with rejection after rejection by worried homeowners like myself. He was 25 and just looking to party with movie stars and now he was apparently in Las Vegas, most likely contracting that new un-treatable strain of gonorrhea I keep seeing on billboards all over town.

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Drug-Resistant Gonorrhea is here!

After a few days, the house felt like home again and my son and daughter fell into their summer routines of Fortnite, swimming and staying up until 11. I thought of this strange world we were subjecting them to… After all, not many kids are forced to leave their houses for Air BNB renters every few weeks. Still, maybe the constant travel and new experiences will teach them more about the world and someday they’ll thank us for forcing them into the car for 8-hour road trips to Arizona… Maybe someday my son and his good friends will go desecrate a family’s house in Germany with their own beer bottles, cigarettes and sink pubes. If anything, these are experiences that not every kid gets to have.

I put my kids to bed and brushed my teeth. My wife and I agreed to watch a new Netflix show and I drank some water. Happy to be back in my bed, I finally felt relaxed for the first time in a week…

And then I found a used condom in the drawer of my bedside table…

ZACH SELWYN’S HOUSE IS CURRENTLY AVAILABLE ON AIR BNB… FOR RESPECTABLE FAMILIES ONLY.

Watch Zach interview BOB DYLAN!

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Might Bang Live! This Tuesday 6/5 at Hotel Cafe!

  • June 3, 2018
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Comedy · Hero · Homepage · Missi and Zach Might Bang! · Podcasts

Missi Pyle and Zach Selwyn are back at it this week performing live from the legendary Hotel Cafe – 1623 Cahuenga Blvd. in Los Angeles – special guests from Missi’s new YouTube Red show! $10 at door

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Surviving a Cruise Ship with no Booze, no Internet and a Two-Star Restaurant…

  • May 17, 2018
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Comedy · Hero · Homepage · Short Story · The Writer

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48 hours into a nine-day cruise on the Baltic Sea, I successfully traded a first season DVD of the TV show SMILF for a bottle of French wine.

Confused?

About two weeks ago, my friend Dan asked me to help punch up some scripts for a new live music/theatrical show he was producing on the Lightdream Cruise Line – a ship that is the size of some small cities – with 4000 passengers aboard and over 1200 staff members… Always one for an adventure, I took the gig, fondly recalling the last time I was on a cruise back in high school… I bathed in crystal blue waters, ate unlimited five star food, seduced beautiful women and sipped tropical cocktails by the pool… I was hoping this would be the same thing.

Ehhh, not so much.

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Following a 17-hour travel day, Dan, the show’s producer Mark and I boarded the ship in Brest, France. Following our long trip, I was craving a glass of red wine and some Netflix. We met our cruise liasion, Sarah, and she gave us the lay of the land…

“So where’s like, the best bar on the ship?” I asked.

“Oh honey, there’s no alcohol until we reach Copenhagen in four days,” she said.

“Excuse me?” I replied.

“Yep. And all the restaurants are closed. Oh, and be aware that there’s no internet or facilities open now… This is called ‘Dry Dock.’”

“And where can I jump overboard?”

As I contemplated learning how to make “toilet merlot” in my cabin, I got the rundown on what exactly “Dry-Dock” is.

“Dry-Dock” is when the ship is being refurbished, rebuilt and cleaned. For weeks, it is in a state of disrepair and thousands of contractors from over 50 countries tear up carpets, put up stages and gather for their three meals a day in the makeshift dining room. People are monitored, allowed 45 minute meal windows, told to avoid sexual contact, can be kicked off board if they have weapons or contraband and nobody is allowed off the ship once they are on…

Sound familiar? Yeah, that’s because it sounds exactly like prison.

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The view during ‘Dry Dock.’

If I was going to write a Yelp review about the makeshift dining room where we were forced to eat, I would describe it as “Just a cut below Cracker Barrel…with all the ambience of a shopping mall Red Robin.”

Still, it was our only option and Dan, Mark and I became  our own little prison gang, talking under our breaths about Broadway shows and musical theater as massive Scottish, Irish and Croatian guys cursed in their own languages, swallowed gallons of coffee and made us feel like we had to kick one of their asses to establish our dominance in the jail yard…

“I guarantee you we’re the only guys in this dining room right now discussing The Greatest Showman,” Mark said.

The food was constantly recycled and turned into a “new dish” the following day. For instance, the leftover “Breaded Chicken and Peppers” from the night before suddenly showed up again the next morning in the “Breaded Chicken Veggie Scramble.” At one point, I counted four meals in a row featuring a fish called branzino.

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Enjoying my 5th Branzino dish of the week…

 

 

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Common Mistake

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One day in the slop line, I chatted up one particularly nice Irish pipe-fitter named Lochlin as we were served what was being passed off as “Lamb Stew.”

“Hey man – where’s the booze on this ship?” I whispered. “Somebody’s gotta have something?”

“Booze? You gotta cohme to Deck One,” he replied in a thick brogue. “We smahggled in everything… booze, dihrty mags, DVD’s.”

And just like that, my trip was saved.

“Wait – why do you have DVDs?” I inquired.

“Shite – with no intehrnet – DVD’s are our only fohrm of entertainment. They’re in high demahnd… Unless you have a thumb drive with pornahgraphy on it – that’s what everybady wants.”

He wasn’t lying. As it turns out, thumb drives with porn on them were traded among the contractors like cigarettes at Riker’s Island. If I could only download my weekly browsing history on Redtube.com, I’d be a very rich man.

“So how much are DVD’s worth?” I asked.

“Depends,” he said. “I just traded seahson one of Stranger Things for four pahcks of smokes… it was fookin’ brahlliant.”

It was then that I remembered I had a few DVD’s with me in my backpack. With any luck, I’d have something valuable on me… I also had a thumb drive that, if I recalled correctly, had Toy Story 3 on it from a family trip a few years back. I ran to my cabin to assess my stash.

In my bag, I had brought DVD’s of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (Why I had this I have no idea.) Major League and Major League 2 (Research for a baseball comedy I was writing) and the first season DVD screener of the Showtime TV show SMILF – about a single mom who dates the wrong guys in Boston. It didn’t look very good, but the actress was hot. (I was sent the screener by the Emmy nominating committee, fyi).

I then checked my thumb drive, for Toy Story 3. It was gone. The only thing on it was my latest acting “demo reel.”

That night, Dan and I went downstairs to Deck One to see if we could get our hands on anything… a sip of wine, a beer… something to take away the endless jet lag and long nights of rehearsal.

Lochlin vouched for us – and the DVD’s were thrown on a table. About nine guys came and glanced at them, seeing if any of these films seemed appealing. Sadly, nobody was interested in Benjamin Button or the Major League movies.

“The Benjamin Button movie is too sad and we all fookin hate bahseball,” Lochlin informed me.

SMILF however, had some people intrigued. They wanted to know if the girl got naked, had any sex scenes, if it was funny, etc. I told them I wasn’t sure because I hadn’t watched it yet, but a small bidding war began.

 

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My SMILF DVD’s started a crew-wide bidding war

One guy offered up a German porn magazine and two Heinekens. A Croatian guy said he had two packs of cigarettes and homemade Rakia – some type of homemade alcohol. Finally, Lochlin offered me a bottle of Bordeaux he had paid a Phillipino busboy 5 euros to smuggle on.

Lochlin took me to the bowels of the ship. These were the DiCaprio cabins from Titanic and the party going on down there was exactly what you think it would be. A guy was DJ-ing off a laptop, people were dancing and drinking… and there was even a guy giving makeshift haircuts using what I would refer to as my “pube clippers.”

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10 Euros got you a trim.

In Lochlin’s room, he showed me how he and four other guys slept in the same room and shared a “Shoilet” – which is a combination of a shower and a toilet. I looked in the bathroom and nearly had a panic attack. These guys were living like pirates in the 1700’s but without barrels of rum, wenches and chests of gold.

He also told me the ship’s morgue was only two doors down the hall.

“The morgue?” I cringed. “For what?”

“About ten fuckers a year die on this ship,” he said. “Someone will prahbably die before we set sail tomorrow.”

Jesus Christ.

I urgently prodded Lochlin to produce the wine and I swiftly stuck it in my bag. I also noticed a couple of other bottles in his room as well. With two more days until Copenhagen, I offered up my thumb drive for another one.

“OK, look my friend – I’m actually an actor – on this drive is a three minute demo reel of a bunch of TV shows and movies I’ve been in… it aint much, but maybe worth at least a glass of wine?”

“Hmmm, “he said, actually contemplating the trade. “What mowvies have you been in?”

“Uhmm… A couple Disney shows, a Jim Gaffigan movie … I dunno – nothing you’ve probably ever seen…”

“Fuck that, Ill just take SMILF.”

I handed it over to him, and with that, I had my hands on a mediocre bottle of French Bordeaux.

Dan, Mark and I savored every pour of that wine that evening. As we giddily went off to bed, hoping to finally have a decent night’s sleep, we passed three contractors casually walking from the top deck somehow holding six beers in their hands.

“Woah, what the fuck?” Dan said. “Where’d you guys get that?”

“At the contractor bar upstairs,” the guy said.

What? A contractor bar? We ran up and caught the last five minutes of a ship regulated “pop-up bar” for the workers. It had been here the whole time and nobody had told us. As it turns out, all of the ship contractors were allowed to come to this bar for a two hour drink window… It was like when the caddies are allowed an hour in the swimming pool in Caddyshack.

Beers were $1.00 and a mini bottle of wine was $1.75. Mark bought the entire bar a round for $14.50.

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$1.75 for a Mini Bottle of merlot? HELL YEAH.

The following night we were back up with the contractors, who were amazed that a couple of Americans had actually gone down to Deck One and made a wine deal with a Irish guy. One guy from Warsaw informed me that I had been ripped off. He would have given me three bottles of wine for SMILF.

We finally sailed towards Copenhagen and I was reminded of how beautiful the world can be outside of Los Angeles. The contractors left and the passengers got onboard and the drinks flowed and a lot of overweight older couples explored the ship and bought things that nobody in their right mind should ever buy.

At an onboard art auction, I watched two 75-year-old women violently bid on a 72 x 36 painting of a unicorn walking through Times Square… The lucky winner paid $2875 dollars for it.

Meanwhile, the cruise sailed on. We helped establish the flow and structure of the show. After a few days, you start to learn a lot from cruise employees. Most of them are on board for nine months at a time, and many of them are running from some dark, hidden past. It’s almost like the porn industry mixed with hotel management… Which often leads to bad decisions.

Sarah explained it further.

“Everybody sleeps together at first,” she said. “But then you realize you’re gonna have to see them every day for nine months. One night you have sex, the next day you’re fighting over the last box of Frosted Flakes in the buffet.”

“So I’m guessing you’ve stopped sailing your boat in company waters?” I joked.

“No way,” she said. “I banged a sushi chef last year.”

Another thing about cruise employees is that they are obviously extremely removed from current pop culture. At one point, Sarah told me that her favorite film of the past five years was “That amazing Ben Affleck move The Accountant.”

“You have to get off this ship,” I said.

The final night of the cruise and our show was up and running. I had befriended a bunch of new people and watched the show come together. One of the stage directors actually told me that I’d make a great cruise employee as I enjoyed talking to everybody and having a good time.

“I’m flattered, man – but I gotta get back to my family,” I said.

“Oh, you’re one of them…” he said with a sense of disappointment.

I had just been “Family Shamed” by a cruise ship employee.

He apologized for the way he reacted and just said he didn’t know a lot of people who were married with children. I told him not to worry about it and we wrapped up the show for the night.

He then excused himself and went to the shoilet…

MIGHT BANG IS COMING BACK! DOWNLOAD THE NICOLE SULLIVAN LIVE BONUS EPISODE BELOW!

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https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/missi-and-zach-might-bang/id1217686743?mt=2&i=1000411754247

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Fist Fights, Norovirus and Alcohol Poisoning: My 36 Hours at the Great Wolf Lodge

  • April 7, 2018
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Comedy · Hero · Homepage · Short Story · The Writer · Uncategorized

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I had been at the Great Wolf Lodge for roughly an hour when a drunk and angry ex-firefighter threatened to kick my ass at the indoor water park. He was pissed off at me for disrespecting the “sanctity” of the Great Wolf Lodge… I am 100 percent serious. Let me start at the beginning…

Spring Break. These are two of the most beautiful words in the English language… if you are a child. To parents, these words concur up feeling of hopelessness, anguish and despair. And for some reason? Today’s elementary school kids get two whole weeks off for “Spring Break…” TWO WEEKS! When I was a kid we got TWO DAYS. In college we only got a week. And as far as I recall, it wasn’t even a thing in high school.

But sure… the rigorous schedule of counting, handwriting and connect the dots can be so gruesome and torturous for a second grader – that a two-week vacation at the end of March is exactly what the school nurse ordered… So, if you’re like me, you suddenly begin scrambling to find activities for your kids to do during this gratuitous vacation. So, you make plans…

You drop $75.00 to go see shitty movies like Sherlock Gnomes.

You gain 12 pounds by not being able to go to the gym on your regular schedule. And, in some extreme cases, you agree to take your kids to the GREAT WOLF LODGE for two days…

Which is exactly where I found myself last week, riddled with anxiety as I nibbled on a chicken finger ten feet from a wave pool full of screaming children. Praying for death.

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Welcome to the 10th Circle of hell.

If you have never heard of a Great Wolf Lodge, let me put it this way… Consider yourself lucky. With 13 locations across the country, the kid-friendly indoor water park is to people like me the end of the fucking world. Known for its indoor water park and “wolf-themed” decor, the franchise has drawn families from far and wide to spend their entire monthly paychecks on shitty food, arcade games and the guarantee that you will contract the Norovirus within three spins in the “Lazy River.”

I mumbled something under my breath as I loaded the car, preparing to journey down to the hotel with my wife, our second grade girl and my very unenthusiastic pre-teen who was pissed because he was missing roughly 48 hours of the video game Fortnite.

The drive down was actually somewhat exciting. I was anticipating the water park summer days of my youth, when I met a cute girl in line at the snack bar, chatted up an 8th grade crush and passed a Sony Walkman around with my buddies listening to Straight Outta Compton. Those days were nothing but innocent and fun… and I was hoping my kids might make some amazing memories of their own…

When we arrived, however, my entire demeanor changed. After looking for a space in the self-parking garage for 30 minutes, I was met with the sudden reality that there were a lot of people here during Spring Break. I mean, a lot of people. Like, thousands. And all of them had kids. Small, sweaty, stinky, gross, fat, weird, uninhibited kids…

My first moment of clarity happened when I was presented with a pair of felt “wolf ears” as I entered the lobby.

“HOWL you doing today!?” A bubbly 20-something dude named Bryan asked.

“PAW-SOME!!!” I responded sarcastically.

“Woah! Someone’s got the Great Wolf spirit!” He screamed. “AWWOOOOOOOO!”

I looked around at the hundred of fathers traipsing through the lobby wearing these ridiculous wolf ears… The looks on their faces all read the same: FAILURE.

There is a certain look a man knows when he runs into another man at a place like the Great Wolf Lodge. It is a look of defeat. Of mediocrity. Of deficiency. Like we all expected to be the dads who take our kids in Hawaii or something, but ended up at the Great Wolf Lodge in Anaheim. I recognized this look on every man’s face I encountered.

We checked in and got to our suite, which we were sharing with another family we knew from from LA. Everyone changed into bathing suits to go hit the indoor water park. A small part of me was hoping it would be a fun day, and after all, as long as they had a jacuzzi I figured I could kill a few hours relaxing and hanging out with strangers.

There was no jacuzzi.

And the water park was massive. And loud. And it smelled like feet.

“Daddy! Come in the lazy river with me!” My daughter squealed.

I took a deep breath and stood up. I took off my shirt and walked over towards the lazy river. The first thing I noticed about the water park was that somehow, I had THE BEST BODY THERE.

In my 42 years, I have never been the “ripped” guy at the pool. Ever. Even when I was 18 I had the beginnings of a dad bod and now, at my age, I had been keeping trim and eating well to the point where at the Great Wolf Lodge in Anaheim, California, I was a SWIMSUIT MODEL. Seriously. I was 30 pounds lighter than the average man. My wife, who has always been in terrific shape looked like Hannah Jeter posing for Sports Illustrated. We were “Anaheim 10’s…” and pretty proud of it.

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This was the best body at the water park.

As I strutted around my new Adonis-like physique, I watched as my daughter slowly dipped into the lazy river among what seemed like hundreds of other kids. I put my leg in, noticed it was much colder than I had anticipated, and began walking around the river behind her.

And then some kid’s fleshy leg rubbed up against mine under the water. I froze. It was like in Star Wars when that Dianoga Monster rubs up against Luke in the trash compactor. A gross little bare human leg rubbing against my inner calf. I stopped to gather myself. I felt like a part of the #metoo movement. I was rattled… And then another kid wrapped himself around my chest for support as he floated by… I shuttered. Looking around, I suddenly became keenly aware of little yellow swirls of urine accumulating in certain areas. I also counted three loose Band-Aids and numerous clumps of hair floating in the water. A few more kids hit me with inner tubes as they raced by and finally, when a little girl wiped her snot off of her face and tossed it into the water beside me, my afternoon at the water park was OVER.

“Baby, I’m getting out,” I yelled as she floated down the river.

Her frown broke my heart, but the place was already too much for me. I was done. I had been at the Great Wolf Lodge for less than an hour.

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The lazy river… Grabby kids, urine and hair clumps.

After drying off, I noticed the small line of men waiting for beer. I grabbed my “Wolf Band” which had my credit card and room number on it, and bought my first beer of the day. It was 3:30, but if I was going to get through this place, a buzz was certainly needed. Looking around, I noticed that day-drinking was certainly the norm here, like the way it is in airports when people order beers at 7:00 in the morning and nobody thinks twice about it.

After paying, I turned around, noticing three men behind me waiting for drinks. Two of them had “Lakeland County Fire Department” shirts on. The other was shirtless, proudly showing off a fading Tazmanian Devil tattoo from the early 90’s… I toasted the guys with my beer.

“Gentlemen,” I said. “What happened to us? We were all once virile men… with dreams, passions, desires… goals. NOW? We’re on vacation at the fucking Great Wolf Lodge. What the fuck, am I right!!?”

Suddenly, the shirtless man took a threatening step my way and got directly in my face.

“Are you disrespecting the LODGE, bro?” He asked in an accusatory way.

I wasn’t sure if he was serious. I laughed.

“Sounds like you are,” he continued aggressively, the vapor of liquor prominent on his breath. I felt scared. I backpedaled.

“No, man.. I was just, you know – joking-“

I was taken aback. If I said the wrong thing here, there is no doubt in my mind that this guy would start throwing punches. And whereas a pool fight might be the perfect excuse to get banned from the Great Wolf Lodge forever, I decided to lay off. Meanwhile, his friends tried to calm him down.

“Don’t get into another fight, Jim,” his friend told him.

Another fight? Holy shit… this guy Jim was out here kicking dad’s asses all day.

“No, man, I was just joking around, you know…” I mumbled.

“No, I don’t know, bro,” he said. “I’m a retired firefighter… I don’t back down from shit.”

And then, suddenly, there was an extremely loud wolf howl coming from the wave pool – This was the signal to swimmers that a fresh set of waves was about to begin… 200 kids screamed in delight as the call of the wolf echoed through the waterpark.

AWOOOOOOO! AWOOOOOOO!

“Ohhhh shit, what’s that?” I asked the guys.

“That means the waves are starting up…” Jim said. “That’s the call of the Lodge, bro… you better embrace your inner wolf… because like it or not? You made the decision to come here.”

He was right. I could make the most of this experience and embrace my inner wolf… or make myself suffer.

“Hey man, I’m sorry – it’s my first time here… I was just making a bad joke…”

 

Jim calmed down. His whole demeanor changed and he became aware that he was not in the octagon, but was at the Great Wolf Lodge. If he had wanted to kick my ass, he would have… but my honesty seemed to have chilled him out.

“Screw it,” he said. “Sorry to get up in your face, bro… come on, I’ll buy you a beer.”

Jim and his pals bought me another beer and I returned back to our deck chairs and told the story to my wife and her friend. They weren’t interested. They were concerned about something much more important.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

Apparently, another mom had just told my wife that Pink Eye was going around the lodge that weekend… The woman’s two kids had been infected on the water slide and her husband was in the hotel room with his eyes swollen shut.

“Welp, I’m fucking out of here,” I said.

I took my beer upstairs and went to the bar to watch a baseball game. As I walked back through the water park, I began observing a few things.

I never realized how many adults have tattoos of their children’s baby footprints.

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I saw 35 of these tattoos.

I had no idea that BIG DOGS Clothing was still a thing. There were also a lot of “Exercise…Eggsercise…Eggs are sides… Eggs are sides for Bacon” t-shirts and ‘water pun’ shirts. Like a picture of a snail holding up a seashell to his face beneath the words “SHELL-FIE!”

 

Finally, the majority of these adults seemed fine eating garbage for breakfast, lunch and dinner. One dad in line at the snack bar even highly recommended the pork nachos.

I thought we were in Anaheim. Somehow we ended up in Wisconsin.

Upstairs, I found a few other dads watching the Dodgers game. I made some new friends – including a pest control guy from Alhambra and a Target general manager from Riverside. We drank a few beers and talked baseball. As a way to make my new pals laugh, I recognized Bryan, the same guy who had checked me in earlier, eating on his lunch break. I approached him.

“Hey Bryan, quick question… do they have a Great Wolf Glory Hole up in this piece?”

The bar got silent. My new pals hid their laughter. Bryan did not seem amused. Within 30 seconds the bar manager tapped me on the shoulder.

“Just a reminder, sir…” He warned. “This is the Great Wolf Lodge… not the Great Wolf of Wall Street Lodge.”

My afternoon concluded in the arcade, where the kids have given up on video games requiring any sort of skill in favor of games where you spin a wheel,… and win tickets. It’s not even a challenge. It’s just a prize wheel. When I arrived, I found my daughter hoarding what looked like 15,000 prize tickets.

“I’m saving up for the stuffed wolf!” She said. I saw the wolf on the wall. At any CVS store across the country, this dumb little stuffed animal would cost $3.99. My wife told me they had already spent $60.00 trying to win it. I went back to the bar.

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These tickets cost us roughly $60.00

That night, after ordering pizza to our room, my wife and I shared some wine as the kids fell asleep. At that moment, we heard a rustling in the hallway. Peeking outside, I noticed two security guards dragging a very drunk man from his room.

“How long has he been drinking today?” They asked his wife, who looked terrified.

“Since brunch, I think,” she said.

“We’ll take him to the first aid area and get him some fluids… We’ll check back in 30 minutes.”

I asked the lady what had happened.

“It’s just my dumb husband… every time we come to this place he gets blackout drunk.”

“That makes two of us,” I said, raising my wine glass.

She shut her door on me.

The next day we were set to check out. I was excited to get home and back outside – as we had been indoors for roughly 18 hours straight. The Great Wolf Lodge is like fucking Vegas in that way. You have no reason to ever leave the place… I started packing and preparing to head back to LA.

“Wanna meet us at the pool?” My wife said.

“We’re not leaving?” I said.

“I figured the kids would want another day at the pool,” she said. “I mean we paid for it.”

And just like that, we did a second day at the water park. At this point I officially gave up. I began day-drinking at 11:00. I howled every time that dumb wolf noise started in the wave pool. I contemplated buying a Great Wolf Lodge t-shirt in the gift shop that was on sale from Halloween (Or as they put it… HOWL-ween…)

Deep down I knew that finally, I had reluctantly embraced my inner wolf.

I looked around the pool again. I was a little bloated from the first day and slightly hungover. I was no longer had the best body there. I was one day into my “Midwest” period.

I went over to our deck chairs and ordered the pork nachos…

 

WATCH ZACH’S NEW SERIES “ONE MINUTE MUSIC MINUTE” at OLE TV! @oletvofficial

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The Story of My Hippie Nanny Who Used to Hide Weed for Me Around the House

  • February 18, 2018
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Comedy · Hero · Homepage · Short Story · The Writer · Uncategorized

By Zach Selwyn

My wife and I once hired a hippie nanny named Sioux who hid little bags of weed for me around our house. I remember the day we interviewed her – she was about 19, naturally slender with long blonde hair and she was wearing a skirt that looked like it was stitched out of the AIDS quilt… She had on Birkenstocks. She smelled like lavender. She was gorgeous. My first thought was, “I would have totally dated this girl back in college.”

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I would have totally dated this girl back in college.

When you’ve been married as long as my wife and I have, the best way to say you think somebody is attractive is to say that you would have dated ‘back in college.’
Of course, I told my wife this very fact.
“Well keep your hippie dick in your jorts,” she responded.

I laughed. I love my wife. Meanwhile, after a few conversations, I was sold on Sioux to become our nanny for our then five and two-year-old kids… but my wife wasn’t so into it.

“I don’t know – she seems flighty,” she remarked.

“Cmon, what’s the worst that can happen?” I asked. “She gets high and eats all of our ice cream?”

My wife agreed, mainly because we had a wedding that Saturday night and our other go-to nannies were already busy.

“If she fucks up, that’s on you,” she said.

She didn’t fuck up. At least that first night. In fact, when we came back from the wedding a little buzzed from the wine, we stayed up late with her and talked about the kids, how hard it was to meet guys in Los Angeles and eventually, she secretly told me that she hid a tiny bag of weed for me underneath the sage candle she had lit to ward off bad spirits on the coffee table. As she left, I thanked her and imagined that if she was my age in 1995, we would have been one of those hippie power couples that I was always jealous of at Phish concerts.

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My 1995 hippie dream.

The second time Sioux babysat, I casually came downstairs wearing my old Grateful Dead 1992 Spring Tour shirt. She went ape shit. Told me it was the coolest thing she’d ever seen. I immediately felt like Phil from Modern Family, pretending that I didn’t even know I had the shirt on… even though I had been calculating the move since the week before. From the corner of my eye I saw my wife shaking her head while watching my pathetic attempt to connect with Sioux over a t-shirt.

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“Nice shirt, babe,” she said.

“I guess I’ll go get ready,” I added before running upstairs to change.

When I came back downstairs, Sioux had prepared some food for the kids (all macrobiotic) and smiled one of those young hippie smiles at me – as if we were college sophomores peaking during a Run Like an Antelope solo. My wife smiled at me. I smiled at my wife. She smiled at Sioux. I kissed my kids. Sioux leaned in and hugged Wendy. They separated. The kids ate. My wife watched me as I leaned in and hugged Sioux. As I did, I stupidly whispered a single word into her ear…

“Candle?”

Sioux smiled. My wife looked confused. I brought myself out of this fantasy hippie love triangle and said, “OK, bath at 7:15 and bed by eight.”

My wife and I walked outside to catch our Lyft.

In our ride to the birthday party that night, my wife cleared her throat and calmly asked me exactly what “candle” meant.

I told her.

“Last time she babysat, Sioux left me a part of a joint underneath the candle on the coffee table and I smoked it.”

“Oh great, so she’s high around our kids?”

“Well, I mean… so what? Sometimes I’m high around our kids.”

“This is her last night babysitting,” my wife said.

I could understand her frustration. It wasn’t because Sioux was this macrame Goddess with rings on her fingers and bells on her shoes… but face it – if your nanny was sneaking joints around your two-year-old daughter, you might think about getting rid of her too.

Still, I argued that we had nothing to worry about and that by the time we returned home, we would be thrilled to find our kids in bed and that maybe we could even split the little bag of weed I was expecting to find underneath the sage candle on our coffee table.

Until we got back around 11:45 p.m.

As it turns out, Sioux had started a bath for the kids upstairs… and forgot that she began running it. She turned on the water and then came downstairs to get the kids and somehow got distracted… By what, nobody knows – food? A text? A documentary on YouTube about the benefits of Dr. Bragg’s Apple Cider Vinegar? Whatever the case, she suddenly remembered that the bath was on just as drops of water began seeping through our living room ceiling and landing on the floor. The puddle stain on the roof was large and substantial and we knew we were looking at some serious water damage and mold repair.

Sioux was in shambles.

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Our ceiling

As she tried to explain how she forgot to turn off the water, we examined the damage and quickly lost the hippie buzz we had all generated earlier. I informed Sioux that we would pay her for her time, but that we fully expected her to be responsible for the damages once we had the roof inspected. She agreed and left, her head hung low, embarrassed and ashamed.

“OK, so she was probably high and forgot about the bath,” I said.

“Ya think?”

Stupidly, I checked beneath the candle for some weed.

There was nothing.

The damage came to over 1000 dollars. Sioux was broke and we felt bad charging her, so she offered to babysit for free until she could pay us back. Amazingly in Los Angeles, that’s only like, five nights of work…

However, my wife and I chose to not use her again.

The last I saw on Facebook she was living in Oregon with a Spanish guy named Pau.

Lucky bastard… He was living my hippie dream…

 

Preview an upcoming song from Zach’s new album!

 

 

 

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Help Zach’s Band Make Their New EP!

  • January 9, 2018
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Homepage · Music · Uncategorized · Zachariah & The Lobos Riders

MY FRIENDS! These are dark times – With some good fortune, and your help – our band the Lobos Riders is going to make a new record in 2018! Plz take a moment to look at our Kickstarter and hopefully you’ll want to be a part of our next musical adventure!!! XOXOX Thank u all… https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/630519535/the-new-zachariah-and-the-lobos-riders-record

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Coming to Terms with a Vintage Clothing Addiction: An Essay.

  • December 21, 2017
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Homepage · Short Story · The Writer · Uncategorized

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For most of my adult life, I have been a lover of thrift stores. I would go into any Goodwill, Savers or church-owned thrift shop and pillage the racks for hours until I found the perfect used t-shirt to compliment my 1972 patchwork denim jeans. I loved putting together some phenomenal 1960’s-inspired rocker outfit complete with old cowboy boots and a stranger’s snap cowboy shirt layered under a suede jacket with half the inside liner missing… For decades, I dressed like a member of the Southern Harmony-era Black Crowes who had stumbled across Waylon Jennings’ closet….

My mom always wondered how I could walk into a Goodwill store in say, Seattle and decide that a used flannel with a hole in the elbow and a cigarette burn on the collar met my criteria as a “miracle find.”

“I’ll throw it in the wash and it’ll be perfect,” I would say.

“You’re absolutely disgusting,” my mom would answer.

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Eagles 1972. How I’ve dressed since 1994.

For years, my mom would send me clothes from designer stores, trying her hardest to get me to wear a nice shirt, a tie or even (gasp) a sports jacket… I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I loved wearing stranger’s clothing… I relished the compliments the fashion forward men of my generation paid me when they admired a rare orange-tag denim shirt that came straight off the set of Urban Cowboy… I was a thrift store loving vintage picker… and my closet was full of the finest 70’s and 80’s shirts, caps, henleys, jackets and jeans any man could ever want.

My thrift store beliefs have even trickled down into my children’s lives – as I have tried to convince them that the Star Wars lunchbox I found in the thrift store toy aisle is just as good as the one they sell for $21.99 at Target… In retrospect, that was probably not the best decision.

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“Hey kids, find a lunchbox and lets go!”

Recently, however, I have been examining people around me a little bit closer than I have before. And you know I have come to realize?

In general, people are pretty disgusting.

Filthy.

Unshowered.

Unkempt.

Smoking cigarettes.

Looking like they slept on a couch the night before.

Wiping snot onto the legs of their jeans.

Pony-tailing their greasy hair.

Rubbing their heads into their baseball caps.

Wearing exercise clothes for hours after the gym.

Itching their asses.

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Chances are this guy once wore that cool shirt you want from Savers.

As I start my 40’s, I’ve suddenly started thinking that perhaps my mom was right… All of these thrift store clothes I own are suddenly looking pretty gross.

So, when I needed a jacket this winter, I decided to finally give up on shopping for dirty vintage. I headed down to an actual store that sells new items.

My first stop was the Levi’s Store where I immediately found the perfect flannel jacket with some sort of sheepskin lining. It had no weird stain on it… There were no cigarette burns or small rips or slightly discolored armpits… It fit like it was made for me. I walked around the store proudly. I got compliments from the cute sales girl. I stared at myself in the mirror… Damn. Did I look, dare I say, handsome?

After ten minutes, I even took a fucking selfie with it.

And then the cute sales girl told me it cost 375 dollars.

I got the fuck out of there and went to Goodwill…

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My typical outfit. Thrift store everything. Total cost: $12.00.

 

WATCH ZACH INTERVIEW BOB DYLAN!

 

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