Zachariah’s new song explores the corporate logo marketing travesty that all of us 90’s kids endure every time we see a Nirvana or Ramones shirt for sale in Target or Wal-Mart. Back in 1992 I had to go to the concert to buy a $30 shirt. Now the logo is on onesies.
Zach and Missi Pyle have a new podcast called “Missi and Zach Might Bang!” Exec. Produced by Anna Faris and Sim Sarna of “Anna Faris is Unqualified” – the show takes on celebrity guests, improvisational music and offers entertainment business advice as well! Head to http://www.ewpopfest.com to buy tickets now!!!
After Reading Sean Penn’s ‘El Chapo’ Piece, I Decided to See What my Old Pot Dealer From High School was Up to…
Recently, Sean Penn made headlines when he bravely traveled deep into the heart of Sinaloa to meet and converse with the notorious Mexican drug cartel leader Joaquin “El Chapo” Guzman. Right after the story went to press, El Chapo was captured – and his latest elusive time on the lam abruptly came to a close. Penn’s piece was published in Rolling Stone this week and I found it to be an engrossing piece of long lost Gonzo journalism at its finest. Penn, an actor, long known for his political involvement, put himself in the direct line of peril and danger all while partnering with a famous Mexican film actress to infiltrate the most impenetrable depths of Narco activity. He shook hands, broke bread and slammed tequila with a man that the DEA and Mexican authorities have been unable to locate for close to six months. In my opinion, Penn’s story was a hell of a lot more ballsy than anything else any pampered Hollywood actor has attempted in the past twenty years. (Sorry, Julia Roberts. Playing an AIDS-sensitive doctor in The Normal Heart may have been considered “daring” but it pales in comparison to a 55-year-old Oscar winner risking his life to traipse deep into a jungle of death for an interview for a rock-n-roll magazine).
So, inspired by Sean Penn’s courage, I decided that the recent stories and essays I have written have felt a little too “soft.” I realized that had to step it up. Knowing that I was traveling back to my hometown of Tucson to visit my mother on Martin Luther King, jr. weekend, I made up my mind that I was going to turn the trip into my own personal “El Chapo rendezvous.” I had a great idea…
My goal was to track down Ernesto Gregory, the most successful marijuana dealer in my high school. The last I had heard of Ernesto was through a photograph taken around 2011 by our mutual high school friend, Erik. He posted a picture of the two of them on Facebook drinking in the desert. Erik had captioned the photo with He’s finally out! Welcome home boss!”
Assuming that this caption insinuated that he had just been released from some high security prison, I was under the impression that Ernesto had built up an El Chapo-like narcotics network of hundreds of foot soldiers and truckloads of contraband over the past 18 years. Why else would he have been in jail? Why would Erik call him “boss?” Plus, he was wearing the typical outfit. A Large Polo Horse logo situated on a blue collared shirt on top of True Religion designer jeans. DEA agents call this look “Narco Polo.” Now I have seen Sicario. I’ve watched Breaking Bad. I had no doubt that Ernesto had risen from low-grade weed dealer at Rincon/University High School into a southwestern drug legend – living in ranches and mansions sprawled across the Tucson and Mexico landscape.
And I was going to interview him.
I was set to fly into Tucson International Airport on January 17th. My plan was to eat a bunch of food at my mother’s house, drink wine and play three games of Scrabble all while hearing her talk about how amazing The Revenant was. The following day, I would travel deep into the center of Tucson to meet up with and interview the most intimidating and bad-ass pot dealer my high school had known.
Back in 1993, Ernesto Gregory had owned the school’s finest lowered mini truck. He had a 200-dollar Motorola pager. His “system” – or car stereo – was as custom as they came, complete with an Alpine tape deck, a Sony Discman attachment, two 12-inch Kicker woofers, some Kenwood tweeters and a constant bass thump of MC Breed, DJ Magic Mike and Wrecks ‘N Effect blasting from his trunk. He had his own apartment on Speedway, decked out with a two-foot bong, a television with cable and an unlimited financial account on a sort of early 90’s YouTube video-on-demand predecessor known as “The Box.” He always wore a black Colorado Rockies cap and Marithe and Francois Girbaud jeans beneath over-sized t-shirts of ridiculous animated Looney Tunes characters wearing 90’s hip-hop clothing. His pager code for weed was “907.” His girlfriend was the hottest girl in the senior class – a dark-haired Mexican sex goddess named Racquel Hernandez. And he was tough. As far as we knew, he had never lost a fight. In fact, I recalled him once putting my friend from Hebrew School – Adam Richford – into a headlock and smashing his nose repeatedly until he apologized for “mad-dogging” him in the parking lot. He claimed he had connections through “uncles in Nogales,” where his product came from. And everybody knew, anyone with “uncles in Nogales” was always in the drug game… In short, Ernesto Gregory was the most accomplished 18-year-old kid I had laid eyes on in my young life.
After I landed, I told my mom about my plan.
“Why the hell are you meeting with this criminal?” My mother asked on the car ride from the airport.
“He was the king, mom!” I exclaimed. “Didn’t you read the Sean Penn article?”
“Sean Penn’s an idiot, going to interview that drug dealer!”
“I thought that story was genius,” I said. “Besides, what else am I going to write? Another story about my kids not being allowed to bring refined sugar to school?”
Following a few glasses of wine at the house, my mom was trying to convince me to go to Wal-Mart to buy a knife for the meeting. I assured her that Ernesto and I were in good standing and that no concealed weapons would be necessary. She broke into a desperate sweat. We played two games of Scrabble before deciding to put the third one on pause because we were so tired that word like “uh” and “is” had begun appearing on the board.
My final memory of the evening was listening to my mom curse my name before she went to bed in the other room.
The following morning I fueled up on eggs and coffee, not knowing when I would be back to the house. The afternoon’s plans had been Facebook “messaged” to me by Erik, who I quickly learned from his profile hadn’t left Tucson since graduation. Erik wrote me that Ernesto wasn’t on social media, but he mentioned that he did watch a lot of TV and he had even seen my History Channel show and had once commented, “I know that fucker!” He also told me that Ernesto had demanded that Erik take down the aforementioned photo he had posted in 2011. Sure enough, when I searched for it, it was no longer online… All this solidified my drug-lord theory even more.
Ernesto had agreed to meet at 12:30. I took off in my mother’s Acura and sped over to an address located in the shadow of the bar-heavy downtown area. A place much hipper and enticing than it had been back in the 90’s when druggies and skinheads and homeless wandered Congress Boulevard scaring off any young people looking for a good time. Must have been all the drug money given to the city by Ernesto, I theorized.
I parked in a dirt lot and immediately recognized Erik, who looked like he had been a meth fiend since about 1994. He wore a saggy shirt, filthy pants and sported a patchy beard and shaved head. He had a kid’s BMX bicycle in his pick up truck bed, which I took as also a sure sign of a man on crystal meth. For some reason, heavy meth addicts seemed to always travel on way-too-small dirt bikes. Erik wasn’t unlike them.
I looked up just as a helicopter darted above us in the sky. DEA drone, I thought. Of course. We were most likely being followed. Hell, who knew what corner or alleyway was outfitted with a hidden camera tracking Erik’s every move. Shit, maybe the FBI had caught on to my story as well? I mean, who’s to say they weren’t tracking Erik’s Facebook page when I sent him my original message? I was starting to hit an all-time level of paranoia. Even a pigeon that flapped above us and landed on a telephone wire looked like it had a hidden camera in its eye… I tried to keep my cool.
Knowing some of the narco protocol, I began preparing for my meeting with Ernesto.
“So, should I give you my iphone for safety precautions?” I asked Erik.
“What for?” He replied.
“Oh, I just assumed I wasn’t allowed to bring any electronics to the meeting,” I said.
“We aint goin on no airplane or nothin,” he replied.
At this point, my entire drug kingpin theory went out the window. After all, in the El Chapo story, Sean Penn was told to turn his phone off in Los Angeles, nearly 14 hours before he even made contact with the cartel in Mexico. He had been forced to travel to in two separate SUV’s, two single engine planes and armored vehicles just to meet with El Chapo’s henchmen before gaining approval. He was most likely given a full body cavity search, frisked and water-boarded. Ernesto’s lone henchman was a meth fiend named Erik who was allowing me to bring my iphone into a meeting as if I was about to pitch him a new Angry Birds app to finance… Ernesto’s notorious drug cartel was crumbling before my eyes.
“Follow my truck, we’re going to shoot pool at Pockets,” Erik said.
“Pockets? We’re not going to his house or something?” I asked.
“What house?” He said. “Ernesto likes to play pool. You play pool?”
“Sure, man – I love pool,” I said.
I hate pool.
Pockets was a stale billiard hall way too brightly lit for a Wednesday afternoon. A few biker types with chain wallets and denim jackets drank Miller High Life at the bar. A Mexican guy who looked to be on his 5th or 6th Corona sat watching a soccer game on TV. One lone female, a waitress who would have slept with Bad Blake in the movie Crazy Heart after he played a set at a bowling alley, served beer. In the far west corner stood a chubby man in an Arizona Wildcats baseball cap chalking up his cue. I recognized him immediately as Ernesto Gregory.
His face had filled in and he had put on close to 35 pounds. By his footwear and saggy jeans I could tell that he hadn’t done much to change his fashion choices during the past 22 years. He wore Jordan sneakers, which were probably eight years old and had accumulated a slew of new arm tattoos, including one portrait of a woman who looked a lot like a fatter version of Racquel Hernandez. He drank what I would soon learn was Jack Daniel’s and Diet Coke and was constantly adjusting his pants from the crotch area. My first thought was that the most accomplished 18-year-old I had ever known had become the sloppiest 40-year-old I had seen in some time.
“Zach Selwyn!” He announced as I nervously approached the pool table. “What up Hollywood!”
Oh boy. He was going to call me Hollywood the rest of the day, I knew it.
“I seen you on that TV show about the words and shit!”
“Yeah, America’s Secret Slang, thanks man.”
“Yeah, American Slang! That’s it, what up big homie?”
“Nada man, just trying to catch up with some old friends, ya know?”
“Well shit, let’s shoot some stick.”
Ernesto racked up some balls and began rattling off shots. He was a damn good pool player and I knew that even at my best – which was pretty terrible – I was about to be embarrassed. But, he told me to pick a cue and even though it was 1:30 in the afternoon, I ordered a pitcher of Bud Light. The waitress brought it over and charged me for it. It cost $3.75.
As Ernesto sank shot after shot, we never once discussed drug dealing. In fact, we spent most of our time talking about girls from high school that he had always wanted to screw. Turns out, he thought I was some Olympic-level cocksman in my teens and he assumed that I had slept with every cute girl in our high school. As he dug up names from the past, I could only laugh and try to remember who some of these girls even were. Most of them I had never been intimate with, but to placate Ernesto, I played along.
“Paula Schrapner? Yeah, I nailed her,” I said. Not true.
“Jen Robbins? Blow job,” I lied.
“Did you ever get together with Laura House?” Ernesto asked. “She was DOPE!”
“Uh, we just kissed,” I said, which was actually true. One New Years Eve 1992, we had briefly kissed.
“Man, I wonder what she’s up to now?” He said, staring off at a neon sign.
As the beers flowed, I was finding that I was having a hard time getting anything out of Ernesto. He was stuck in 1993, still pining for girls who were long married, divorced and even had kids in high school of their own. He remembered football games that I hadn’t even thought about in 20 years and quoted our Economics teacher Mr. Franklin from a class I didn’t even recall taking. When I took a second to ask him about Racquel Hernandez and what happened to their relationship, he grew silent, took out a vape pen and pulled long and hard.
“You know we have three kids, right?”
“I did not know that,” I said. “Congrats. I have two. How old?”
“19, 17 and 15,” he said. “But the 15-year-old has blue eyes and blonde hair – aint no way that kid’s mine. We broke up 12 years ago. My second wife bailed on me last year. Bitch.”
Wow. Here I was, stressing out about my 9 and 5-year-old kids in Los Angeles and this guy had been divorced twice and had three kids in high school – one who he was convinced wasn’t even his. I suddenly felt like every pampered Hollywood asshole I have come to despise.
“Hey Hollywood, you never slept with Racquel, did you?” He asked.
“What? Hell no!”
There was a sudden silence. Erik looked ready to tear out my jugular. Ernesto stared me down. This was what Adam Richford would call “mad-dogging.” My mom was right… I should have bought that knife.
“Man, I’m just playing!” He said. “You should see your face, you looked like a little bitch just now!”
Everybody laughed. I pounded my beer. It was then that I decided that I had to get the whole story right here or else I was going to end up on the wrong end of a bong in the south side of Tucson come six o’clock, getting high and watching some show like Ridiculousness on a Futon. I found my courage and lowered my voice to a whisper.
“So, Ernesto – you still in the weed game?” I asked.
Ernesto looked at me and laughed. He looked at Erik and then back to the pool table.
“Man, I aint dealt weed since high school,” he said.
“I thought you went to jail or something?” I inquired.
“Shit man… I shot some endangered pregnant salamander with a rifle during bow-hunting season. Thank God it didn’t die… Luckily I only did two nights in county jail, man. Sucked ass.”
He had shot a pregnant salamander with a rifle during bow-hunting season? He did two nights in county jail? El Chapo had done something like seven years in maximum security before his first escape… As far as I know, he never complained either. Here was my one-time narcotics hero admitting to me that he was scared after doing two measly nights for shooting a fucking lizard. My story was falling apart.
“So, what about the last 15 years? I mean, what have you done for work?” I asked.
Ernesto sunk a 9 ball and looked up at me.
“I repair windshields, man. Over at Glassworx on Speedway.”
I watched him return to the table. My heart sank as he finished off the game by dropping the eight ball perfectly in the side pocket. My story was over. The most notorious drug dealer I had known had become a windshield repair guy. There was no mansion in the hills, no ranch house in Nogales… and no harem of sexy Mexican women. Ernesto had gone straight and my story was dead.
“Why do you ask, homie?” Ernesto inquired. “You need weed?”
Being that my story was a bust, I figured that the very least I could do was to go on one more pot buying deal in my old hometown. Maybe the dealer would be the drug kingpin I was looking for and I could write something about him instead.
“Yeah, sure man. Just a little bit to get me through the next two days.”
“Well, my dude sells dime bags over at hole 14 at the Golf N’ Stuff on Tanque Verde if you want to pick one up,” Ernesto said.
Dime bag? Golf N’ Stuff? I wasn’t interested. The last thing I needed was to buy Mexican weed from a kid at the same place where I had celebrated my 11-year-old birthday party. It just didn’t seem right.
“No that’s cool, man,” I replied. “I gotta get home anyway – maybe we can hook up tomorrow or something.”
“Are you sure?” He said. “This kid gets good shit… he has a couple of uncles in Nogales.”
Of course he did. I threw a five-dollar tip on the wooden table and finished off my beer. I high-fived Erik and Ernesto, promised to be in touch and promptly drove back to my mother’s house where I found her nervously pacing the living room like I was 15 again and out with a senior at my first high school party.
We opened a bottle of wine and finished our game of Scrabble…
I am uncomfortably straddling a white folding chair with 40 other people, ages ranging from 21-60 on a 103-degree day in Alta Dena waiting to work as an extra on a network TV show for the day. The pay isn’t terrible – $142.37 – or something like that, plus whatever gargantuan amounts of Craft Service snacks, candy, sodas and mini sandwiches I can shove into my shoulder bag to take home, but the overall feeling is grim. There is some old Greek food suffering beneath a sneeze guard nearby, a lot of discarded banana peels and a large fan blowing cool air towards us to keep us comfortable – like we’re NFL running backs playing a September game in Phoenix.
The scene has a prison-like feel to it. There are the lifers, the newbies and the guys who are only here for a few days trying to get their health insurance. I fall into that last category, but the fear of getting sexually assaulted by one of the older “inmates” is very real. Only problem is I can’t kick anyone’s ass to prove that I’m “tough.” Instead, I choose to bury myself into my iphone and hope the 45% charge lasts another 8 hours.
A year ago I was in New York City promoting my own TV show in Times Square for Tru TV. Now I am listening to a 22-year-old kid talk about how Hot Tub Time Machine is the main reason he dropped out of college to try to make it as an actor. You gotta love this business.
The majority of chatter amongst these “background players” or “atmosphere” is about the world of extras. Many relay the legendary scene in Ben Hur where an extra forgot to take his watch off during the chariot race. (Look it up – it’s hilarious). Others talk about how Ricky Gervais ripped off their idea when he did his Extras TV show. However, the subject that keeps coming up time and time again is the “bump up.” A “bump up” is when an extra is promoted from an extra to a principal role. Suddenly, the lucky bloke can go from zero to hero and earn Screen Actors Guild daily rate. However, according to everyone, incidents like that are more rare than finding a piece of sushi that hasn’t been in the sun for six hours beneath the cast and crew food canopy.
I am here today because I need to make $6300 before the end of the year as a way to qualify for Screen Actors Guild health insurance, a plan I have somehow managed to attain for the past twelve years. This year, however, the jobs dried up, a ton of work went non-union and I have finally aged out of the commercial actor category of “young, shaggy haired beer-drinking party guy.”
At this pay rate, it will take me working nearly every day for three months to earn the necessary SAG income to keep my family on the health plan. Alternative options – Obamacare and Cobra – basically guarantee that I will be paying 75% more money for lesser benefits. It has long been noted that SAG has terrific health care. The problem is that you need to earn an outrageous amount of money to qualify for it, and this year has been an ice bath as far as SAG work has been going.
“My dad was Jimmy Smits’ stand-in on LA Law,” a man named Sonny who was dressed as a Native American jewelry salesman bragged to the lot of us huddled beneath the blue pop-up tent. “He told me to find a niche as an extra. When I started out I only played Latino, only roles were for prisoners or a gang members. Now that I play Native American, I work all the time.”
I suddenly found myself wishing I had some Native American cheekbones.
As the day rolled along, I began to hear everybody’s story. You coop someone up for long enough, they will eventually tell you their life’s narrative. Every extra on set seemed to have a tale about the one legendary time they were “bumped up” to a principal role. One woman claimed she was bumped on Two and a Half Men because Charlie Sheen fired the original woman who had been cast for her one line of “Suck it, Charlie.” A guy who often plays blue-collar types said he got his bump on Dharma and Greg and had his career-defining moment in a bar fight scene when he raised his fists and said, “Meet my two friends… Mary-Kate and Ashley.”
And then there was Sonny, who said he specifically learned the extinct Native American language Kiowa to nab a line in a Civil War series. His line was “D’on T’ap Piii.” Which translates roughly to “See deer eating.”
I stared at Sonny for a long while. He did look familiar, as that Native American guy you sort of see in films, but I wasn’t sure. Which meant he was a great extra. One who blended in. He bragged of his work on The Alamo, Oz, The Longest Yard, Texas Rising, Hatfields and McCoys. Dances With Wolves and of course, That 70’s Show. The way he saw it, he was an integral part of these films. A guy who went uncredited – but felt he deserved all the success.
“There should be an extras lifetime achievement award,” he offered.
As a young actor, I did some extra work at age 22. At the time, like most young dreamers, I thought I was a small break away from my own series and I treated the other kids in the high school dance scene like castaways and future failures. When I started booking some jobs and enjoying the confines of an air-conditioned trailer with a private bathroom, I swore I’d never go back to the extras holding again. Yet, here I was. A 15-year TV veteran with a decent resume that I was too embarrassed to share with the other inmates. I decided to shut up and do my time and maybe get out of there with a few Clif bars and some coconut water.
Then, there was a call to action.
“Peter, Mike, Donna, Marla, Zach – party scene, now!” An Assistant Director yelled at us, directing us towards the makeup department to get touched up.
I put down my phone and walked over to the area, when Donna, one of the younger extras, mentioned that she often worked on the show. She then proceeded to refer to one of the makeup artists as her “glam squad.”
A short, effeminate man named Ty erupted in her face.
“Don’t call me ‘glam,’ don’t call me ‘glam squad’ or I’ll shove this hairbrush up your ass,” he screamed.
Emily, another makeup artist stopped him before any penetration took place. It was surreal. Never in my life had I seen a fight between an extra and a makeup artist. It was like the Cubs-Pirates bench clearing brawl in the National League Wild Card this season. You couldn’t believe it was happening.
It was a major altercation. Apparently, Ty was sent home and Donna was threatening to sue the show for harassment. It didn’t make sense. In my opinion, being called the “glam squad” wasn’t nearly as bad as being referred to as “background” or “ambience.”
My scene was fairly easy. I had to drink some iced tea and mouth the words “peas and carrots” to another extra. The entire time I was placed in the corner of the party and they shot about 9 angles and we let the main actress do six takes before she was happy. As the director stood merely three feet from me, I tried to convince him that a line would be appropriate for my character. I pitched him ““D’on T’ap Piii.”
He didn’t respond. Apparently he didn’t speak Kiowa.
Lunch was at 1:00 and the extras were told to not touch or come near any food until the entire cast and crew had eaten. I was actually quite full from snacking – so I didn’t need to rush, but a lot of the extras bitched and moaned about the lack of respect. I turned to a fellow extra named Tony, who was about my age.
“Why can’t everyone just relax?” I asked him.
“Welcome to the Screen Extras Guild,” he responded.
An hour later, following one of those naps when you fall asleep with your chin in your hand, there was a small rumbling about a potential bump up for one of the extras. Apparently, a producer had seen one of us and wanted to add a line. The bit was that the lucky person would confront the female star of the show – who was wearing a fur jacket – with an uncomfortable long hug and then said, “you feel like a plushie.” All the extras began rehearsing their lines as if this was an audition for the next Coen Brothers film and we all got excited. I even took a walk around the tent and worked on my delivery.
Eventually, the female star and the director came to the extras tent and started looking around at all of us as if we were cattle being sold at a livestock auction. The female actress passed the first few folks, skipped the youngsters and then whispered to her director, “I need a middle-aged schlub.”
I am certainly creeping up on middle age, but I don’t feel like I look that way. I’m in great shape and still have hair and my skin has been hiding from the sun throughout the years as I write my life away. However, I was chosen as one of the three finalists to play “middle-aged schlub.”
We all went and had a private audition with the actress and director. I immediately messed up my hair, raised my jeans to mom-jean height and did my best to look like a total Midwestern chump who would give a hot girl a “long hug” and make her uncomfortable.
“Mmm, you feel like a fluff – wait, what’s the line?” The first guy said, immediately messing up his chances.
“You feel like a plushie,” said the next guy who was 40 pounds heavier and 100% balder than me.
When my turn came, I looked deeply into the actress’ eyes. She stared back at me for about five seconds. I knew this was my job to lose… so I did my best to “eye-bang” her and get the job on the spot. Instead, before I could get my line out, she interrupted me.
“You look like that guy from that Tru TV show,” she said.
“I am that guy!”
“What are you doing in the extras tent?” She replied.
“Trying to get my health insurance,” I said, hoping she would feel my pain and give me the bump up on the spot. I dug deeper into my plea, mentioning that my family had been sick a lot the past year and I was a huge fan of the show.
“You might be too recognizable,” she blurted. “Second guy, you got the job.”
And with that, the fat, bald guy went off to his own folding chair, better food and a holding area behind the video village where the producers and directors hung out.
I returned to my spot in the tent. All the other extras wanted to know what had happened and I told them I relayed the story as best I could. When I mentioned that the female star had said I was “too recognizable” the tent wanted to know why. After all, not one of these folks had any idea who I was. I told them. Nobody had even heard of my show.
“I get recognized all the time,” said Sonny. “People stop me when I walk down the street.”
The rest of the day I watched my phone dwindle down towards the 3% range and eventually die. In a way, I felt like that iphone charge… A year back I was flying high at 100%. Now, I was hanging onto 3.
Before I left, I managed to fill my bag with enough high fructose corn syrup snacks to kill a small village and I hopped into the first awaiting white van that would shuttle us back to the parking lot. Luckily, I ended up in the same row as the female lead actress from earlier.
“Hey,” she said. “I’m sorry about that moment back there… I just recognized you from that other show – I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”
“Amazingly, you’re the first person to know me from that like, ever,” I said.
“I’ll tell you what. Give me your manager’s name and I’ll make sure we get you in for a small role this season,” she offered.
I couldn’t believe it. Here she was telling me that she would go out of her way to get me a speaking part on her show. I got her personal email and said I’d be sending my demo reel and headshot over immediately. We exchanged good-byes and I returned my mom jeans to the costume department and signed out for the day.
As I walked to my car, the lead actress shook my hand and said I would be hearing from the production office very soon.
In 1983, when I was eight-years-old, I almost played on a youth soccer team called “Anderson’s Muffler Divers.”
Until all the moms of our players put a stop to the whole thing.
Back in Tucson, Arizona in the early 1980’s – local businesses were petitioned to lend their names and sponsorship to our youth soccer teams. The small eight team league was composed of roughly 100 kids aging from 7-10-years-old. If you sponsored a team, you chose the name. Some businesses had teams every year – like the “Windsor Real Estate Falcons,” “The Century 21 Strikers” and the Eegee’s Sandwich Shop Cosmos.” I was placed on the “I Can’t Believe it’s Yogurt Eagles” before they pulled their sponsorship and left my neighborhood team without a name or financial backer just before the 1983 season started.
Enter Ron Anderson.
Ron Anderson was in his mid 30’s and was the proud owner of “Anderson’s Mufflers” on Tanque Verde Road. His feathered hair, tight coach’s shorts and high socks made him quite a looker around the little league banquets and kid’s pool parties held in our tiny neighborhood. His moustache was a dirty brown and his Aviator sunglasses were just cool enough to make him appear more Magnum P.I. and less “Dad from Family Ties.”
Ron Anderson’s son David was in my 3rd grade class. He was undoubtedly the best soccer player on our team – and was known for scoring four goals in a game the previous season. He had a BMX bike that we all envied and was training his hardest at becoming a car mechanic – so as to take over his dad’s business. His parents were still married, but the rumors had been circling for a while that Ron had a girlfriend on the side up in Tempe, where he often attended car conventions. Aside from that, they were a middle class working family with enough money to get by in Reagan-era America.
When Ron was approached about sponsoring our team, he jumped at the opportunity.
“I’m excited to have a team picture of the boys up in the shop,” he commented to my father. “Always good for business.”
Ron was in. However, he had his own idea of what to call the team.
“I’ll deliver the uniforms a week before our first game,” he said. “You’re gonna love the name I came up with.
Meanwhile, we all wondered what our team was going to be called. Some kids pined for “The Jedis.” Others wanted to be called “The Assassins” or “The Rappers.” None of were expecting what Ron Anderson had in mind.
“We were all a little taken aback by his choice,” my dad recollected a few days ago, nearly 33 years after Ron had delivered his news. “We certainly didn’t think it was appropriate for 8-year-olds to be on a team with that name.”
I laughed. I recalled the warm Thursday evening after practice when Ron opened up a box of uniforms for all of us to see. Like most kids, we scrambled to get our favorite numbers. (I was always #3 – you know, because of Babe Ruth) and we held up our jerseys with pride. Pride that would soon turn to confusion and bemusement.
“Anderson’s Muffler Divers?” My buddy Todd said.
“What’s a Muffler Diver?” Our goalie Jeff asked.
I watched our coach’s face sink. He knew something we didn’t and he took Ron on a long walk around the practice field.
From 100 yards away, we heard some arguing and yelling. We were able to make out “It’s my team and I’ll call them what I want to!”
Meanwhile, some kids were on their way home with jerseys in hand. My dad picked me up and I showed him my jersey.
“We’re called the ‘Muffler Divers!” I said.
“Oh Jesus,” He responded.
My mom had a similar reaction. She got on the phone with a bunch of other moms, including my best friend Trey’s mom, Candy, who demanded that a team meeting be held the next evening.
All this time, my friends and I had no idea what was going on. No internet, no cool older brothers to offer advice and no way of figuring this out… Until Jeff’s cousin from Florida told him that the phrase came from the actor Cheech’s license plate in the Cheech and Chong Movie Up in Smoke.
The next day, someone was able to get a VHS copy of Up in Smoke from the local video store. I was not allowed to watch it, but the talk at school the next day was that the movie was about smoking pot. A lot of pot. And that Cheech had a license plate that said “MUF DVR.” We were all still confused. What did this all mean? The VHS tape was eventually confiscated by my friend Trey’s mom.
“In one week, my son went from a gifted student to asking me about smoking pot and what a ‘muff diver’ was,” Trey’s mom said.
“Ron Anderson is a pig,” my mom chimed in.
“We need a new sponsor immediately,” Jeff’s mom demanded.
On the Friday before our game, a 6th grader named Ricky rounded us up on the playground and enlightened us to what a “muff diver” actually was. Of course, we were all grossed out by it, but the damage had been done. Our innocent thoughts had turned dirty for one week, and for the next decade or so, all of my friends had a pretty good laugh about Ron Anderson’s failed attempt at corrupting the youth of southern Arizona soccer. Trey sent me this t-shirt a few years ago…
Before our game on Saturday, Ron Anderson’s sponsorship was pulled. His son David remained on our team, mainly because he was our best player, but Ron was banned from all games and practices. Sadly, in the short amount of time it took us to hear that we had lost Anderson’s Mufflers as our sponsor, we were forced to design our own jerseys using magic marker and white t-shirts. We became the “Cloud Road Assassins.”
A few days later, Roger Dowd, a local business owner, offered up his store as our sponsor. We were re-named “Roger’s Boutique Blasters” and away we went. We finished in second place in the league that year.
Anderson’s Mufflers is now a gas station. Ron Anderson is apparently up in the Phoenix area and as hard as I have tried to track down his son David, I can’t seem to find him on social media. Anderson’s Muffler Divers never became a team, but it did manage to show us what a tight knit community of parents could accomplish when they are forced to protect their children.
In the meantime, my son just got the word that he finds out what his youth basketball team is going to be called next week…
As long as it’s not “Ted’s Clam Slammers,” I think I’ll be fine with whatever they choose…
I have been a hip-hop fan since the time I was given the first RUN-DMC cassette for my birthday in 1984. I dove into rap music full-fledged and became a true wannabe emcee once the Beastie Boys made white, Jewish rappers cool a couple of years later. I have every great hip-hop classic on vinyl. I stream the newest stuff that comes out within 24 hours of its release and I still get excited when I hear that De La Soul is touring or that there is a Wordstarhiphop video of a “weave snatch” at Drake’s latest pool party.
So, imagine my elation when my boss at my job asked me to work with a one-time super famous gangsta rapper for our website… and even gave me a budget to approach him with.
For the sake of this piece – (and for my safety as a human being) – let’s call this rapper “SEISMIC.” Seismic is one of those rap stars who had a lot of hits in the 90’s, but is now out of the music game altogether. Gangsta rap is all but extinct and even though Seismic has appeared on a few reality shows in the past few years, including one where he attempted to become a professional dog-walker that never aired, I was a lifelong fan and couldn’t wait to work with him.
“What should we get Seismic to do for us?” I asked my boss.
“I think it would be funny to have him read the children’s book Goodnight Moon,” my boss suggested.
The idea was approved and through a connection, I was able to obtain Seismic’s manager’s information. He went strictly by the name “Dope Green.” I dialed up his phone on a Monday morning, hoping to close the deal by the end of the week.
“Who dis?” A terse voice greeted me with.
“Hi, my name is Zach Selwyn from TBS Digital,” I said.
“We already got cable,” the voice said.
“No, no… I’m from TBS – I’m calling about hiring Seismic to do some web stuff for us? Is this Dope Green?”
“Oh shit. Hole up.”
I waited on the other end of the phone for what seemed like an eternity. I was obviously muted, because all I heard was silence. For eight minutes. Finally, Dope Green returned.
“What’s the deal?” He said. I don’t wanna do any talking over the phone, can you come through to our spot? We in a small warehouse by the Burbank Airport…”
I was beginning to feel like I was a molly dealer who had to drive to deliver pills to some video set. I asked my boss if I could leave to go meet Seismic and his crew. He said no.
I told Dope Green that I was not able to leave the office.
“Shit. Let me call you back from my burner phone then.”
A few minutes later, a blocked number rang up my cell phone and I explained that we wanted Seismic to read Goodnight Moon to camera. The entire process would not take more than a minute and we had real money to offer him. Five thousand dollars.
Dope Green laughed.
“You from TBS? Like the network? And you tryin’ to pull off Seismic for five G’s?” He said. “Seismic don’t do shit for less that 50 thousand… And we need crisp hunneds – in a bag. That’s how we do business,” he said.
50 K? To read a children’s book on camera? For a rapper who hadn’t had a hit since Tupac was alive? As excited as I was to work with Seismic, I had no choice but to turn down his demands.
“Sorry, Mr. Green, but 50 grand is way out of our budget,” I replied.
“Go call Ja Rule then,” he said. And hung up.
I started sweating. Not because I was nervous that I wasn’t going to get my job finished, but because I truly felt like there was a chance that Seismic’s manager was going to send some lead pipe carrying mother-fuckers after me. I went back to my boss and asked if we could sweeten the pot a little bit to get him to read the book.
“I guess we could double it,” my boss said.
“What about the ‘crisp hunneds,’” I asked. Can I go to the bank and cash a check or something?
“Are you kidding? Tell him we need a 1099 or W-2. There is no way we’re going to pay him cash in a paper bag… get real, man.”
I went back to Dope Green and informed him that the paper bag idea was out. And that we could get him a little more money, but not Seismic’s going rate. I offered 10K.
Dope Green actually said we could try to work something out. BUT, Seismic had some demands. First, he wanted a development deal with the network. Second, he would have full creative control over his original TV show idea, including handling the directing, casting and production of the 13-episode comedy he had in his head. It was Empire meets Friday. A comedy about an aging rapper (Think Chris Tucker as a Warren G. type) on the road trying to get paid. I asked what some of the storylines would be.
“It’s a rapper trying to deal with thirsty hoes, his baby mamas, his bitch ex-wife and a bunch of kids and shit.”
I never got to meet Seismic. When I informed Mr. Green that I had no power in getting TBS to pony up a development deal for him and his TV idea, he told me that I could forget about getting anyone to read Goodnight Moon. Let alone, a rapper as dope as Seismic. The deal was done.
I walked into my boss’ office and told him that deal had gone away. He was disappointed and shook his head, telling me that I should come up with an alternative personality that could read Goodnight Moon for our website.
“I bet Sisqo is available,” I offered.
My boss laughed and turned me down.
I went back to my desk and put on some RUN-D.M.C…
*Get ready for the podcast launch of “Missi and Zach Might Bang!” Follow on Twitter & Instagram! Instagram @mightbang Twitter @mightbang1
Like most of us, I have Googled ex-girlfriends from high school and college to see what they look like now. I’ve found most of them online, to no immediate fanfare – (Other than finding out one girl I made out with in high school is now a grandmother…) – but nobody has captured my social media imagination more than a girl I once dated in 1991 named Jenny Herren.
I have spent the better part of two decades wondering what happened to this girl. I have hunted Linked in, Google images, Myspace and Facebook hoping to see if Jenny was still beautiful, single and yes, even alive. (When I came across an obituary of a Jenny Herren in Houston last year, I was relieved to see that the woman was 89-years-old).
In today’s world, where the Government can track you every time you visit collegeorgy.com, it might seem impossible, but I was convinced that Jenny Herren had no digital footprint.
And then my sister alerted me that she had found her.
Jenny truly blossomed into my boner jam around 1991 when we randomly sat next to each other at a movie theater, watching the film If Looks Could Kill starring Richard Grieco. The film was so terrible, we mocked and heckled it together like we were boyfriend and girlfriend on a regular date. I was sprung, and within a week I had made her a romantic mixtape featuring my “closer songs” (Chris Isaak, Sting, Dire Straits) and had asked her out to the mall the following weekend.
The mall was fun, but I couldn’t get a read on her, so I took it as a sign to not present her the mixtape just yet. It burned a hole in my pocket. I dropped her off without so much as a kiss and went home and scribbled three pages into my journal about her sense of humor, her laugh and – well – her incredible tits.
A week later at a high school football game, I carefully planned a casual interaction with Jenny by the snack bar. When I saw her, I dreamed we’d be heavy petting beneath the bleachers by the end of the third quarter. Instead, our mutual friend Tanya Brightly cock-blocked me by taking Jenny away and leaving me with my hands dug way deep into the pockets of my Guess jeans.
Finally, I got the second date I was looking for. It was a month later and I had it all planned. I would get some weed from my stepbrother, take her to see Hot Shots at the $1.00 theater and then close the deal in the abandoned church parking lot at the top of Swan Road – a notorious make-out spot overlooking the city where horny teenagers tried to get past second base.
The movie was hilarious, and things were going great. We stopped and got ice cream bars at a Circle K and made our way to the church. I lit the pipe and passed it. I became horribly paranoid. We looked out at the city. Silence. There was that perfect awkward teenage feeling arising between us… I lightly brushed my hand against hers and grabbed it. I pulled her in and we kissed… Soft and beautiful, alone beneath the Tucson sky, awash in the possibilities of what lay out in the real world ahead… I was 16 and in heaven… And then a hesher dude named Paul Humphries shined a flashlight on us from his pick-up truck.
“GET SOME, SELWYN!” He yelled, blinding both of us in the process.
“Fuck you, Paul,” I screamed back. When I turned back around, I noticed that Jenny had walked away.
“I think you should take me home,” she said. “It’s getting late.”
On the ride home, Jenny said she didn’t think we should hang out anymore. She said she wasn’t sure why, but that something didn’t feel right. I tried every move in the book to get her to reconsider, but when I finally dropped her off, she took off running inside and I have not seen her since our high school graduation night… Until my sister found her Facebook page.
“Her name is now Jennifer Klein,” my sister informed me. “Married a guy named Mark Klein. Air Force instructor. They live in San Diego and don’t have any kids as far as I can tell.”
My sister should have been a private investigator.
I immediately began cyberstalking Jennifer Klein like a tween looking for “Shirtless Zayn Malik” pictures. I wanted to know everything. I was hoping she’d be open to a conversation – and maybe she could shed some light on our night together all those years ago.
Meanwhile, my wife was in the other room asking me what I was doing.
“Writing,” I responded, feeling guilty that I was busy looking up a girl I had made out with 25- years prior.
Many of my friends have spent hours digging into online profiles of exes, looking for something that proves that there was a reason it never worked out between them. My buddy’s wife found her ex-boyfriend on Facebook, posting about how great it felt to “finally be out of prison.” My other friend’s ex had nine children and was divorced twice. In fact, the majority of people I know have revealed how stoked they were to find their exes all out of shape, full of grey hair and still living in their hometowns.
Amazingly, Jennifer hadn’t aged at all. Her profile picture was taken in a bikini in Mexico, where she posted that she had been “marlin fishing” for a week straight. She posed holding a Corona. She was tan, supple and looked terrific. I added her as a friend and awaited a response.
When she did not accept my friend request a week later, I wondered why. I felt as nervous as I did the night I had watched her running into her house. I felt like a fucking teenager again.
Meanwhile, I got out my old high school journal. The one that I had kept since I was 14. I re-read the page from my date with Jenny – and I felt like a complete horny moron. I had written the following:
October 16, 1991 – I kissed her! After packing a bowl of dirty Mexi-schwag that my stepbrother traded me for a Van Halen CD, we made out at the church. (My old hookup spot – where I macked on Marni Thomas last year in my dad’s Jeep!) My hair looked good… like Luke Perry! But then that dumb hesher Paul ruined everything. Shit. I hope she calls me back I really want to feel those heaving melons.
October 23, 1991 – I have called Jenny 15 times and she has not returned my calls. I don’t know why. Do I suck? Am I ugly? Maybe she just hasn’t been getting my phone calls?
November 3rd, 1991 – I heard she told Tanya to tell me to back off and that she might get a restraining order. What the hell did I do? I feel like a creep… I just wish she’d give me a chance… Man. I’m so pissed. Luckily, this weekend is Adam’s party and there is some freshman girl named Daisy who said she thought I was cute. Shit, I’m almost 17 – ! I’m so old!!!
After three weeks or not hearing a response from Jenny, I re-checked her page. She had been there, alright, obviously ignoring my friend request. I reached out one last time, this time just posting something on her wall – something that I thought would be funny. I wrote:
Hey – I still have a mix tape I made you in 1991 – Any chance you want it?
Jennifer Klein never responded. But, the next day, a familiar person did. It was Tanya Brightly, who had commented on my post. She added the following: Unbelievable… 25 years later and Zach still doesn’t get the hint.
I was mortified. I had been lusting after this girl for a quarter century, and Tanya Brightly was STILL cock-blocking me.
I issued a response, including a photo of me and my family – saying that I was not a stalker – but just reaching out as an old friend who was trying to hold on to whatever memories I retained from my youth. I also asked Jenny if she remembered our night at the church.
Finally, Jennifer Klein wrote me a message.
Hi Zach – long time – I’m married to a guy in the Air Force – no kids to speak of – congratulations your family looks beautiful. Re: that night at the church… I have no memory of it. Sorry! Oh, I’d love to hear that mixtape!
I haven’t sent her the mixtape yet. I think I’ll let her wait around for me this time…
Ed. Note: Zach has since been blocked from Jennifer Klein’s Facebook feed.
WATCH ZACH’S MUSIC VIDEO “DONG ON THE WHITEBOARD!”
At a bar near my house a few nights ago, I met an interesting man. He was very handsome, sporting a cool undercut hair-do and rocking a massive, manly thick beard. A bearded man myself these days, I inquired about how he achieved such unbridled thickness and shape.
“I grew it,” he said.
“Oh,” I said. “Right.”
After a few more lagers, I got to asking what this guy did for a living – as he was constantly tapping his phone for the duration of our hang.
“I’m a beard model bro,” he exclaimed “On Instagram.”
“What? Really?” I inquired.
“Yeah man – you got a pretty thick beard, you should try it.”
“Maybe I will.”
“You gotta get that beard money son!” He said.
Beard money? Instagram? Paid for just having facial hair? Yes, believe it. The man, whose name I forget – but may have been Rylance, told me he made over 100 thousand dollars last year hash-tagging and re-posting snaps of him rocking his beard. He also mentioned that he had turned down money to shave it from Gillette for a commercial.
“They offered me 25 grand, but my beard ‘shave rate’ is 40K,” he explained.
“Shave rate?” Dude. I tested as an actor for a TV pilot last year and my acting rate was 1/10th of that. I was blown away.
When Rylance finally turned his phone around to show me his pictures – it became abundantly clear that I might not have the “beard earning potential” that he currently had. Mainly because the majority of his Instagram phots were of him posing shirtless, with rippling abs and a diary of chest tattoos scrawled all over his torso.
Instagram would probably pay me to put my shirt back on.
Still, he passed me the email of his “social media manager” and I emailed her the next day. Her name was Tracy. Here is our conversation:
Zach: Hi. Rylance gave me your information, I’m interested in Instagram beard modeling.
Tracy: Great. Can you post a photo of your beard doing something cool and we’ll see what kind of traffic you get?
Zach: My beard doing something cool? Like what – shopping for albums?
Tracy: Or standing in front of an old shipyard or a train or a barn or something.
Zach: Copy that. Will share later this week.
And just like that, it was on. Being that I made a grand total of 2600 dollars as a writer the previous year, I figured a quick move to Instagram beard modeling might be a nice career change. I took a road trip up north and decided I was going to shoot some killer beard photos and get myself an agent.
My first stop was in from of a barn, as requested. Then I took my shirt off and did my best “suck-it-in pose” while staring off into the distance at nothing in particular. Finally, I snapped some pics of me standing in front of a record player holding a guitar case. Boom. I had my entire beard modeling portfolio.
I decided to post the barn photo first.
I emailed Tracy and told her to look out for the coming revolution. With any luck, I’d be getting offers from worldwide companies to pose while holding a Kit-Kat or something for 10 large. She quickly emailed me back after looking at my Instagram page.
Tracy: Is this a joke? You have way too many clothes on.
Zach: Too many clothes on?
Tracy: Show off your tats.
Uh-oh. Tats? One thing I am not ashamed to admit, is that I am tattoo-less. Sure, I almost got a Pearl Jam “stick figure” in high school on my ankle – but I chickened out at the last minute. Still, I decided I could doodle something on my chest in Photoshop and try to pass it off as cool.
When I looked at the other models currently killing it on Instagram, however, it became clear that one tattoo would not be enough. Apparently the current trend is to get ridiculous tattoos all over yourself. Your chest, your neck and more recently, on your face. I slowly felt my beard modeling career slipping away, but I still took a chance.
I took a few more pictures and added some tattoos. Knowing this was my last chance to pull off a modeling contract, I sent them off to Tracy before I posted them – asking her if she felt these might generate some serious beard traffic.
I waited for what seemed like hours for a response. When she finally got back to me, it wasn’t the response I had expected.
Tracy: So, I don’t think I’m going to pursue you as a beard model any further.
Zach: Can you tell me why?
Tracy: Well, for one – you’re what, 37?
Tracy: But, I was looking through your other Instagram photos and it looks like you have two kids? If you want I can submit you to another trending site – Have you heard ofthe Instagram account,“Hot Dads With Babies?”
Hot Dads With Babies? Yep. It’s a real thing. I went and looked it up and was immediately horrified. Even though they only had a few posts, I was fairly convinced I might be able to sneak myself up on that page someday, so I asked Tracy what the average “dad with baby rate” was for a guy selected for the account.
Tracy: It’s not as popular as anything with beards, so it’s only like 7 dollars per post.
Zach: Oh. OK, well I’ll think about it.
And with that, Tracy was off to help Rylance clock another 50 grand for posing shirtless with a Clif energy bar, secretly dreading the day his beard went grey and his tattoos started to fade.
I went home to see my kids and brought them into the kitchen, where I asked them a simple question…
“How’d you guys like to make 7 dollars an Instagram post?”
Beyonce’s “Lemonade” album has everyone buzzing about just who “Becky with the good hair” could be. Some think it could be fashion designer/stylist Rachel Roy… Others are saying Rita Ora. So we decided to find other Becky’s who may just be the “sidepiece” Beyonce was talking about.
Becky Ditchfield is a local star in Denver. Plus she’s got good hair. NO, great hair. Could this be her?
Becky Gloriod. Real Estate Agent. Colorado Springs.
That’s really good hair.
Maybe Jay-Z was house hunting in Colorado and took it upon himself to get down with Becky Gloriod. Hmmm…
The “Becky” from “Oh my God Becky, look at her butt” Sir Mix-a-Lot “Baby Got Back” video.
Perhaps the most famous Becky I know of from that video. Oh, and check out that hair. In the 80’s, people said that hair was “Hype.”
Becky Lynch. Wrestler.
Becky Lynch is a wrestler. With GREAT hair. Woah. It even looks like Bey’s hair back in the day. Who’s to say this wasn’t the girl she was talking about?
Becky Hobbs. Country Singer.
Becky Hobbs has siccccck hair. Look at that feather hanging down there. She also had a top ten hit with “Lets Get Over Them Together” back in the day. Maybe her and Jay-Z are planning a duet themselves?
Bucky from “Captain America: Civil War.”
Hmm. Maybe she didn’t say “Becky” at all. Maybe she said “Bucky?” Jay-Z likes action movies and this guy has hair we all envy. You just never know. That Beyonce is so sneaky.
Check out Zach’s hit song “All My Friends Have DUI’s”