Zach Selwyn

Actor. Musician. Host. Writer. Dinner Guest.

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  • By Zach Selwyn

    THE CONCEPT:

    Recently, as a creative experiment, I decided to commit myself to sitting in the Hollywood YMCA sauna for 20 minutes every morning for ten straight days in a row.  

    My plan was to arrive at the same time every day… roughly 9:45 a.m. and see what different characters I would meet from all walks of life. After all, as a longtime YMCA member, the sauna has always offered up a diverse cast of dreamers, stars, trust fund kids, drunks and Hollywood failures and I was hoping that maybe this little adventure would lead to a fairly decent piece for Los Angeles Magazine. So, I re-upped my monthly membership and sauntered down through Hollywood at the beginning of May for my first documented YMCA sauna adventure. 

    DAY 1: 

    A toothless man wearing jeans and a hoodie with a bandage around his head just told me that he was currently recovering from a Samurai sword attack…

    As he began unwrapping his head bandage, I quickly noticed a large raised scar that slightly resembled the laces on a football running across the crest of his cranium.

    “Holy shit,” I said. “Is it – SAFE for you to be in a sauna?”

    “I dunno,” he chucked. “After the attack, the YMCA let me join for free for a month so I figured I’d try it out.”

    I soon came to find out that this man’s name was Ray and he had moved to Los Angeles in the 1980s to make it in “fuckin metal, man!” He claimed that he had some minor success but got derailed by the drugs and now he was pushing 65, missing a few teeth and living just outside of the park next to my kids’ old middle school.

    I asked Ray if the jeans and hoodie thing was some sort of extreme weight loss plan – like when wrestlers jog with garbage bags on to cut weight.

    “No – I just don’t get naked around other men since I was released from prison,” he said. 

    “Oh,” I eeked out. “I’m gonna go.”

    Before I could go, he wanted to explain the scar on his head. 

    “Some guy was swinging a Samurai sword over by the Pla-Boy Liquor Store,” he explained. “I tried to stop him – but that was a bad move. Luckily the clerk called the hospital and I got stitched up. This town has changed since I opened for Faster Pussycat, man.”

    That was day one. 

    DAY 2:  

    In the 30 years I have been going to gyms, I have never walked into a sauna and found a guy playing with himself while sporting two nipple clamps on his chest… However, on only my second day in my sauna quest, I was met with a dude who looked like that Gilgo Beach serial killer Rex Heuerrmann proudly fondling himself. 

    “Uhmmmm,” I said as I walked in.

    “Sorry, saunas make me horny,“ he said. “What about you?”

    I have been hit on by men before. Christ, I was a 22-year-old actor in Hollywood back in the day… But this was excessive. I was staring at a grown man’s penis, and was solicited with the fact that saunas ‘turn him on’ within 30 seconds. I crouched in the corner for a few beats, praying that somebody I knew came in, but I told myself that I would commit to a full sauna session – especially since my day one experience had ended so abruptly. 

    He then asked me if I wanted to retreat to the steam room because, “The smoke provides better cover for hand jobs and stuff…”

    “What?” I said, horrified.

    “I feel like a zoo animal here because everybody can walk by and look at us inside.”

    Jesus Christ. I proceeded to tell him that there were other dudes at the Hollywood Y who would fuck him up for even suggesting a sexual favor in the sauna, but he just scoffed. He did not seem at all intimidated by my threat in the slightest… He then followed up with another line that made me laugh.

    “Have you ever had an orgasm in 180 degree heat? It’s fucking mind blowing”

    “Well… I did grow up in Arizona,” I said.

    He laughed. Shit… Why did I make him laugh? 

    I finally told Rex that I had to go pick up my kids. I had lasted four minutes and 30 seconds… So far my 20 minutes a day goal has been limited to nine minutes in total.

    DAY 3:

    I have never taken my cell phone into a sauna, but for some reason a lot of people do. And today, a younger guy was in the sauna taking selfies of himself while wrapped in a beige towel.

    “Do iPhones even work in this heat?” I asked him, just happy that he wasn’t playing with himself or showing me a scar on his head caused by a katana that was once used in feudal Japan. 

    “The new ones do,” he said. “It’s great for Influencer stuff.” 

    So are you a ‘Sauna Influencer?’” I asked, hoping that he was so that this sauna piece would really have some legs… 

    “No – I’m a Sober Influencer. Follow me @soberguy1989 on Insta.”

    Ugh. Sober influencers. Due to my regular IG posts about bars and drinking, I get a ton of suggested sober influencers placed into my algorithm… and  most of them tell me that I definitely have cirrhosis and that I have been dead since I was 32. No shade, but I hate sober influencers… I do love sober people, and I have hundreds of good friends who are clean and sober –  but just don’t try to preach your way of life to everybody who might still be able to handle a few cocktails every once in a while. 

    “So you get paid to talk about how great it is to be sober?” I asked him.

    “Sometimes… I mean, I used to drink a lot – like 4-5 beers a night!” He explained. “But then, when I hit 30 I couldn’t do it anymore.” 

    I’d chuckled knowing that I was currently sweating out two bottles of Trader Joe’s Campo Viejo Rioja onto the floor at that same moment. Which is when he began spreading his gospel.

    “Have you ever asked yourself the addiction questions? Like… Are you employed? Are you happy? Are you single or broke? Are you in massive debt?”

    “Yes,” I said. “Well, in reality –  I’m happily married and fairly happy overall – but  I am definitely unemployed and in massive debt – but I guarantee you that I would be the same way even if I was sober.

    And that was that. He took some more photos of himself. I did my 20 minutes and went on with my day. 

    DAY 4: 

    The Hollywood YMCA sauna used to be a creative cocoon for industry veterans, actors and mainly…screenwriters. I knew dozens of guys with past TV deals and feature films who often discussed how they were optioning some comedy series to NBC. Of course, this was back when Hollywood was still functioning.

    I met writers, directors and first AD’s from all walks of life in that sauna – and heard fantastic stories. One I recall in particular was from Randy Carter, who was Francis Ford Coppola’s Assistant Director for decades, who would spin Apocoalypse Now Martin Sheen stories that would make any film junkie feel like they were losing their minds in the jungles of 1969 Cambodia. 

    Today, however, I sat in the sauna with two young kids who called themselves screenwriters. They ran off a string of complaints about how selling your original script would never happen and I laughed under my breath at their naivete. Still, they kept on about “established IP” and began complaining about the fact that they were writing scripts for a vertical platform called ReelScreen – and how they should both be the next Tarantino. 

    “Wait… So you guys are actually currently employed as writers?” I inquired.

    “Yeah, but it’s like, bullshit vertical soap opera stuff,” one kid said. “It like… barely covers my rent.”

    What? I thought to myself… Rent? Writing? A possibility? 

    “So – Sorry to pry,” I said. “But  – are they accepting writing samples – or looking for writers?”  

    The kid studied me for a few seconds. I was the epitome of middle age… Dad bod. Beer belly. Thinning hair…

    “Uhm… It’s a pretty young platform,” he said. “So probably not.”

    I decided not to pitch them my sequel to Splash and I finished my 20 minutes in silence.

    DAY 5: 

    Today was one of those rare days where I found myself alone in the sauna. It was beautiful… and the wood was dry and it just felt safe and peaceful. I let the sweat drip down my body and fall onto the surface where I made a little Rorschach Tests for what shapes I found. It was a parade of dragons, butterflies and weird silhouettes of men scooping ice cream… It felt like I was on mushrooms… More days like this please. 

    DAY 6: 

    Reid, an old pal of mine from the basketball courts, was in the sauna today and asked me if I heard about the old guy who got kicked out for regularly soliciting hand jobs in the steam room. 

    “Holy shit, that dude hit on me!” I said. “Did he look like that Gilgo Beach Long Island serial killer Rex Heuermann?”

    “Yes! He tried to lick my nipples last time I was in here – turns out he was 64!” 

    Suddenly, I didn’t feel as special, knowing that this dude was basically chasing every dick around the sauna. I took some pride in the fact that I was 15 years younger than him, so for a second I considered myself a “twink.”

    Wait. What? 

    DAY 7:

    Big delay upcoming. The sauna was closed because somebody had defecated on the rocks. I think I may be done with this experiment. I also wouldn’t be surprised if it was the Samurai Sword guy…

    DAY 8:

    It’s been two weeks since the sauna reopened after being scrubbed and sanitized. I have certainly missed my daily trips but was looking forward to getting back to a nice schvitz following a quick jaunt to New York where I slept for a total of nine hours in three days. 

    So, imagine my surprise when three fully naked old Korean guys and a moss of white pubic hair greeted me on a random Thursday. The three guys were laughing about something I was not privy to, but there were no towels or clothing ANYWHERE. I mentioned that this YMCA demands that you wear some sort of covering, but they didn’t understand me. All I heard was that the Koreatown YMCA was temporarily closed, so a bunch of members were coming here now…

    I walked out early, but was pleasantly amused when fifteen minutes later I saw the same three naked men try to walk into the co-ed jacuzzi area buck fucking naked. 

    They were politely asked to leave… I waved at them before going to do 40 crunches.

    DAY 9: 

    Look, I never liked the guys who use the sauna as their “gym.” They use it to do crunches and squats and shadowbox and shit. Today – some dude was getting after it. HARD. I am pretty sure that there is an unspoken rule that you are not allowed to exercise in the sauna, but I’ll be damned if this guy, who was wearing a pointy felt hobbit hat, wasn’t taking up the entire room with jabs and push-ups… 

    “Dude, what does that elf hat do?” I asked him. 

    He threw a few crosses before alerting me that it keeps the heat closer to the head and therefore you can stay in the sauna longer.

    “Yeah, but you look like Frodo Baggins.”

    He stopped and looked at me. He was larger and had some bad tattoos and I immediately regretted commenting on his Lord of the Rings hat. He didn’t even respond. He just took the towel from around his neck and wrung it out over the electric sauna… right in front of the sign that clearly states “Do not put liquid on the electric sauna – it will short fuse.”

    Frodo then walked out and left the door open… About two minutes later he came back, soaking wet from what I assumed was a trip to the shower. His hat was gone – and he started doing push-ups on the floor. I walked out a few seconds later, 11 minutes short of my goal. 

    DAY 10: 

    My final day of this experiment was somewhat heartbreaking… especially because Reid was back – and he informed me that his mother was recently conned out of her life savings by a
    “man” she met online who claimed to be Van Halen lead singer Sammy Hagar. 

    Now, apparently Sammy himself had reached out online and told his mom that he was in debt and needed some money for surgery… He also tossed in that he thought she was very attractive. (For the record, she is currently 82-years-old). 

    Well, the next thing Reid knew, his mom was on her way to Los Angeles to meet the famed Red Rocker at the Sunset Marquis Hotel… Of course when she got there, Sammy Hagar was nowhere to be found and her $450,000 dollar nest egg was gone. 

    “Jesus, that’s heartbreaking,” I said, flabbergasted. “That’s like that one girl who thought she was married to Brad Pitt.”

    “Exactly,” he said. ”Apparently this fake celebrity thing online is a new scam on the elderly… It’s happening everywhere – My cousin’s dad just sent 200 grand to Chilli From TLC.”

    “What the FUCK!,” I said. “Who could be that stupid?”


    “Dunno. The world is full of online scammers. By the way, are you hooping today?” He asked.

    “No, I’m writing a story about the sauna.”

    “Ew.”

    Reid high-fived me and mentioned a future beer together and I nodded and smiled knowing that my ten day experiment had finally come to a close. 

    I also made a mental note to not return the email I recently got from Stevie Nicks…

    So there ya go. 10 days. One sauna. Many stories. I’m sure there have been more lascivious tales, steamy stories and 180 degree orgasms in the days of sauna past but these were my encounters over the past month… But do me a favor and check back next week… 

    I’m thinking of doing 15 days in the steam room… 

    Read “Blood on the Floor” – Zach’s Latest Short Story for Hiii Magazine

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  • 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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  • 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.

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    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.

    STREAM ZACH’S NEW SONG “Red Fuckin Wine” NOW!

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

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

    Screen Shot 2020-04-28 at 6.54.29 PM

     

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  • Dir. by Lauren Banuvar

    Cloud Road EP streaming everywhere now!

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Listen to Zach on the “All Out Show” w/ Jude Angellini & Lord Sear on Shade45

  • March 6, 2015
  • by zachselwyn
  • · America's Secret Slang · Hero · Homepage

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

https://zachselwyn.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/zach-selwyn-interview-pt-1.mp3

https://zachselwyn.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/zach-selwyn-interview-pt-2.mp3

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Read Zach’s New Short Story: “Why The F*#% Do I Own a House?”

Owning a house used to be the American dream. Here, Zach Selwyn explains what a burden it really is...

  • January 13, 2015
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Comedy · Homepage · Short Story · The Writer

WHY THE F*#% DO I OWN A HOUSE? By Zach Selwynrun-down-house*Author’s Note: If you don’t like to read white people complaining about stupid shit, do not read this rant.

It used to be the America dream. Three or four bedrooms, a yard, a dog, two kids, a mortgage and a slice of property that you tell strangers you meet while sipping drinks that you “own.” But do we really own these brick piles and stucco standings? Or are we merely temporary renters for a brief time on this planet? Over-paying our way through each month so that someday we might be able to pass our structure onto our children, who will most likely sell it the first chance they get so they can snort the profits?

My house is very nice. People tell me I am very lucky. But fuck owning a house. Why have I done this to myself? Every time I think I’m finally getting ahead with my finances, a clay pipe from 1929 explodes beneath the concrete walkway in my front lawn. 240 volts of electricity spring loose from a patched heater cable on the roof and threatens to electrocute my entire family if we plug in a toaster while my wife is using a hair-dryer. A feral squirrel eats an electric filament that connects the natural gas line and we have no hot water for 5 days. (I hope that stupid squirrel dies).

Repairs, property taxes, renter fees, water, power, gas and sewer charges… Basically I work my ass off to not be able to do anything but tell people I own a house. It’s a term Investipedia describes as being “house poor.” Basically, you become a prisoner to the bank and you flush all the money you had saved for things you always dreamed of down the clogged toilet every month.

house-poor

For instance… I always wanted to buy season tickets to a baseball team. The Dodgers play three miles away. Ready to pounce on a package two years ago, I was shit-sided by the water pump in my basement exploding. BAM. Bye bye Yasiel Puig, hello All Valley Heating and Appliances.

Example number two: A best friend from college gets married in Italy last year. Plane tickets and lodging look affordable. My wife and I plan the most amazing trip. We even set up grandma to watch the kids while we’re away sipping limoncello beneath some Italian moon and devouring plates of Taglietelle Bolognese. And then? BOOM, a tree falls in our yard and smashes three windows. This, in turn, makes us have to “earthquake-proof” the entire fucking house and instead of dining beneath an Italian moon, we order take out from Olive Garden and eat it while watching Peaky Blinders.

Alright, I understand that most of you are reading this and saying, “Fuck you Zach, you own a house? Kiss my ass you lucky bastard asshole son-of-a-bitch.”

I will trade places with you right now. Give me a condo with a landlord who fixes stuff when it happens, and I’ll be a happier man. Bring me a community pool in the center of an apartment building and some shitty underground parking, and I am IN. For crying out loud, I pay a gardener $100 a month to mow our dead lawn – which we were told to stop watering during the California drought… I pay a cleaning lady more money than my mother makes a year to make sure the loose blueberries that sneak beneath the couches get swept up in an orderly manner. I pay a handyman to fix shit like a broken kitchen drawer when too many can openers and wine keys weigh it down and snap the wood.

french-maid1
I pay a cleaning lady a lot of money. And she looks NOTHING like this.

This is not what I planned on spending all my money on in my life. However, these little incidents are why I have to do shit like pimp myself out as the ribbon-cutting host at the opening of an Artisanal pickle store in Alta Dena to make $150.

The other thing is, that there is about a 3 percent chance that I will ever pay this house off. It will keep going and going until I die and then my grandchildren will look at what I was paying and mumble to themselves, “Grandpa Zach was an idiot.” Of course, by then, the Hollywood neighborhood I live in will be full of Wal-Marts and Dave N’ Busters and my house will look like the house in the Disney film Up – The lone remaining house in a forest of corporate shit. My family will probably argue at my funeral over who gets to keep the ASCAP royalty checks from songs I have placed in film and TV shows and then sell the entire pile of shit-bricks for millions of dollars to a company that will build a Marshall’s Discount Store on our property. Then, when they look back at my books and past taxes, they will see how much money I threw into the trash trying to keep my house afloat, and how many wonderful opportunities I missed out on because I was busy paying gardeners and handymen and the city of Los Angeles to guarantee that my trash gets picked up every Friday… Hopefully then, they will realize that owning a house isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be and they will continue living with roommates or in cheap studio apartments with sleazy landlords or even – if they’re lucky – in hotels with turn-down service.

I used to think that someday I might be able to retire. Yeah, right. THAT’S happening. Screen Actor’s Guild recently sent me a notice of my past earnings and told me that by the time I hit age 65, I will be receiving social security from them at the rate of… wait for it… $236 a month. BOOM. That’s about what I pay the city to guarantee we get a phone book every year. WHY? Fuck the phone book!

phonebook1
Yes. We all still pay the city for phonebooks.

Then again, if all goes well, when I am 65 I will be living in a cardboard box with no lawn to mow, no heater to fix and no sewer to fill. My showers will be happily taken at the Hollywood YMCA and I will pass the day slurping watered-down coffee at the 7-11, pilfering my ASCAP checks for just enough money to buy a couple of 40 ounce beers so that I can sleep in peace knowing I don’t have to replace the fucking water filter in my refrigerator for $195 every May.

Of course, homelessness isn’t a joke and I’m not saying I’d rather be homeless, but sometimes when I see a young dude in a knitted cap with black soot on his face looking like he just swept a chimney – walking a pit bull on a leash made of chains – while smoking a half of a cigarette he found on the ground a few minutes beforehand, I wonder if in some way, he is better off. He doesn’t have any bills, no roof to patch and no yard to maintain. His house is the freeway underpass, which is power-washed and swept every week… The CITY takes care of his shit FOR him! And who pays the city to do that? I DO! It’s in my property taxes! Upkeep of the neighborhood!

Then again, he does need to eat. And when I thought about this earlier today, looking at a fellow around my age trying to sleep on an abandoned Futon frame, I understood that yes, I AM a lucky person. This poor guy probably had an awful childhood and he may never know the pleasures I have tasted or the comfort of a warm bed and I can’t help but feel guilty for griping about my white people problems while this unfortunate man eats Chick-Fil-A from a garbage can.

I slowly pulled my car over the side of the freeway and dug deep into my pants pocket for a few bills. I took out my wallet, searching… Realizing that it is my responsibility to help those in need. If you have a little – share a little. The young man saw me stop and began walking over to my car window for his handout. I kept poking around in the glove box for some money. Nothing. Center console? Cash-free.

“Shit man,” I say. “I thought I had some money on me, but I had to pay my handyman 100 bucks to fix the broken hatches on my garage door this morning.”

“Go fuck yourself,” he yelled into my window.

And I drove back to my house, embarrassed…

 

READ Zach’s collection of short stories “Talent Will Get You Nowhere“ – !

BUY ZACH'S BOOK at AMAZON.COM!

White People Problems – http://youtu.be/-MQrEwYxZW4

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Some Thoughts on Stuart Scott…

Zach Selwyn got his television break in 2004 beneath the tutelage of Stuart Scott who passed away last week. Zach pays tribute to Stuart here...

  • January 6, 2015
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Homepage · The Writer · TV Shows

A lot of folks have been asking me to comment on the passing of the great Stuart Scott this past week, and I have reluctantly not posted anything – mainly because I didn’t want to do what the typical selfish web-obsessed person does when somebody they met once in an elevator passes away – Make every death about themselves. (Example – Joe Cocker passed away and suddenly every “dear friend” of Joe’s posted a picture of them together in a grocery store ten years earlier)…

This post is about the wonderful mentoring and brief friendship Stuart Scott offered not only myself, but a handful of other hopeful ESPN announcers in the winter of 2004…

stuart selwynI will keep this brief – because Mike Hall and Nick Stevens eloquently put their thoughts down on Instagram and Facebook and really said all that needed to be said, but here is my greatest memory of my three months with Stuart Scott.

At the time of the contest, a lot of ESPN anchors scoffed at “Dream Job.” They felt like we were spoiled inexperienced little bastards who were going to land a job they had been working towards their entire lives. Not EVERYBODY felt this way, but it was obvious around the set who did. Stuart didn’t care. He was all for this. He braced us, supported and encouraged us to be better than the haters, to thrive when give that one shot on live television to make our careers happen. He compared it to Eminem rapping “You only get one shot do NOT lose your chance…” on the song “Lose Yourself.” He knew the position we were in and when we all arrived on set, he made us feel comfortable, capable and worthy.

He threw us trivia questions. He asked to borrow our catch phrases for that week’s SportsCenter… (My phrase “Dwayne Wade dropped 80 cents on the floor tonight – that’s 8 dimes for those of you who are bad at math” made an 11pm broadcast in March 2004 from the lips of Stuart) – and he followed up with us over the years. He was that nice of a guy. Now that I am ten years into a career that started at ESPN – a career that Stuart Scott was such a huge part of jump-starting – I can only thank him for the brief moments we shared together on the planet.

Posted above is a clipping from the Jermaine O’Neal issue of ESPN The Magazine in March 2004 – when Stuart commented on the results of the show. His professionalism always stood out. And yes, Stuart, someday we will make that rap album together.

-ZS January 6, 2015

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Watch Zach’s new Video, “Hungover at Disneyland!”

  • December 19, 2014
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Comedy · Comedy Music News · comedy, music, lyrics, jay-Z, beyonce, blue ivy · Hero · Homepage

After a long night on the sauce, dont take your 2 kids to the Magic Kingdom. Hear Zach spin his tale about a fateful hungover day a the “Happiest Place on Earth.”

Download song here – https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/hungover-at-disneyland/id952764244?i=952764250

 

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Zach Releases New Comedy Music EP: “Hungover at Disneyland”

  • November 12, 2014
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Comedy · Comedy Music News · Hero · Homepage

DOWNLOAD ALBUM HERE!Hungover at Dlandhungover at disneyland TRACK LISTING:

The Only Gym That I Like to hit (Jim Beam).

LA Ski Hat Weather.

Bad Night in Bro Country.

Yo Jay-Z! (Be My Manager).

The Web MD Song.

Dudes.

Hungover at Disneyland.

Too Old for Molly, To Young for LSD.

Kirk Cameron vs. Charles Darwin

Gramma on the Front Porch!

Look for it soon on itunes and beyond!!!

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Watch Zach host the Jingle Punks Newsletter!

  • November 1, 2014
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Hero · Homepage · Television

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>

 

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Watch Zach in new 2 Scarves video “Dont Tell ‘Em” by Jeremih!

  • October 14, 2014
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Comedy · Comedy Music News · Homepage · Sketch Comedy

Watch Waylon Nimoy and Cash Shatner aka 2 Scarves – and their new video for “Dont Tell ‘Em” by Jeremih – done for Playboy.com!!!

CLICK HERE!!!

2 scarves

<script height=”495px” width=”880px” src=”http://player.ooyala.com/iframe.js#ec=g5aTN5cDoiBa2oWBR5UyyINKgJXT0kCt&pbid=3fb9ae8bc2074ccb9b530f384f74a6f5″></script&gt;

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Why I Hate You and Your Kids

  • October 7, 2014
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Homepage · The Writer

dallas-family-dentistry     Last week at the local park where I take my children, a 4-year-old boy named Falcon took a dump behind a tree and his mother brushed pine needles over it. She looked around conspicuously before grabbing Falcon by the arm and hightailing it out of the park, into her Lexus SUV. I was one of the few parents who noticed the despicable act and chose to not make a stink – so too speak – about the incident until Falcon and his mom were long out of earshot. “Did anybody else just see that?” I prodded. At first, I sort of sided with Falcon’s mom, knowing that if it had been my kid, I probably would have done the exact same thing. I just would have been more stealth about it – pretending to pick it up the way I used to do with my old dog whenever a passing car saw him take a crap on a neighbor’s lawn. After awhile though, when the stench wafted down towards the playground, I decided the act was too heinous to ignore. “That Eagle… or Hawk kid – what’s his name? Took a crap behind the tree and his mom covered it up… That’s why it smells down here,” I informed the moms and nannies texting and pretending to chase their kids around the playground. ‘Nina Carlotto?” One mom responded. “Falcon’s mom? No way, she would never do that.” “Well, Nina Carlotto did,” I said. “We can take a DNA sample if you want – run a few tests and ban her from the park forever.” Nobody laughed. My friend Charlie, one of the rare cool parents that I hang with at the park, once joked that, “The worst thing about being a parent… are other parents.” He couldn’t be more correct. Especially in Los Angeles, where every single mom and dad believes their child is the next Einstein, Chopin, Chagall, thoracic surgeon, David Beckham, Gabby Douglass or Kobe Bryant. In reality, most of these kids – mine included – will most likely drink their way through college and find themselves pining over a crappy screenplay that they will never sell wondering why they never went to medical school. This is why I hate most of the parents I have met in Los Angeles.

soccer-mom-soccer-mom-football-sexy-european-demotivational-posters-1304941538
Most soccer moms do not look like this.

There is so much pressure put upon a kid these days to be the best at everything that they never get a chance to discover what they truly love. Most kids are in piano, ballet, YMCA sports and Rapa Nui as a Second Language courses by the time they are in kindergarten. I know a kid who is a 9-year-old real estate agent. These kids are not having normal childhoods. 30 years ago or so, I was actually one of those kids. Spanish, piano, soccer, cooking, formal dance, Hebrew School… you name it, I hit it all. I also found a unique way to hate it all, and thus became a depressed asshole – albeit a well-rounded one – for most of my childhood. My wife and I have lethargically done our best to expose our oldest son to these types of things. He has taken a small shine to baseball, although I really thought Jai-Alai was his best sport. He has some interest in drums, which is encouraging for my father who took up drumming at age 65, but I really don’t think he’s going to stick with it past lesson nine. Which in a way doesn’t bother me. Especially when a musician buddy of mine, when finding out my son was taking drums, remarked, “Congratulations, you’ll be paying his rent until he’s 39-years-old.” My son has also expressed some interest in Kung Fu, but doesn’t like the “repetition of it all.” Of course, this is quite possibly the most important aspect of training in Kung Fu. So, I basically encourage him to follow his true interests and passions. He’s only eight for crying out loud, but I remember stating at the same age that I wanted to be a sports broadcaster. My mom has records of hundreds of football stories I wrote at that time, full of imagined rosters and fake statistics. I was obsessed with the NFL and its massively talented athletes, and begged my mom to take me to a broadcasting class for kids. (They didn’t exist in 1982. They do now…) Amazingly, I got my first TV break in sports broadcasting and I am still writing to this day, so my technique is to encourage my son to follow his passions and find a way to get better at them. Of course, right now all he seems to care about is my iPad that he has turned into his virtual arcade, an online social game called Club Penguin and any TV show that features a ninja as a lead character. His early life’s goal? To be a video game designer. I love it. One parent called my son’s interests detrimental to his mental growth. I argued that someday he is going to design the next Grand Theft Auto game and make 800 million dollars. We’ll see who is right. For now, I’ll let that negative bitch take her son to his fencing class while my kid beats level 49 on Call of Duty: IV.

IMG_1030
My son. Gaming.

            So the park moms began whispering under their breath about my discussion of the fecal matter behind the tree. I witnessed Rachel and Kelly, two horrible gym rat 40-somethings scurry their kids away from mine as a way to subtly insult me. Another sour-faced hag named April, who had two separate nannies and is married to a very successful TV producer stared me down with her miserable scowl. Finally, Lupita and Carmen, the nannies for two girls both named Sawyer, seemed to curse at me in Spanish. I yelled at my son that it was time to go. Normally, park parents thankfully come and go from your life in a few short years, but for some reason, I have not been able to shake Nina Carlotto. The woman is everywhere. At pre-school meetings, jog-a-thons…. I ran into her trick-or-treating. She works out at my YMCA. She even shows up on the few commercial auditions I get a year. She is a shadow and a cancer at the same time. Especially now that somebody must have told her how I called her out about her actions at the park that afternoon. “I don’t know what you think you saw, but you didn’t see what you think you did,” she rambled at me one afternoon as we waited in a room to audition as a married couple for a Honda Odyssey commercial. “I don’t know what you heard you heard, but what you heard was not what you think you heard,” I responded. She scoffed, upset that I would retort to her incessant ramblings in such a manner. Minutes later, we went into the audition room together where we were forced to act like we loved each other and our new Honda Odyssey as we ogled at our kids in the back seat. “Perfect!” The casting director said. We graciously joked with the advertising clients before leaving the room, happy that we nailed the audition, but muttering tiny insults beneath our breaths. “Nice realism,” I offered. “Dick,” I heard her whisper. I didn’t get a callback. Why I was being chastised for Nina’s obvious fecal flee was somewhat understood. I knew that a lot of parents resented my three month-a-year work schedule that I had recently been living, but in reality it wasn’t because I had a year where I was somehow lucky enough to make salary in 90 days, it was because I was actually one L.A. father who got to spend a lot of time with his children. Most of these women were married to much older – and much busier- men. Millionaire studio executives, assistant directors who disappeared across the country for six-month film shoots and lawyers who barely saw their kids in the evening and then split for the golf course the minute the weekend arrived. I was the park dad who was always around. The dad who went to every baseball game. The dad who liked volunteering at school. The dad who started drinking wine at bath time and had nowhere to be but the gym the next morning. The dad every single one of these parents wished their kids had. It especially killed them when we went to the park, and all their kids wanted to play “Tackle Zach” rather than watch their mom post Instagram pictures of the $9.00 green smoothies they had just purchased at the neighborhood gourmet juicer.

mommy-screen__1331151159_0812
How most of my friends raise their kids

I invited my friend Charlie over for beers one night and we began writing an entire TV series about the parents at the park. Enough ground has been covered about the gluten-free crackers and the parents who won’t let their kids watch anything but educational television, so we took it another way. Believing we had the next great sitcom, we decided to shoot a few snippets ourselves and present them to networks. (The three-episode web-series, Parktime, reeled in an anemic 1500 internet views on YouTube when posted, but still holds up.)

0
Me, Bil Dwyer and Billy Asher in “Parktime”

I’m not saying that every parent in Los Angeles is a soulless cockroach. In fact, I have many friends who I love hanging with and talking with who are as laid back as my wife and I are with their parenting. It’s just that at some point in your life, you begin choosing friends out of convenience. This town is so spread out, that childhood friends do not attend the same schools. As a child in 1980’s America, every neighborhood kid went to the same school, played on the same sports teams for a decade and rode bikes to each other’s houses at 9:00 at night. Nowadays, my eight-year-old has no interest in even learning how to ride a bike and his five best friends attend FIVE different elementary schools. It’s nearly impossible to develop lifelong friendships in this town, and I’m sure I’m not making it any easier by bickering with Nina Carlotto about her lack of public health and safety hazards. So, you hang with other parents out of suitability. Are you neighbors? Are your kids in the same class? Do you play on the same soccer team? These requirements are all it takes these days to establish a falsified friendship with another parent. “Your kids are 8 and 4 too? Oh my GOD, we have to have you over for bone broth soup and wine this weekend.” It’s a far cry from, say Flatbush Avenue back in the 60’s when you had to stab a kid from a rival neighborhood to prove to your buddies that you were “friend material.”

-4
How my kids see me at bath time

So we saunter on and drop the kids in the carpool lane and meet up for wine and soup and just hope that our kids are making deep connections with their new friends. Occasionally someone throws a party and we all call Uber to drive us home by 11:00 and we struggle in the morning to make decent coffee and go to the gym. At times I feel like Kenny Powers in Eastbound and Down season four when he domesticates and has children, but when I look at the sad faces of the 20-somethings trolling the bars of my youth looking for what I currently have, I remember I’m in a much better place. No matter how much I can’t stand talking with the Ressler’s about their Grecian vacation plans the upcoming summer – when daddy can FINALLY spend some time with his kids on a yacht– I do it, realizing that my parents had the same conversations with their friends back in the 80’s. I am just very grateful to have the time I have to be the father I am… and if that pisses Nina Carlotto off? I don’t give a DAMN… Especially since she let her kid drop a phantom deuce at the park and continues to deny it to this day. By the way, I saw the Honda commercial that we auditioned for on TV last night and was suddenly pained with the horrifying image of her face in the Odyssey passenger seat… Somehow she got cast as the loving mother. Bitch.                

BUY ZACH'S BOOK at AMAZON.COM!
BUY ZACH’S BOOK at AMAZON.COM!

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Watch new Video “Ghosts in This Guitar”

  • September 13, 2014
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Hero · Homepage · Music · Zachariah & The Lobos Riders

Zachariah & the Lobos Riders

“Ghosts in This Guitar”

Skywriting (c) 2014 Papago Records

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LISTEN: Zach’s new song “It’s Week 1 in the NFL & my Fantasy Team SUCKS!”

  • September 9, 2014
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Comedy · Comedy MP3's · Homepage

aaron-rodgers-story https://zachselwyn.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/nfl-fantasy-song.mp3

One week down. and Jamal Charles, Aaron Rodgers, Tony Romo, Wes Welker and many other NFL stand-outs have destroyed Zach’s chance at any Fantasy Glory. Hear him sing all about it above.

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