Zach Selwyn

Actor. Musician. Host. Writer. Dinner Guest.

  • HACIENDA is streaming everywhere. Here is a music video for the song “When I Return (I Promise You)” – GO stream or download! (CDs coming soon!)

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  • By Zach Selwyn

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    It was somewhere between Los Angeles and Palm Springs when I found myself helping a woman re-apply bloody gauze to an open wound that had split open due to complications from liposuction in Tijuana.

    Moments later, another woman – with a razor blade tattoo on the side of her neck – smacked her 7-year-old son for spilling his Mountain Dew on her iPhone and screamed something at him in Spanish.

    Sometime after that, a man with an infant child walked out of the bathroom in the back and promptly dumped a full diaper in the trash bag hanging in the middle of the aisle.

    We still had seven and a half hours until we hit Tucson…

    Welcome to the Flixbus.

    For the past few months, my mom and a bunch of other friends have been raving about a new public transportation service known as “The Flixbus.” For a low price, you can travel on this large “comfortable bus” anywhere you like and select from a great list of pre-chosen movies – and use free WiFi the entire time. I looked it up and it seemed legit. And definitely affordable. A ticket to San Diego from Los Angeles cost $4.99. A ticket to Palm Springs? $6.99… To get to my hometown of Tucson, I was looking at $22.00. Since Southwest Air wanted nearly $400 for two one way plane tickets, I booked my 9-year-old daughter and I on a 12:30 Flixbus to Tucson leaving from downtown LA.

    Wanting to beat the crowd, my daughter and I took a Lyft down to the parking lot across from Union Station, right by LA’s famed “Twin Towers Correctional Facilities.” It’s an intimidating spot – heavily populated by at least five bail bond storefronts and street meat hot dog vendors. It’s hard not to take note of family members leaving the bail bond stores, openly weeping about their loved ones having spent the night in jail.

    “Are they crying because they have to take the Flixbus too, daddy?” My daughter asked.

    “Uhh, no. Whole different situation.”

    I promptly took notice of the waiting area and its potential to escalate into a violent “prison yard” type of situation. A woman was walking around selling homemade “street tamales” out of a plastic bag, three 12-year-olds were selling bottles of water and packs of cigarettes and two men with children were openly sharing a blunt in front of their kids. (As would happen, I ended up buying two street tamales and a bottled water, as I had not thought to pack any food for the journey.)

    I hadn’t even boarded the bus yet and I was $19 dollars in the hole.

    The line to board the bus was non-existent. as Everybody sort of milled about near an area until the ticket conductor shouted out, “Palm Springs, Phoenix and Tucson line up HERE.”

    The awaiting pack scrambled immediately. As people got tossed aside and trampled like they were rushing the stage of a Travis Scott show… Elbows were thrown. Space was cleared. Somehow, I managed to grab all of my luggage and scoop up my daughter before she was flattened to death. Sadly, even though we were the third people in the waiting area, we had been easily bullied to the back of the line by the violent mob, which was led by a 6’7” ex-linebacker wearing a baseball cap reading: K.U.S.H. Keeps Us Super High.

    My advice? Pay the extra $20 online and get a reserved seat.

    Once my daughter and I got on the bus, we noticed that any available seats together had been claimed. Eventually I was forced to convince a man who looked like he had recently been let out of a Texas prison to switch seats with me so that my daughter and I could sit together… He scoffed, kicked the side of the seat and mumbled something under his breath.

    “Thank you so much, sir,” I said.

    His response?

    “I run this bus, cocksucker.”

    Lovely.

    Eventually he moved and we accepted the fact that we were stuck in the last seat in the back of the bus… basically right next to the toilet. And then, minutes before we left, a rather large woman came back and destroyed the bathroom… I nearly vomited. My daughter asked to switch seats. The bus pulled out into traffic.

    Nine hours to Tucson.

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    Back of the bus…

    The first thing people tell you about the Flixbus is that you can watch unlimited movies and surf the web, email, text, whatever you like. As it turns out this is simply not true. After trying for nearly an hour to watch Euphoria on HBO GO, I was alerted repeatedly with notes that I was in a “non-connection zone” and that I was possibly traveling “out of the continental United States.” I switched over to Netflix and was met with much of the same. Incredibly long loading times, spotty streaming and the inability to watch anything. After looking up the Flixbus website, I came across some small type in the “Services” section that read, “Please do not stream Netflix, YouTube or HBO Go on the Flixbus as it slows down everybody’s WiFi speeds and will not load correctly.”

    Wow. That would have been nice to know. Oh, also? They DO NOT ALLOW MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS on the bus that are bigger than 12 inches… So unless you’re strictly a harmonica player, forget bringing your acoustic guitar anywhere. (Since I was going to play a gig in Tucson, I now had to rent a guitar from the local music shop).

    Anyway, reading deeper, they recommended that passengers watch their curated film selections on the Flixbus app, which were “expertly chosen” and free. I checked it out. The selections were the same as what you’d expect on an airplane: Wonder Park, A Madea Family Funeral and about 9 shitty Melissa McCarthy movies.

    Seven hours and 45 minutes to Tucson.

    As we rattled over the freeways on the outskirts of Los Angeles, weaving in and out of the carpool lane, I was convinced I was going to die on the Flixbus. My daughter was getting carsick from the bumps and sudden stops and I could not believe that I had chosen this as my best means of transportation to Tucson…

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    A recent Flixbus accident in Germany.

    The bus continued to shake from side to side, causing a middle-aged lady across the aisle from me to begin moaning. Like, painfully moaning. And grabbing her sides. Thinking that she may be in labor with a child, I looked over and noticed that she had a freshly dressed wound on the side of her mid-section. At one point, she screamed “Fucking FUCK, can you drive a little slower?”

    “Are you OK ma’am?” I asked her, hoping she hadn’t been shot in a bank robbery gone wrong and was using the Flixbus as an escape tool.

    “Uggh, yeah – I’m just recovering from plastic surgery,” she said.

    “On the Flixbus?” I responded.

    “Well, I live in Palm Springs,” she proceeded to tell me. “I went to Mexico for liposuction because it’s like, 75 percent cheaper down there.”

    “Oh my God,” I said. “Didn’t you go through some sort of like, recovery first?”

    “I’ll be fine once I get to Palm Springs.”

    We hit a bump and she made a noise that I have only heard once before in my life back when I witnessed a goat slaughter in a tiny village in Mexico in 2003.

    “Oh fuck,” she screamed. “One of my sutures popped – can you just hold your finger here for a second?.”

    Shielding my daughter from the horror of this situation, I regrettably leaned over and put pressure on an area of bloodied gauze that had come undone. Eventually, the woman fastened it back together with a clip and thanked me profusely. I excused myself to the bathroom and threw ice cold water on my face.

    Plastic Sugery ** COMPOSITE **
    Some of the better results from Dr. Machado’s Tijuana Surgery Clinic. Facelift? $44.99

    30 minutes later the ride was smoothing out. Looking out the window I saw the desert approach.

    “Folks we are stopping in North Palm Springs in eight minutes,” the driver announced. “We will have time to get refreshments and some air.”

    “Thank fucking God,” the bleeding woman said.

    We pulled into an AM/PM parking lot in Palm Springs and the lady limped off the bus and met her ride. She waved good-bye to me and sped off into the Palm Springs afternoon. For all I know she bled out on the way home and is dead.

    The good news was that 12 passengers got off the bus in Palm Springs. This freed up some seats and we moved a few aisles away from the bathroom. The miles began to roll away and I started to fantasize that I was Jon Voight in Midnight Cowboy taking the bus to a new dream, over expansive desert land and into the heart of opportunity. Of course, Jon Voight was heading to New York City in 1968 and I was going to Tucson to visit my mom, but the view sure was pretty.

    20 minutes later, I opened up one of my tamales-in-a-bag and gave it a shot. It smelled like some sort of fucking rotting animal. A few passengers looked over at me and covered their faces with blankets and scarves. Acting casual, I took a small bite and chewed for a few seconds before beginning to feel violently ill. I managed to spit the food into a bag and quickly wrapped it up, avoiding the grossed out looks of my fellow Flixbus friends. Luckily, that was exactly the moment when the newborn’s father emerged from the bathroom with the full diaper. He tossed it in the center trash bag and the entire bus groaned and began cursing him out.

    “What am I supposed to do?” The dad asked the gallery of hecklers.

    “Flush that shit,” the guy in the K.U.S.H. hat suggested.

    The driver came on the intercom and reminded everyone that nothing but toilet paper could go down the toilet. The passengers collectively groaned and went back to their devices. At this point, between the tamale and the diaper, the bus was turning toxic. If you lit a match in the thing, there was a strong chance the bus would explode.

    Six hours to Tucson.

    Our next stop was in Blythe, California, on the Arizona border. Here, we were given a 30 minute lunch period and the only restaurant around for miles was a McDonalds 25 feet away. Assuming this would be my last chance to eat before 9:30 that night, I broke down and ate six Chicken McNuggets and an Oreo McFlurry.

    I also called my mom to alert her of our progress.

    “How’s the Flixbus?” My mom asked. “Watching any good movies?”

    “Well, nothing really works,” I said. “Half the seats don’t have outlets, the WiFi in the desert sucks and they don’t allow streaming… and I refuse to watch Life of the Party. (That’s a terrible Melissa McCarthy movie BTW…)

    “What kind of food do they have?” She inquired.

    “They don’t have food,” I said.

    “What?” She said. “On their website it says you can purchase snacks and stuff from the driver?”

    What? Here I was nearly puking street tamales and eating Chicken McNuggets when the driver had food on him the entire time? Why were we not informed of this? I tracked down the driver as he smoked a cigarette and asked him if I could see a menu of the food they offered on board.

    “Their aint no menu, mane… We just have some Ruffles and shit.”

    Ruffles and shit?

    “Come on my man, you don’t have like a Tapas box? My daughter needs some Wiki Stix!”

    “This aint Alaska Airlines, mane,” he responded.

    Eventually, 100 miles from Phoenix, a college kid broke down and went into the bathroom to vape. He was far from discreet and as a man who once routinely snuck weed to smoke into airplane bathrooms, I viewed his efforts as amateurish. The key to smoking on a bus or airplane is to basically flush the toilet as you exhale with your face nearly in the bowl. Yeah, this is a disgusting activity, but for some reason back in the mid 90’s I had no problem shoving my head inside an airplane toilet. Now I can’t even USE bathrooms on moving vehicles. Anyway, the kid opened the door and a cloud of Watermelon E-Juice enveloped the back area. The kid walked out as if he had done nothing wrong.

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    Stick your head inside and flush as you exhale. Works every time.

    The smoke was impossible to miss and even though it dissipated quickly, it really upset the bus driver, who pulled over to the side of I-10 and DEMANDED to know who had smoked on the bus.

    My daughter raised her hand to volunteer the information.

    “Put your hand down,” I said, knowing that being labeled a “narc” at age 9 doesn’t do anybody any good.

    “Who was smoking back here?” The bus driver said. “I demand an answer!”

    I expected somebody to speak up… but nobody did. We all held together in a Flixbus code of silence. Shit, we felt like we were in La Cosa Nostra. For the first time on the ride I sensed a camaraderie with my fellow passengers. We all sort of looked at it the same way… If this was a bus in 1957, people would be smoking cigarettes and drinking whiskey from flasks. We all had the same thought… Let the kid vape.

    Four and a half hours to Tucson.

    The rest of the trip went fairly smoothly. I was amazed at how well behaved my daughter was and as the stops piled up, the passengers started getting off. A few people got on in Phoenix and we got to Tucson in roughly nine hours and 30 minutes. To put that in perspective, If you drive directly from LA in a car, you’re guaranteed to spend eight hours on the road and you have to buy gas. If you fly to Tucson from LAX, door to door takes about five hours and 30 minutes. So, I basically lost four hours of my life, had to endure some awful smells and I got to be an impromptu nurse to the woman recovering from plastic surgery.

    When we got to my mom’s house, she had food and wine waiting for me and I told her all the fun stories from my 400 mile road trip in a public bus. We laughed, drank and I slept in until 8:30 the next morning when I awoke to my mom freaking out about a dead animal in the walls.

    “Zach, some animal died in the wall I called the exterminator already,” she shrieked.

    I woke up and smelled what she was talking about. I opened my backpack and found the OTHER street tamale I had forgotten to throw out buried beneath my laptop.

    “Found it, mom,” I said.

    She made me throw it out in the neighbor’s trash can…

    WATCH Zach’s music video for his song “Watch the Horses”…

    essay fiction flixbus humor writing hunter s. thompson jack Kerouac Los Angeles road stories Sedaris short story tijuana plastic surgery Zach Selwyn
  • 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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    Anna Faris Comedy Hollywood hotel cafe Missi Pyle podcast unqalified
  • 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.

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    “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
  • *Warning – the following story contains sexually graphic and disgusting situations

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    My wife recently bought a $300 vibrator. It’s called a stingray. It pulsates. It’s waterproof. And it does everything but make sandwiches. My wife swears by it and they have a special relationship that extends beyond the bedroom. This throbbing beast has been brought up consistently at dinner conversations since she purchased it… I believe she even told her mother about it, as if she was introducing her to her new boyfriend.

    Women have been celebrating the vibrator for hundreds of years… It’s universally acceptable and widely acknowledged that most sexually healthy females have some sort of throbbing stunt penis hiding beneath a pile of T-shirts in their dresser drawers.

    However, if I came home one day with a $300 sex toy, it would be considered taboo. Men who do this sort of stuff have long been labeled as perverts and sexual deviants. And, men don’t really discuss masturbation details over wine and pasta at a group dinner.

    But why?

    Maybe men and sex toys do not go together because most men are seemingly easier to please. After all, all we need is a magazine, a free hand and some “me time.”

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    The famous Australian man caught “beating it” at work in 2013

    I have never used a sex toy on myself. I am not saying that I haven’t been intrigued by the molds of “Jenna Haze’s Pussy and Asshole” that I have seen for sale at an adult store, but shelling out hundreds of dollars for a rubber vagina has never been high on my priority list. Plus.” Real Dolls” are like, five grand. Plus, in humble my opinion, nothing could really beat the time-honored tradition of good old fashioned jerking-off.

    But then someone sent me a free “Fleshlight.”

    Holy shit.

    I had heard about the Fleshlight forever. It was an early podcast sponsor and was the rage of the Adult Video Awards when I covered them for a TV show back in 2007. But still, I had never tried one, and I wasn’t exactly running out to make a purchase without knowing that it would be worth it… Then again, it’s not exactly the type of thing you borrow from a buddy…

    Opening the box, I was amazed to find that there are like, 25 different types of Fleshlight models ranging from any body orafice to Jenna Haze to an actual weird blue ALIEN vagina that I assume is supposed to make you feel like you are fucking Neytiri, Zoe Saldana’s character from Avatar…

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    You can choose the between Jenna Haze model…

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    And the strange blue “Alien” option…

    You are able to choose from a bevy of porn star clitoral replicas and adjust the suction level by twisting the back of the casing. It came with lube (necessary to simulate female wetness) and a cleaning cloth. It also had extensive directions about how to “wash your sleeve of remaining fluids” once you were done with it. This was a no-nonsense operation.

    I settled in one day after work before my wife and kids had come home from baseball practice. I opened up my Fleshlight and examined it. This particular model was not a signature porn star version, it was a “Stamina Training Unit” – meaning it was supposed to help you train to maintain an erection longer should you ever have a real life sexual encounter… This was the “elliptical” of Fleshlights.

    My first touch of the thing was unsettling. I felt weird. Deviant. I was fondling with an artificial body part. You know those weird people you see on TV who dig up corpses and have sex with them? For a second I wondered if I had stooped to their level.

    Until I inserted myself.

    It had been 15 years since I had felt any sexual pleasure with anyone other than my wife. I’m not sure how, but I suddenly became engorged and remained rock hard for the next seven minutes of thrusting, adjusting my technique, rhythm and stroke to this Fleshlight as if I was trying to give it an orgasm. Throughout this blissful and pure rubber sexual adventure, I felt as giddy as a 15-year-old learning how to unhook a bra strap in high school. It was something new and exciting…

    As I approached climax, I was wondering if it was a customary rule to finish inside the device – or if the recommended method was to jizz onto any nearby available tube sock. While deciding to pull myself out from the sensual erotic vagina, I grabbed and looked at the manual… It did not offer any “jizz directions.”

    I found myself climaxing into the sleeve. I immediately doubled over onto my bed as if I was 17 again and in the back of my Dodge Lancer. I was feeling pretty satisfied.

    And that’s when the guilt settled in.

    I had a large device on my penis. I had just cum into it and I was immediately dreading the moment when my son or wife would walk in. I began wondering if I had somehow caught an STD from the Fleshlight. Worst of all, I had to eventually pull out… which was a feeling that was so hauntingly real, that it reminded me of all the dorm rooms I had left at two in the morning in college after drunken sex romps… In my mind, I felt like I had somehow cheated on my wife with a Pi Beta Phi sophomore.
    My friend Mark, who works in virtual reality calmed my fears when I called and told him that I was not feeling very good following the encounter.

    “Dude, I’ve gone through, like – six Fleshlights!,” he said. “I get one every year… I had the Jesse Jayne model last year, bruh, that shit was nice! You should change them every six months or so.”

    Woah, six Fleshlights? The Jesse Jayne model? Change them every six months? Obviously I was not living up to my masturbatory potential.

    “Wait til you see this virtual reality shit we’re coming out with in a few years,” Mark explained. “Dude, you’ll be able to fuck Jessica Biel on a beach while Justin Timberlake is tied up to a nearby palm tree, crying.”

    dfafdasffa
    Virtual Reality porn is about to change out lives…

    “Are you serious?” I responded.

    “Dude, sex is about to go so virtual, we’re gonna all turn into a world of jizz monkeys shooting 9 to 10 loads a day.”

    “Dude, in the future you’ll be able to fuck Jessica Biel on a beach while Justin Timberlake is tied up to a nearby palm tree, crying,” my friend Mark told me.

    I did some research. If Mark’s prediction, and the internet is correct, the world will enter the virtual porn sex space in the next few years. People will put on their devices and set up a “scene” where they can have sex with a digital female while they pleasure themselves physically. At first, the sex models will be outrageously priced and unaffordable, but eventually, both men and women will all be pounding away at any number of virtual lovers through the power of visual stimulation.

    That’s on some Westworld level shit right there.

    Feeling less guilty about my Fleshlight encounter, I read the manual about how to clean it out. I learned that Fleshlight makes a special soap that I would now have to buy if I wanted it to stay in pristine condition. I would also have to double up on my lubrication as the sample pack they included was quite small. And then there is the washing of it.  Running warm water through a fake vagina isn’t the most comforting part about using a Fleshlight, but it’s a necessary one if you want to keep it in good condition.

    It’s like cleaning your bar-be-cue after every use.

    When my wife got home, I shared my experience with her and she actually was proud of me. She told me that she thought men should be able to experience the heightened pleasure of something other than just your hand once in a while. Hearing this got me thinking…

    “Well, look,” I said. “Pretty soon there’s gonna be a virtual reality device where I can have sex with Jessica Biel on a beach, can I get that too?”

    “Sure, if I can get one where I bang DeAndre Jordan,” she responded.

    “Oh, uhmm, let me think about it,” I responded.

    I went upstairs and hid my Fleshlight beneath some t-shirts in my dresser…

    103015_DeAndre
    DeAndre Jordan’s “O-Face.”

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  • By Zach Selwyn

    I can vividly picture the scene taking place on a Newark, New Jersey street corner in 1922… Prohibition is hanging heavily over every boarded up bar and single family household on the block. The streets are full of the penniless, making bedding out of old jackets on the grey and crunchy dirty sidewalk snow. Children are wrapping up nightly stick ball games to return home for dinner as the streets darken with denizens of the nightlife and small time hoods…

    And then suddenly, out of the darkness, trotting up in a horse-drawn buggy, appears Rabbi Levi Zalman, who is suddenly swarmed by scores of men from these homes looking to procure the finest bottle of bootleg wine they can get their hands on. Money is exchanged, prayers are said and the men race home to their families. With every sale, Rabbi Zalman mutters, “Baruch Hashem.” (Blessed be the name of the lord). When it’s all over, Rabbi Zalman rides away a very rich man…

    Of course, Rabbi Levi Zalman is not a Rabbi at all. In fact, he is Jack Joseph Brauer, an out-of-work shoe peddler from East Jersey City who has just unloaded his Government-relegated weekly supply of booze for a shade over $5,000.

    He is also my great-great grandfather. This was his “congregation.”

    Ratified in 1920, the 18th Amendment to the Constitution – which is America’s only Amendment to later be repealed – federally prohibited the manufacture, transportation and sale of alcohol. Of course, this was one of our biggest failures in our short history, and led to the golden age of organized crime, corruption and sheer madness across the country.

    Doing some research (And I am not the first to report this – just giving you some background) Jewish households were allowed a certain amount of wine per household per year. To top that off, if you were a Rabbi, and you lead any type of “congregation” (12 members or more) you were allowed to get as much wine as you wanted for religious purposes at any time you desired… So guess what happened? A lot of “new Rabbis” suddenly started showed up.

    “There were fake Rabbis everywhere,” my grandmother told me years ago before she died. “If you knew 12 people, that was a congregation… why do you think so many people started converting to Judaism during the 20’s? FOR BOOZE.”

    So, when Jack Brauer’s shoe business got hit with hard times in the early 1920’s, he bought some religious robes, sported a fake beard and marched up to the proper Governmental distribution center and bought as much alcohol as he needed… He flipped it in two days and kicked off a successful six-year-run as the biggest “Rabbi Bootlegger” in Newark, New Jersey.

    A few years later, when the American Jewish Committee began cracking down on the large number of fake Rabbi’s, my great-great grandfather Jack was NOT on the suspected fraud list. In fact, he continued to support his family until 1931, just before the Amendment was repealed. How? He had the third largest congregation in New Jersey at the time. (Even though it was 95 percent FAKE.)

    Now, according to the three part documentary Prohibition by Ken Burns, other religions had these loopholes as well. In fact, Priests were ALSO able to purchase liquor for religious ceremonies. Of course, the government could actually reference records to determine if someone claiming to be a Priest actually was a Priest. But Rabbis? There was NO WAY OF TELLING WHO WAS A RABBI.

    RfW_3000x2
    Starting to see why I’m obsessed with this stuff…

    According to writer Daniel Okrent, “Rabbis were suddenly showing up everywhere. Irish Rabbis, Black Rabbis…” Nobody ever doubted their religious claims.

    As is turns out, my grandmother was correct. In the 1920’s, Jewish congregations increased in membership by like, 75 percent. In short? BOOTLEG LIQUOR BUILT MODERN DAY JUDAISM. In fact, I don’t think you can reference a time in history when more NEW Jews suddenly showed up out of the woodwork to embrace Judaism in our nation’s history. No wonder we say prayers over the wine…

    A few years ago, my grandmother Florence passed away. Readers of my stories should be familiar with our adventures together in her later years, which included a trip to the Ace Hotel, smoking medical marijuana and leafing through her old photo albums so she could announce who was presently, “Dead.” When she passed, it was a sad moment, and a week later, our family went through her home to get rid of old useless items…(My grandfather’s 5000 VHS tapes of classic movies) and save valuable ones… (My grandma had always claimed that she had hidden “thousands of dollars in cash” all over the house and that it was our job to find it when she died.)

    Of course, knowing this, we tore open her home like Jesse Pinkman looking for hidden cash in that drug dealer’s condo in the film El Camino…

    My mom and I found some money, but the “thousands of dollars” my grandma promised turned out to be something more like 220 bucks. We also uncovered a lot of jewelry and a stamp collection valued at about $39. So, if you’re the new couple that bought the place? If you ever find some ungodly wad of $100 dollar bills in a crawl space, hit me up…

    Aside for a few of my grandma’s stray Vicodin, which I squirreled away in a jacket pocket, the only other item in the home that really intrigued me was my grandmother’s birth certificate. On it was listed her parent’s names and occupations – (Ruth Brauer-Kaplan – housewife. Jacob Kaplan- Dentist) – as well as her GRANDPARENT’s names and occupations… What intrigued me was the job description as reported to the state of New Jersey by JACK JOSEPH BRAUER –

    His job: RABBI.

    “Wow so Grandma’s story was true?” I asked my Uncle Steve who was helping my mom go through Florence’s old belongings.

    “Yes indeed,” he answered.

    “So was he really a Rabbi?” I asked.

    “Do you know what a ‘Rabbi’ was back then?”

    “I’m guessing a bootlegger?”

    “It’s great getting to know your family, isn’t it?”

    I went into the kitchen and poured myself a large glass of wine. I toasted my grandma on her final journey and raised my glass up to Jack Joseph Brauer – my great-great grandfather who kept so many families buzzed during the dark years of Prohibition…

    “Baruch Hashem,” I said.

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Category: Hero

Watch the Official Video for “Five Glasses of Wine”

  • January 21, 2023
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Hero · Homepage · Music · Zachariah & The Lobos Riders
Song produced by Justin Stanley/Leroy Miller & Zach Selwyn

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Watch Zach’s new Song/Video “FLORIDA MAN”

  • January 11, 2023
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Comedy · Comedy Music News · Hero · Homepage · Music · Sketch Comedy
Song written using REAL headlines! FLORIDA MAN (c)2023 Desert Hobo Music

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Watch Zach’s New Episode of “F This… I’m Moving to Croatia!”

  • August 25, 2022
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Film/TV · Hero · Homepage · Television
ZACH SELWYN travels the world looking for a better place to raise his kids…

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Read the Review of “Firing Squad” in “Country Music People” Magazine (U.K.) Out Today!

  • April 26, 2022
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Hero · Homepage · Music · Zachariah & The Lobos Riders

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THIS PHOTO OF ME IN THE 5TH GRADE IS QUITE POSSIBLY THE MOST DEPRESSING PHOTOGRAPH I’VE EVER TAKEN…

  • March 16, 2022
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Hero · Homepage · Short Story · The Writer

By Zach Selwyn

I recently came across this class picture from my elementary school in 1985. Oddly enough, I have a vague memory of taking this photo and trying to express my disappointment with the world at that time. I had no idea back then that the photo seemed to say to my parents that I’d rather be dead at the tender age of 10 than at my school picture day. 

I look depressed. I look like I had already lived five lives. I resemble the type of child who would be marked as a potential serial killer in the future. Amazingly, I remember what was going through my head that day. I was dealing with things like my parents recent divorce, the fact that my “spike haircut” would never want to stand up straight like the other kids. I didn’t smile because my two front teeth resembled something that would have made all species of pacific northwestern beavers jealous. I also remember that my mother made me wear the cloud patterned shirt I am wearing in the photo that day. Maybe if I was Prince I could have pulled that look off, but as a sullen, depressed 10-year-old Jewish kid stuck in Tucson Arizona in the 1980’s, the cloud shirt just felt like a desperate plea for attention. 

At the time I was rudderless. The girls were not interested in me. I had become somewhat overweight. My baseball ability had dwindled following a broken arm the previous summer and my basketball skills were starting to translate to bench time more than the starting five. To top it off my grandparents had taken my sister and I on a two-week Caribbean cruise a few weeks before where I spent the majority of the trip being bullied in the youth center by a freckly-face kid from Florida named Robbie who insisted on flicking my ears until I cried almost daily. Perhaps the most embarrassing thing about that cruise was when my grandmother came down to the youth center, smacked the kid across the head and said, “Stop flicking my grandson’s ears!” 

As you can imagine, it only made him go after me more. 

In fifth grade I was forced to go to Hebrew school three times a week with the looming threat of a Bar Mitzvah hanging over my head presenting quite possibly a challenge that I could never live up to. My main interests lie in collecting baseball cards  – which is where I spent every penny and has been well documented in my previous works. I was also trying to make my 3-year-old brother a future baseball Hall of Famer – but he wasn’t interested in the slightest. Baseball cards were everything to me and the bottom line was, when my mother came home and saw me lying on the floor alphabetizing the 1982 Atlanta Braves Fleer set, she didn’t exactly think I had any sort of bright future.

My house was less than peaceful, with my sister and mother not getting along and a new presence in the home – my mother’s boyfriend. He was a recovering alcoholic who had moved to Tucson for a fresh start and began working at a $40,000 a month celebrity rehab facility that was frequented by movie stars and rock stars. His saving grace was that he loved music, and played it constantly around the house.. and that he was pretty funny.  

He also loved baseball. 

My other obsession with skateboarding, which I was not very good at due to a massive fear of falling and breaking my arm a second time. Yet, I wore the clothes and accepted the fact that I was a “poser” to the cooler kids because it made me feel somewhat connected to something. I was also being forced to take piano lessons by my mom although I was technically allowed to quit in sixth grade. 

I quit the day I started sixth grade. Again, another regret. 

37-years-later, looking back at this photo, I distinctly remember Mrs. Knight’s fifth grade classroom. It was small  – with only eight of us  – because they had to separate certain students into a fifth/sixth grade combination class. Luckily the two cutest girls were in class with me. Laura Krapa (tough last name, I know…) And Tina Jarem, who I mercilessly teased and occasionally punched  because she had absolutely no interest in me. 

And then, there were the three other boys in the class.Ryan, Brandon and Bryan. Being the lone Jewish kid, I was constantly mocked with slurs and insults that I learned to turn into comedy – but I was never invited to their Cub Scout meetings or their swim meets. The three boys were all terrific athletes and overachievers had surpassed me in almost every single category in life at the time – from sports to girls to popularity. When you’re 10-years-old, you feel as if you will never grow out of these situations. 

One day in the lunchroom, I overheard the boys discussing their three-piece band that they were going to assemble to play the talent show. Being that my obsession with the Beastie Boys had grown to absurdly fanatical following their appearance in the hip hop movie “Krush Groove,” I somehow thought that if I could just be AdRock or Mike D I could climb out of this despair in which I had been wallowing for the majority of 1985-86. It certainly helped my cause to know that the Beastie Boys were actually Jewish… So, I offered up my services as a rapper and at first, they laughed. 

“Dude our song is not a rap song” they said.

I said it didn’t matter because I could rap over anything.

Lo and behold, it worked. That night, I wrote eight of the worst hip-hop bars ever assembled and brought it to school to audition for my three classmates. They were blown away and my career as a performer started just as the 5th grade began to come to a close. 

The first rush of adrenaline that you get when you walk off of a stage while wearing your coolest T & C Surf Design shirt and Gotcha shorts with a pair of knock off Ray-Ban Wayfarers you had to borrow from your mother, is a feeling that cannot be described. But any person who has ever performed live knows  what it is… It’s the moment when you receive that first look from a girl in your class that says, “Oh my God you’re so much more than I thought you were!” In this case, it was Tina Jarem. Still, I was too afraid to be her boyfriend. She moved away that summer. 

Music helped me turn my life and outlook around. If you look into the dead eyes of the kid in this photo, you can see how that experience helped turn me into a more positive person. Within a few months I had my first non-camp girlfriend, Amy. We only lasted about a week, but for me that’s all I wanted. It was like a résumé builder. I developed more humor more confidence and as luck would have it even grew a few inches by the next year. 

That summer at camp my longtime counselor Mark took me under his wing as his ‘project’ hoping to develop me into a ladies man. Looking back, it seems weird that he would spend 30 minutes doing my hair before Shabbat services on Fridays. I guess he wanted to make sure I looked ‘fresh.’ With gallons of Dep Gel being slathered into my “never wanted to spike up hair” – I was finally able to get it somewhat reaching towards the sky. Only later, when my hair went curly, did I realize that I had always had wavy hair and that a spike haircut doesn’t look too great when you’re 10-years-old and trying to look like Billy Idol.

When sixth grade came to a close, we reformed the band. The baseball cards took a backseat a couple years later when the guitar was picked up and I suddenly discovered all elements of performing.

Today, at 46, looking back at that photograph of that lost child makes me think of my own children today. I can often spot in a family photo my son’s eyes adrift, looking like there’s no reason for him to be there. My daughter occasionally blinks on purpose to ruin a picture too – the way I did many times before as a kid. The only advice I can try to give my children is that it all gets better and that they need to try new things or else nothing will ever change. I never say that they have to stick with those things, but one of them will hopefully catch their attention and change their lives the way that music did for me on that talent show night in Tucson, Arizona. 

I’m not sure why I wrote this today other than the fact that I’m getting older and I think you start to look back at moments in your life where things change. As your own parents get older you start to think about how innocent it all was back then and how we all grow up so quickly and what really matters is love, care, kindness and friendship. 

I still keep in touch with those guys from the band even though they have all gone onto different pursuits. I’m still releasing music, however, even though not many people listen to it. It’s still therapy. It is hands down the best medicine that there is and it comes out whenever I am lucky enough to perform live with my current band. 

My only regret? I wish I still had that cloud shirt so I could wear it on stage… 

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Zachariah Releases New Video for “Bartenders in L.A.”

  • October 26, 2021
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Hero · Homepage · Music · Zachariah & The Lobos Riders

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Watch Zachariah Open for Sugar Ray and cover “Paul Revere” in Tucson (Sept 2021)

  • October 8, 2021
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Hero · Homepage · Music · Zachariah & The Lobos Riders

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Firing Squad (In the Presence of God)

  • September 1, 2021
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Hero · Homepage · Music · Zachariah & The Lobos Riders

CREDITS…

In the Presence of God *

Firing Squad $

New Suit for My Hangin *

Honky Tonk Saloon @

Bartenders in LA @

You Built me a Ghost Town (Gia Ciambotti) #

The River (With Bobby Joyner) $

Gower Bridge #

Dellmus Colvin @

Last Country Road $

City of Angels #

Executive produced by The Pale Ryda

All songs 2021 Desert Hobo Music (Ascap) written by Zach Selwyn

Papago Records.

MUSICIANS:

(Acoustic, Steel, Lap Guitars) Dan Wistrom, Jesse Siebenberg, Leroy Miller, Zachariah

(Drum Programming) Leroy Miller

(Bass) Mark Antoleonos, Jeff LeGore

(Keys) Brian Lapin

(Fiddle) Lucy Clearwater

(Harmonica) Bobby Joyner, Zachariah

(BG Vocals) Lucy Clearwater, Leroy Miller, Bobby Joyner, Zachariah, Gia Ciambotti

MIXED and PRODUCED BY:

  • – *Jesse Siebenberg
  • $ – Leroy Miller
  • # – Dan Wistrom
  • @ – Justin Jay

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Zachariah to Release New Country/Hip Hop Musical LP “Firing Squad.”

  • August 27, 2021
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Hero · Homepage · Music · Zachariah & The Lobos Riders

Singer-Songwriter Zachariah Selwyn will release his 5th official LP next week, a country-hip hop concept album entitled “Firing Squad.” The record is based on an unreleased scripted western project that Selwyn has been developing for more than a year.

“I guess I wanted to get the music out before the project was done,” Selwyn says. “I know that projects like this sometimes get sidetracked.”

The “Firing Squad” soundtrack features female vocalist Gia Ciambotti (Bruce Springsteen/Joe Walsh) in a starring role, marking the first time the band has used utilized a second lead singer on record.

“Gia is an absolute mesmerizing presence on a microphone,” Selwyn explains. “I keep hoping she joins our band permanently, but the road isn’t that appealing for most of us anymore so for now we’ll keep it in the studio.”

“Firing Squad” also features longstanding band members Dan Wistrom, Bobby Joyner and producer/multi-instrumentalist Jesse Siebenberg. (Lukas Nelson).

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Jackson Hole Weekend Highlights

  • August 2, 2021
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Hero · Homepage · Zachariah & The Lobos Riders

Thanks to the Mangy Moose Saloon for having us for 6 sets in 2 nights!

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