I just had the orgasm of the century. Remember that Mento in a Diet Coke two-liter experiment that exploded on the internet about 15 years ago? Well, no—it wasn’t like that. But it was intense, and one of those “starts three minutes before it ends” kind of orgasms…. And guess what? It wasn’t due to some steamy extramarital affair with some porn star from an XXX adult film called Stranger Thongs…. This was because of the potent cocktail of THC and aphrodisiac properties that are in certain modern cannabis products, mixed with a Livinia Sex Gummy, some terpene-forward flower, and a female pheromone arousal oil. I may have sprained an ankle.
In the past few years, modern cannabis has refined multiple new products that can enhance one’s sexual libido and appetite to a point where the adjective “purple” can be used to visually describe an erection….
Zach Selwyn has begun hosting a comedic “Real Fake News” Podcast for www.Audioup.com called AUDIO UP NEWS NETWORK or AUNN. Download EVERYWHERE and SUBSCRIBE!
Secondly, Zach is working on the script for Warner Brothers COuntry Artis UNCLE DRANK’s new Podcast. Follow him on IG @uncle_drank
This past weekend, I decided to have a yard sale. It sounded like the perfect idea. A fun and social way for me to unload the over-crowded boxes that had been shoved in the back of my garage and turn them into some serious cash. After all, who wouldn’t want to buy my old snap button western shirts I once wore on tour with my band? Or my vintage t-shirt collection that ranged from soft 1970’s Wild Turkey Bourbon logos to an original Rick Springfield Working Class Dog Hanes Beefy-T? Or even the dozens of valuable beer coozies I had collected rifling through Goodwill crates across the country that I just never used? And what neighborhood fashionista wouldn’t jump at the chance to own a pair of my wife’s designer leather pants for a steal at $100? Or any of the hundreds of blouses she had earned working in the fashion industry for twenty years? The way I saw it, my yard sale was more of a vintage pop-up shop than a junk sale – and I was expecting nothing but a hipster, gypsy crowd with millennial money in their wallets and a dream of buying an old suede fringe vest on their minds.
Oh how wrong I was.
The Craigslist ad I had placed stated that the sale would begin at 7 o’clock in the morning. However, a crowd of freakish haggling ghouls began showing up at 5:30, knocking on my pre-dawn door asking me if I would give them a sneak peak into my wares before everybody else arrived. Some came by van, others by bike. One man, I had assumed by the sleeping bag he carried, had camped out on our sidewalk the night before like we were about to release tickets to a One Direction concert. Suddenly, having a yard sale became somewhat frightening but I thought of all the time it would save me having to deal with ebay and those pesky fees, shipping costs and trips to the post office.
Our first early morning visitors were two Spanish-speaking men who were very interested in knowing if we had any “tools for sale.” Having only owned a screwdriver, some nails and a hammer in my illustrious DIY carpentry career, I calmly told them no – before inquiring if they would be interested in a brass Jackson Browne belt buckle.
“No, gracias,” the older gentleman said. He took a look at my daughter’s rusty Frozen decorated bicycle before driving off.
The guy with the sleeping bag asked if we had any bedding and/or pillows for sale. I told him no, and asked him if he’d be interested in a Jane Fonda Workout vinyl record.
No sale.
Vintage T-shirts. Priced at $10. Sold for $1.00
Our next visitor arrived around 6:00 a.m. She was an older, haggard bag lady who had over 45 satchels draped off of her weathered bicycle. In the knapsack that was slung around her shoulder she carried an actual brass tai-chi sword that she insisted on wielding in front of my son in a terrible re-enactment of her early morning lesson she had just taken in Griffith Park. After frolicking around the sidewalk like Westley in The Princess Bride for 25 minutes, she finally walked in and inquired about buying some iron rods and curtain rings we had recently taken down from our inside windows. Originally, these rods were purchased for $300 when my wife was doing some interior decorating to her old home in Laurel Canyon. Feeling generous, I offered her the rods and rings – with the curtains included – for $200. She stared at me as if she was about to run me through with her weapon. She mumbled something beneath her breath and eventually moved onto the junk table I had assembled in the back corner. She picked up a set of hippopotamus salt-and-pepper shakers and giggled while examining them.
“These are fun,” she exclaimed.
“My mom brought me those from Morocco,” I told her, lying. In reality they were Goodwill purchases I had used as a prop in a film I had made with my brother in 2011.
“Could you do ten bucks?”
Again, she laughed and twirled around the yard and started speaking what seemed like French to nobody in particular. She wrote her name down in a tiny notebook she had hidden in her stocking, ripped the page out and handed it to me. As she pressed it into my palm, she whispered, “Call me when you realize you’re asking way too much money for everything.”
I looked at the slip of paper. Her name was Laurette Soo-Chin-Wei Lorelai.
Around 7:15, the floodgates began to open. More and more groups began appearing, asking for mainly larger items such as furniture and floor lamps. I was somewhat amazed that no one had snapped up the Crosley turntable, the Pablo Neruda collection of poetry or the coffee table book Nudie: The Rodeo Tailor. After 45 minutes, I was beginning to wonder if that sword-carrying woman was correct… Was I charging too much?
I quickly Googled Yard Sale Etiquette.
According to yard sale laws, the average price of most of your items that are not bulky or still in the packaging – should be around $1.00. My average item was in the 5-10 dollar range, and in my mind, totally reasonable. It wasn’t until I made my first sale that I had a change of direction for the rest of the afternoon.
In 2007 or so, I had bought my son a collectible Star Wars denim jacket with R2-D2 and C-3PO sewn on the back at a trendy Farmer’s Market for $45. Even though he had probably thrown up and peed on it a few dozen times during his toddler-hood, I felt that $30 was a fair asking price. When I mentioned this to the interested woman who had been measuring it up against her own 3-year-old’s torso, she scoffed and hung it back on the rack.
“Ay de mi!” She said in Spanish.
Determined to make my first sale, I decided to bargain with her.
Now, I come from a long line of world-class bargainers. My mother and late grandma used to waltz through Canal Street in New York City with peacock-like confidence, able to nudge an unwavering vendor into dropping the price on an imitation Louis Vitton handbag from 500 dollars to roughly 50 cents in under three-minutes. Together they played the street like silver-tongued Jewish barter hounds, satisfied only when departing the area with 3-5 purses, imitation Rolexes and fake Prada luggage beneath their arms. They have been taking me to the secret inner space of fake handbags since I was about two-years-old and as far back as I can remember, they were the Ronda Rouseys of price negotiating… In fact, I recall one legendary trip where my mother actually made a profit while buying a purse.
Canal Street Fake Handbags. Fertile Hunting Grounds for Jewish Women Across the World.
Throughout the years, I have mastered the talent myself, but mainly when talking down a woman who once offered to cornrow my hair on the beach in Puerto Vallarta. I have also, never really been the haggled, only the haggler… Nevertheless, I felt that my family history had prepared me to challenge this woman over the Star Wars jacket to the very end… and I would not give in.
“Maam, could you do 25?” I asked.
“How about one dollar,” she said.
“What?” I screamed. “This is Star Wars! Like, collectible!”
“Senor, I will give you two dollars.”
At this point I knew my grandmother was watching down from heaven like a boxing trainer watching her prizefighter take hits in the ring. I refused to back down, so I just slowly lowered my price until she agreed. I decided I would not go lower than 18 dollars.
“20 bucks,” I said.
“3 dollars,” She barked,
“18?” I pleaded.
“Adios, senor,” she said, walking away. Oh my God! What was wrong here? Had I lost the sale? Was I going to be stuck with this jacket in my garage for the next 30 years? Like most hoarders I thought to myself, maybe when my son has a kid of his own, he will give this to him… but I knew that was a long way off. Finally, I surrendered. Mainly as a way to break the ice and make my first sale of the day.
“Maam? 3 dollars is fine,” I said. The lady reached in her wallet.
“How about two?” She offered.
I paused. I looked up at grandma, undoubtedly shaking her head in disappointment from that great Nordstrom’s Rack in the sky.
“Fine,” I said. She pressed two wrinkly dollars into my hands and just like that, I was $42 in the hole, but I had made my first sale of the day.
As the day wore on, my prices dipped lower and lower. I sold a handful of action figures for .25 cents a piece, a stack of vintage T-shirts for a dollar each and had the day’s biggest score when an unopened buffet dish that we had received for our wedding in 2004 went for $4.00. Nearly every item of clothing I was selling dropped in price by 99% by noon. My wife’s leather pants went for two bucks. The Rick Springfield shirt went for a dollar, as did the Mumford and Sons shirt, some Jack Daniel’s glasses and a silver booze flask that had an engraving of a man bass-fishing while naked. As the yard emptied, my wallet grew fatter and fatter – albeit with one-dollar bills – until I found myself exhausted, bored and anxiously wanting to count the bankroll in my pocket. My guess was that I had made $100 or so, based on the flurry of quick deals I made unloading the DVD collection, stacks of children’s books and my unbelievably large collection of novelty trucker hats… which had sold to some professional tree service men who had been working on a job a few blocks down. (Which might explain why if you drove by Franklin Avenue last weekend, you saw six guys on ladders wearing hats with My Other Car is Your Mom on them).
A customer scoffs at the $7 asking price for a pair of diamond earrings.
The most disgusting sale of the day went to the three ladies who argued over who would get to wear my wife’s used LuLuLemon Yoga pants. In retrospect, I probably could have sold them to some perverted Japanese businessmen in a vending machine for $60 a piece. Instead, I settled for – yep you guessed it – a dollar.
A crisis struck when I sold my son’s old Nintendo Wii console for ten bucks. Originally, he had wanted $100 for it… Which is 90 dollars more than what the smug bastards at GameStop will give you for the same item. Convincing him that I was a master salesman, I let him give me the Wii to sell at the yard sale instead. Sadly, I buckled early and let it go for $10.00 and I threw in some accessory called a Skylanders Portal. Not even sure that the console worked, I was just happy that I had made a double-digit sale. My son was not thrilled at all.
“You’re the WORST!” He screamed at me. “That was worth at least 300 dollars!”
One thing that kids fail to recognize is how fast technology loses value in today’s ever-changing world. Still, there was very little convincing him that I had struck a decent deal and he continuously stuck his head out the door and screamed at me for my “epic fail.” Ultimately, I ended up giving him the ten bucks even though I was the one who had bought him the original console for $275 back in 2010. Screw technology.
My son, the gamer, was pissed when I unloaded his old Wii for $10
Around 4, the traffic had dwindled down to some neighbors, who we basically just handed items for free to get the stuff off of our property. Although it seemed like a bunch of things had been sold, I was still staring down a massive pile of clothes and books and toys and albums and knick-knacks and just straight up garbage. I prayed for some Saudi billionaire to walk in with a briefcase full of cash and just tell me he was taking the whole lot for $50. Alas, it looked as if my day was over. I cracked a beer and peed on a cactus.
And then, like a boll weevil out of a nearby hedge, Laurette Soo-Chin-Wei Lorelai re- appeared, tai chi sword in hand, pushing her bike in my direction with a Cheshire cat-like simper on her face.
Like a panther she strutted around the sale, inquiring about every single item remaining. She decided to mention that she was a regular on “the scene” and that she could tell you what was going to sell the minute she sets foot in someone’s rummage sale. She offered to help me whittle down my items to try and resell the next day for the bargain price of 10 dollars an hour… I relented. All I was thinking was “get the hell out of my yard.”
I started gathering everything that was left over and throwing them in boxes. She suddenly slid next to me, holding the iron curtain rods, the rings and the hippopotamus salt-and-pepper shakers from earlier.
“Ready to make a deal?” She asked.
“Lady,” I said. “Give me five dollars and go back to whatever hole you crawled out of.”
She handed over a bill, pressing it into my palm and stared directly into my eyes.
“Told you so,” she said.
That night I didn’t finish cleaning up. I was too wiped out. I left the majority of my once valuable wardrobe out for whoever in the neighborhood wanted it. A few things disappeared, which I didn’t even care about. It might be cool to see the neighborhood homeless guy wearing my old Blues Traveler T-shirt.
The next morning I threw all the remaining crap into my car and drove it directly to the Out of the ClosetThrift Store. I shoved it into a filthy back room along with thousands of other donations. As we unloaded all the boxes and unsold clothes and books and toys, they asked me if I thought the huge haul of stuff was worth more than $500. After all, a big donation would serve as a great tax write-off at the end of the year. Unaware of this little loophole, I figured that, yes – this crap was definitely worth more than $500.
They gave me a slip to present to my tax preparer and I drove home, satisfied that I had at least made a donation that would help me out financially.
As for my bankroll, I finally had the chance to count my earnings at the end of the sale. For nine hours of bargaining, labor and sweating under 100-degree weather, I had made a grand total of $47.
Somewhere up in heaven, my grandma was shaking her head in disappointment…
Somehow, Wham! Fantastic, Donna Summer and the Jane Fonda workout vinyl did not sell.
Zach is excited to announce he has published his first crime mystery novel, “Austin Translation.”
Set in Austin, Texas during the summer of 2020, true crime podcaster Rob Stoner finds himself set up for the murder of a young girl. Now, using his amateur sleuthing skills, he has to clear his name, find the killer and save his marriage all during a global pandemic.
Please download on Amazon.com – Physical signed copies will be available for purchase upon request for $10.00 in the near future.
48 hours into a nine-day cruise on the Baltic Sea, I successfully traded a first season DVD of the TV show SMILF for a bottle of French wine.
Confused?
About two weeks ago, my friend Dan asked me to help punch up some scripts for a new live music/theatrical show he was producing on the Lightdream Cruise Line – a ship that is the size of some small cities – with 4000 passengers aboard and over 1200 staff members… Always one for an adventure, I took the gig, fondly recalling the last time I was on a cruise back in high school… I bathed in crystal blue waters, ate unlimited five star food, seduced beautiful women and sipped tropical cocktails by the pool… I was hoping this would be the same thing.
Ehhh, not so much.
Following a 17-hour travel day, Dan, the show’s producer Mark and I boarded the ship in Brest, France. Following our long trip, I was craving a glass of red wine and some Netflix. We met our cruise liasion, Sarah, and she gave us the lay of the land…
“So where’s like, the best bar on the ship?” I asked.
“Oh honey, there’s no alcohol until we reach Copenhagen in four days,” she said.
“Excuse me?” I replied.
“Yep. And all the restaurants are closed. Oh, and be aware that there’s no internet or facilities open now… This is called ‘Dry Dock.’”
“And where can I jump overboard?”
As I contemplated learning how to make “toilet merlot” in my cabin, I got the rundown on what exactly “Dry-Dock” is.
“Dry-Dock” is when the ship is being refurbished, rebuilt and cleaned. For weeks, it is in a state of disrepair and thousands of contractors from over 50 countries tear up carpets, put up stages and gather for their three meals a day in the makeshift dining room. People are monitored, allowed 45 minute meal windows, told to avoid sexual contact, can be kicked off board if they have weapons or contraband and nobody is allowed off the ship once they are on…
Sound familiar? Yeah, that’s because it sounds exactly like prison.
The view during ‘Dry Dock.’
If I was going to write a Yelp review about the makeshift dining room where we were forced to eat, I would describe it as “Just a cut below Cracker Barrel…with all the ambience of a shopping mall Red Robin.”
Still, it was our only option and Dan, Mark and I became our own little prison gang, talking under our breaths about Broadway shows and musical theater as massive Scottish, Irish and Croatian guys cursed in their own languages, swallowed gallons of coffee and made us feel like we had to kick one of their asses to establish our dominance in the jail yard…
“I guarantee you we’re the only guys in this dining room right now discussing The Greatest Showman,” Mark said.
The food was constantly recycled and turned into a “new dish” the following day. For instance, the leftover “Breaded Chicken and Peppers” from the night before suddenly showed up again the next morning in the “Breaded Chicken Veggie Scramble.” At one point, I counted four meals in a row featuring a fish called branzino.
Enjoying my 5th Branzino dish of the week…
Common Mistake
One day in the slop line, I chatted up one particularly nice Irish pipe-fitter named Lochlin as we were served what was being passed off as “Lamb Stew.”
“Hey man – where’s the booze on this ship?” I whispered. “Somebody’s gotta have something?”
“Booze? You gotta cohme to Deck One,” he replied in a thick brogue. “We smahggled in everything… booze, dihrty mags, DVD’s.”
And just like that, my trip was saved.
“Wait – why do you have DVDs?” I inquired.
“Shite – with no intehrnet – DVD’s are our only fohrm of entertainment. They’re in high demahnd… Unless you have a thumb drive with pornahgraphy on it – that’s what everybady wants.”
He wasn’t lying. As it turns out, thumb drives with porn on them were traded among the contractors like cigarettes at Riker’s Island. If I could only download my weekly browsing history on Redtube.com, I’d be a very rich man.
“So how much are DVD’s worth?” I asked.
“Depends,” he said. “I just traded seahson one of Stranger Things for four pahcks of smokes… it was fookin’ brahlliant.”
It was then that I remembered I had a few DVD’s with me in my backpack. With any luck, I’d have something valuable on me… I also had a thumb drive that, if I recalled correctly, had Toy Story 3 on it from a family trip a few years back. I ran to my cabin to assess my stash.
In my bag, I had brought DVD’s of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (Why I had this I have no idea.) Major League and Major League 2 (Research for a baseball comedy I was writing) and the first season DVD screener of the Showtime TV show SMILF – about a single mom who dates the wrong guys in Boston. It didn’t look very good, but the actress was hot. (I was sent the screener by the Emmy nominating committee, fyi).
I then checked my thumb drive, for Toy Story 3. It was gone. The only thing on it was my latest acting “demo reel.”
That night, Dan and I went downstairs to Deck One to see if we could get our hands on anything… a sip of wine, a beer… something to take away the endless jet lag and long nights of rehearsal.
Lochlin vouched for us – and the DVD’s were thrown on a table. About nine guys came and glanced at them, seeing if any of these films seemed appealing. Sadly, nobody was interested in Benjamin Button or the Major League movies.
“The Benjamin Button movie is too sad and we all fookin hate bahseball,” Lochlin informed me.
SMILF however, had some people intrigued. They wanted to know if the girl got naked, had any sex scenes, if it was funny, etc. I told them I wasn’t sure because I hadn’t watched it yet, but a small bidding war began.
My SMILF DVD’s started a crew-wide bidding war
One guy offered up a German porn magazine and two Heinekens. A Croatian guy said he had two packs of cigarettes and homemade Rakia – some type of homemade alcohol. Finally, Lochlin offered me a bottle of Bordeaux he had paid a Phillipino busboy 5 euros to smuggle on.
Lochlin took me to the bowels of the ship. These were the DiCaprio cabins from Titanic and the party going on down there was exactly what you think it would be. A guy was DJ-ing off a laptop, people were dancing and drinking… and there was even a guy giving makeshift haircuts using what I would refer to as my “pube clippers.”
10 Euros got you a trim.
In Lochlin’s room, he showed me how he and four other guys slept in the same room and shared a “Shoilet” – which is a combination of a shower and a toilet. I looked in the bathroom and nearly had a panic attack. These guys were living like pirates in the 1700’s but without barrels of rum, wenches and chests of gold.
He also told me the ship’s morgue was only two doors down the hall.
“The morgue?” I cringed. “For what?”
“About ten fuckers a year die on this ship,” he said. “Someone will prahbably die before we set sail tomorrow.”
Jesus Christ.
I urgently prodded Lochlin to produce the wine and I swiftly stuck it in my bag. I also noticed a couple of other bottles in his room as well. With two more days until Copenhagen, I offered up my thumb drive for another one.
“OK, look my friend – I’m actually an actor – on this drive is a three minute demo reel of a bunch of TV shows and movies I’ve been in… it aint much, but maybe worth at least a glass of wine?”
“Hmmm, “he said, actually contemplating the trade. “What mowvies have you been in?”
“Uhmm… A couple Disney shows, a Jim Gaffigan movie … I dunno – nothing you’ve probably ever seen…”
“Fuck that, Ill just take SMILF.”
I handed it over to him, and with that, I had my hands on a mediocre bottle of French Bordeaux.
Dan, Mark and I savored every pour of that wine that evening. As we giddily went off to bed, hoping to finally have a decent night’s sleep, we passed three contractors casually walking from the top deck somehow holding six beers in their hands.
“Woah, what the fuck?” Dan said. “Where’d you guys get that?”
“At the contractor bar upstairs,” the guy said.
What? A contractor bar? We ran up and caught the last five minutes of a ship regulated “pop-up bar” for the workers. It had been here the whole time and nobody had told us. As it turns out, all of the ship contractors were allowed to come to this bar for a two hour drink window… It was like when the caddies are allowed an hour in the swimming pool in Caddyshack.
Beers were $1.00 and a mini bottle of wine was $1.75. Mark bought the entire bar a round for $14.50.
$1.75 for a Mini Bottle of merlot? HELL YEAH.
The following night we were back up with the contractors, who were amazed that a couple of Americans had actually gone down to Deck One and made a wine deal with a Irish guy. One guy from Warsaw informed me that I had been ripped off. He would have given me three bottles of wine for SMILF.
We finally sailed towards Copenhagen and I was reminded of how beautiful the world can be outside of Los Angeles. The contractors left and the passengers got onboard and the drinks flowed and a lot of overweight older couples explored the ship and bought things that nobody in their right mind should ever buy.
At an onboard art auction, I watched two 75-year-old women violently bid on a 72 x 36 painting of a unicorn walking through Times Square… The lucky winner paid $2875 dollars for it.
Meanwhile, the cruise sailed on. We helped establish the flow and structure of the show. After a few days, you start to learn a lot from cruise employees. Most of them are on board for nine months at a time, and many of them are running from some dark, hidden past. It’s almost like the porn industry mixed with hotel management… Which often leads to bad decisions.
Sarah explained it further.
“Everybody sleeps together at first,” she said. “But then you realize you’re gonna have to see them every day for nine months. One night you have sex, the next day you’re fighting over the last box of Frosted Flakes in the buffet.”
“So I’m guessing you’ve stopped sailing your boat in company waters?” I joked.
“No way,” she said. “I banged a sushi chef last year.”
Another thing about cruise employees is that they are obviously extremely removed from current pop culture. At one point, Sarah told me that her favorite film of the past five years was “That amazing Ben Affleck move The Accountant.”
“You have to get off this ship,” I said.
The final night of the cruise and our show was up and running. I had befriended a bunch of new people and watched the show come together. One of the stage directors actually told me that I’d make a great cruise employee as I enjoyed talking to everybody and having a good time.
“I’m flattered, man – but I gotta get back to my family,” I said.
“Oh, you’re one of them…” he said with a sense of disappointment.
I had just been “Family Shamed” by a cruise ship employee.
He apologized for the way he reacted and just said he didn’t know a lot of people who were married with children. I told him not to worry about it and we wrapped up the show for the night.
He then excused himself and went to the shoilet…
MIGHT BANG IS COMING BACK! DOWNLOAD THE NICOLE SULLIVAN LIVE BONUS EPISODE BELOW!
I had been at the Great Wolf Lodge for roughly an hour when a drunk and angry ex-firefighter threatened to kick my ass at the indoor water park. He was pissed off at me for disrespecting the “sanctity” of the Great Wolf Lodge… I am 100 percent serious. Let me start at the beginning…
Spring Break. These are two of the most beautiful words in the English language… if you are a child. To parents, these words concur up feeling of hopelessness, anguish and despair. And for some reason? Today’s elementary school kids get two whole weeks off for “Spring Break…” TWO WEEKS! When I was a kid we got TWO DAYS. In college we only got a week. And as far as I recall, it wasn’t even a thing in high school.
But sure… the rigorous schedule of counting, handwriting and connect the dots can be so gruesome and torturous for a second grader – that a two-week vacation at the end of March is exactly what the school nurse ordered… So, if you’re like me, you suddenly begin scrambling to find activities for your kids to do during this gratuitous vacation. So, you make plans…
You drop $75.00 to go see shitty movies like Sherlock Gnomes.
You gain 12 pounds by not being able to go to the gym on your regular schedule. And, in some extreme cases, you agree to take your kids to the GREAT WOLF LODGE for two days…
Which is exactly where I found myself last week, riddled with anxiety as I nibbled on a chicken finger ten feet from a wave pool full of screaming children. Praying for death.
Welcome to the 10th Circle of hell.
If you have never heard of a Great Wolf Lodge, let me put it this way… Consider yourself lucky. With 13 locations across the country, the kid-friendly indoor water park is to people like me the end of the fucking world. Known for its indoor water park and “wolf-themed” decor, the franchise has drawn families from far and wide to spend their entire monthly paychecks on shitty food, arcade games and the guarantee that you will contract the Norovirus within three spins in the “Lazy River.”
I mumbled something under my breath as I loaded the car, preparing to journey down to the hotel with my wife, our second grade girl and my very unenthusiastic pre-teen who was pissed because he was missing roughly 48 hours of the video game Fortnite.
The drive down was actually somewhat exciting. I was anticipating the water park summer days of my youth, when I met a cute girl in line at the snack bar, chatted up an 8th grade crush and passed a Sony Walkman around with my buddies listening to Straight Outta Compton. Those days were nothing but innocent and fun… and I was hoping my kids might make some amazing memories of their own…
When we arrived, however, my entire demeanor changed. After looking for a space in the self-parking garage for 30 minutes, I was met with the sudden reality that there were a lot of people here during Spring Break. I mean, a lot of people. Like, thousands. And all of them had kids. Small, sweaty, stinky, gross, fat, weird, uninhibited kids…
My first moment of clarity happened when I was presented with a pair of felt “wolf ears” as I entered the lobby.
“HOWL you doing today!?” A bubbly 20-something dude named Bryan asked.
“PAW-SOME!!!” I responded sarcastically.
“Woah! Someone’s got the Great Wolf spirit!” He screamed. “AWWOOOOOOOO!”
I looked around at the hundred of fathers traipsing through the lobby wearing these ridiculous wolf ears… The looks on their faces all read the same: FAILURE.
There is a certain look a man knows when he runs into another man at a place like the Great Wolf Lodge. It is a look of defeat. Of mediocrity. Of deficiency. Like we all expected to be the dads who take our kids in Hawaii or something, but ended up at the Great Wolf Lodge in Anaheim. I recognized this look on every man’s face I encountered.
We checked in and got to our suite, which we were sharing with another family we knew from from LA. Everyone changed into bathing suits to go hit the indoor water park. A small part of me was hoping it would be a fun day, and after all, as long as they had a jacuzzi I figured I could kill a few hours relaxing and hanging out with strangers.
There was no jacuzzi.
And the water park was massive. And loud. And it smelled like feet.
“Daddy! Come in the lazy river with me!” My daughter squealed.
I took a deep breath and stood up. I took off my shirt and walked over towards the lazy river. The first thing I noticed about the water park was that somehow, I had THE BEST BODY THERE.
In my 42 years, I have never been the “ripped” guy at the pool. Ever. Even when I was 18 I had the beginnings of a dad bod and now, at my age, I had been keeping trim and eating well to the point where at the Great Wolf Lodge in Anaheim, California, I was a SWIMSUIT MODEL. Seriously. I was 30 pounds lighter than the average man. My wife, who has always been in terrific shape looked like Hannah Jeter posing for Sports Illustrated. We were “Anaheim 10’s…” and pretty proud of it.
This was the best body at the water park.
As I strutted around my new Adonis-like physique, I watched as my daughter slowly dipped into the lazy river among what seemed like hundreds of other kids. I put my leg in, noticed it was much colder than I had anticipated, and began walking around the river behind her.
And then some kid’s fleshy leg rubbed up against mine under the water. I froze. It was like in Star Wars when that Dianoga Monster rubs up against Luke in the trash compactor. A gross little bare human leg rubbing against my inner calf. I stopped to gather myself. I felt like a part of the #metoo movement. I was rattled… And then another kid wrapped himself around my chest for support as he floated by… I shuttered. Looking around, I suddenly became keenly aware of little yellow swirls of urine accumulating in certain areas. I also counted three loose Band-Aids and numerous clumps of hair floating in the water. A few more kids hit me with inner tubes as they raced by and finally, when a little girl wiped her snot off of her face and tossed it into the water beside me, my afternoon at the water park was OVER.
“Baby, I’m getting out,” I yelled as she floated down the river.
Her frown broke my heart, but the place was already too much for me. I was done. I had been at the Great Wolf Lodge for less than an hour.
The lazy river… Grabby kids, urine and hair clumps.
After drying off, I noticed the small line of men waiting for beer. I grabbed my “Wolf Band” which had my credit card and room number on it, and bought my first beer of the day. It was 3:30, but if I was going to get through this place, a buzz was certainly needed. Looking around, I noticed that day-drinking was certainly the norm here, like the way it is in airports when people order beers at 7:00 in the morning and nobody thinks twice about it.
After paying, I turned around, noticing three men behind me waiting for drinks. Two of them had “Lakeland County Fire Department” shirts on. The other was shirtless, proudly showing off a fading Tazmanian Devil tattoo from the early 90’s… I toasted the guys with my beer.
“Gentlemen,” I said. “What happened to us? We were all once virile men… with dreams, passions, desires… goals. NOW? We’re on vacation at the fucking Great Wolf Lodge. What the fuck, am I right!!?”
Suddenly, the shirtless man took a threatening step my way and got directly in my face.
“Are you disrespecting the LODGE, bro?” He asked in an accusatory way.
I wasn’t sure if he was serious. I laughed.
“Sounds like you are,” he continued aggressively, the vapor of liquor prominent on his breath. I felt scared. I backpedaled.
“No, man.. I was just, you know – joking-“
I was taken aback. If I said the wrong thing here, there is no doubt in my mind that this guy would start throwing punches. And whereas a pool fight might be the perfect excuse to get banned from the Great Wolf Lodge forever, I decided to lay off. Meanwhile, his friends tried to calm him down.
“Don’t get into another fight, Jim,” his friend told him.
Another fight? Holy shit… this guy Jim was out here kicking dad’s asses all day.
“No, man, I was just joking around, you know…” I mumbled.
“No, I don’t know, bro,” he said. “I’m a retired firefighter… I don’t back down from shit.”
And then, suddenly, there was an extremely loud wolf howl coming from the wave pool – This was the signal to swimmers that a fresh set of waves was about to begin… 200 kids screamed in delight as the call of the wolf echoed through the waterpark.
AWOOOOOOO! AWOOOOOOO!
“Ohhhh shit, what’s that?” I asked the guys.
“That means the waves are starting up…” Jim said. “That’s the call of the Lodge, bro… you better embrace your inner wolf… because like it or not? You made the decision to come here.”
He was right. I could make the most of this experience and embrace my inner wolf… or make myself suffer.
“Hey man, I’m sorry – it’s my first time here… I was just making a bad joke…”
Jim calmed down. His whole demeanor changed and he became aware that he was not in the octagon, but was at the Great Wolf Lodge. If he had wanted to kick my ass, he would have… but my honesty seemed to have chilled him out.
“Screw it,” he said. “Sorry to get up in your face, bro… come on, I’ll buy you a beer.”
Jim and his pals bought me another beer and I returned back to our deck chairs and told the story to my wife and her friend. They weren’t interested. They were concerned about something much more important.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Apparently, another mom had just told my wife that Pink Eye was going around the lodge that weekend… The woman’s two kids had been infected on the water slide and her husband was in the hotel room with his eyes swollen shut.
“Welp, I’m fucking out of here,” I said.
I took my beer upstairs and went to the bar to watch a baseball game. As I walked back through the water park, I began observing a few things.
I never realized how many adults have tattoos of their children’s baby footprints.
I saw 35 of these tattoos.
I had no idea that BIG DOGS Clothing was still a thing. There were also a lot of “Exercise…Eggsercise…Eggs are sides… Eggs are sides for Bacon” t-shirts and ‘water pun’ shirts. Like a picture of a snail holding up a seashell to his face beneath the words “SHELL-FIE!”
Finally, the majority of these adults seemed fine eating garbage for breakfast, lunch and dinner. One dad in line at the snack bar even highly recommended the pork nachos.
I thought we were in Anaheim. Somehow we ended up in Wisconsin.
Upstairs, I found a few other dads watching the Dodgers game. I made some new friends – including a pest control guy from Alhambra and a Target general manager from Riverside. We drank a few beers and talked baseball. As a way to make my new pals laugh, I recognized Bryan, the same guy who had checked me in earlier, eating on his lunch break. I approached him.
“Hey Bryan, quick question… do they have a Great Wolf Glory Hole up in this piece?”
The bar got silent. My new pals hid their laughter. Bryan did not seem amused. Within 30 seconds the bar manager tapped me on the shoulder.
“Just a reminder, sir…” He warned. “This is the Great Wolf Lodge… not the Great Wolf of Wall Street Lodge.”
My afternoon concluded in the arcade, where the kids have given up on video games requiring any sort of skill in favor of games where you spin a wheel,… and win tickets. It’s not even a challenge. It’s just a prize wheel. When I arrived, I found my daughter hoarding what looked like 15,000 prize tickets.
“I’m saving up for the stuffed wolf!” She said. I saw the wolf on the wall. At any CVS store across the country, this dumb little stuffed animal would cost $3.99. My wife told me they had already spent $60.00 trying to win it. I went back to the bar.
These tickets cost us roughly $60.00
That night, after ordering pizza to our room, my wife and I shared some wine as the kids fell asleep. At that moment, we heard a rustling in the hallway. Peeking outside, I noticed two security guards dragging a very drunk man from his room.
“How long has he been drinking today?” They asked his wife, who looked terrified.
“Since brunch, I think,” she said.
“We’ll take him to the first aid area and get him some fluids… We’ll check back in 30 minutes.”
I asked the lady what had happened.
“It’s just my dumb husband… every time we come to this place he gets blackout drunk.”
“That makes two of us,” I said, raising my wine glass.
She shut her door on me.
The next day we were set to check out. I was excited to get home and back outside – as we had been indoors for roughly 18 hours straight. The Great Wolf Lodge is like fucking Vegas in that way. You have no reason to ever leave the place… I started packing and preparing to head back to LA.
“Wanna meet us at the pool?” My wife said.
“We’re not leaving?” I said.
“I figured the kids would want another day at the pool,” she said. “I mean we paid for it.”
And just like that, we did a second day at the water park. At this point I officially gave up. I began day-drinking at 11:00. I howled every time that dumb wolf noise started in the wave pool. I contemplated buying a Great Wolf Lodge t-shirt in the gift shop that was on sale from Halloween (Or as they put it… HOWL-ween…)
Deep down I knew that finally, I had reluctantly embraced my inner wolf.
I looked around the pool again. I was a little bloated from the first day and slightly hungover. I was no longer had the best body there. I was one day into my “Midwest” period.
I went over to our deck chairs and ordered the pork nachos…
WATCH ZACH’S NEW SERIES “ONE MINUTE MUSIC MINUTE” at OLE TV! @oletvofficial
My wife and I once hired a hippie nanny named Sioux who hid little bags of weed for me around our house. I remember the day we interviewed her – she was about 19, naturally slender with long blonde hair and she was wearing a skirt that looked like it was stitched out of the AIDS quilt… She had on Birkenstocks. She smelled like lavender. She was gorgeous. My first thought was, “I would have totally dated this girl back in college.”
I would have totally dated this girl back in college.
When you’ve been married as long as my wife and I have, the best way to say you think somebody is attractive is to say that you would have dated ‘back in college.’
Of course, I told my wife this very fact.
“Well keep your hippie dick in your jorts,” she responded.
I laughed. I love my wife. Meanwhile, after a few conversations, I was sold on Sioux to become our nanny for our then five and two-year-old kids… but my wife wasn’t so into it.
“I don’t know – she seems flighty,” she remarked.
“Cmon, what’s the worst that can happen?” I asked. “She gets high and eats all of our ice cream?”
My wife agreed, mainly because we had a wedding that Saturday night and our other go-to nannies were already busy.
“If she fucks up, that’s on you,” she said.
She didn’t fuck up. At least that first night. In fact, when we came back from the wedding a little buzzed from the wine, we stayed up late with her and talked about the kids, how hard it was to meet guys in Los Angeles and eventually, she secretly told me that she hid a tiny bag of weed for me underneath the sage candle she had lit to ward off bad spirits on the coffee table. As she left, I thanked her and imagined that if she was my age in 1995, we would have been one of those hippie power couples that I was always jealous of at Phish concerts.
My 1995 hippie dream.
The second time Sioux babysat, I casually came downstairs wearing my old Grateful Dead 1992 Spring Tour shirt. She went ape shit. Told me it was the coolest thing she’d ever seen. I immediately felt like Phil from Modern Family, pretending that I didn’t even know I had the shirt on… even though I had been calculating the move since the week before. From the corner of my eye I saw my wife shaking her head while watching my pathetic attempt to connect with Sioux over a t-shirt.
“Nice shirt, babe,” she said.
“I guess I’ll go get ready,” I added before running upstairs to change.
When I came back downstairs, Sioux had prepared some food for the kids (all macrobiotic) and smiled one of those young hippie smiles at me – as if we were college sophomores peaking during a Run Like an Antelope solo. My wife smiled at me. I smiled at my wife. She smiled at Sioux. I kissed my kids. Sioux leaned in and hugged Wendy. They separated. The kids ate. My wife watched me as I leaned in and hugged Sioux. As I did, I stupidly whispered a single word into her ear…
“Candle?”
Sioux smiled. My wife looked confused. I brought myself out of this fantasy hippie love triangle and said, “OK, bath at 7:15 and bed by eight.”
My wife and I walked outside to catch our Lyft.
In our ride to the birthday party that night, my wife cleared her throat and calmly asked me exactly what “candle” meant.
I told her.
“Last time she babysat, Sioux left me a part of a joint underneath the candle on the coffee table and I smoked it.”
“Oh great, so she’s high around our kids?”
“Well, I mean… so what? Sometimes I’m high around our kids.”
“This is her last night babysitting,” my wife said.
I could understand her frustration. It wasn’t because Sioux was this macrame Goddess with rings on her fingers and bells on her shoes… but face it – if your nanny was sneaking joints around your two-year-old daughter, you might think about getting rid of her too.
Still, I argued that we had nothing to worry about and that by the time we returned home, we would be thrilled to find our kids in bed and that maybe we could even split the little bag of weed I was expecting to find underneath the sage candle on our coffee table.
Until we got back around 11:45 p.m.
As it turns out, Sioux had started a bath for the kids upstairs… and forgot that she began running it. She turned on the water and then came downstairs to get the kids and somehow got distracted… By what, nobody knows – food? A text? A documentary on YouTube about the benefits of Dr. Bragg’s Apple Cider Vinegar? Whatever the case, she suddenly remembered that the bath was on just as drops of water began seeping through our living room ceiling and landing on the floor. The puddle stain on the roof was large and substantial and we knew we were looking at some serious water damage and mold repair.
Sioux was in shambles.
Our ceiling
As she tried to explain how she forgot to turn off the water, we examined the damage and quickly lost the hippie buzz we had all generated earlier. I informed Sioux that we would pay her for her time, but that we fully expected her to be responsible for the damages once we had the roof inspected. She agreed and left, her head hung low, embarrassed and ashamed.
“OK, so she was probably high and forgot about the bath,” I said.
“Ya think?”
Stupidly, I checked beneath the candle for some weed.
There was nothing.
The damage came to over 1000 dollars. Sioux was broke and we felt bad charging her, so she offered to babysit for free until she could pay us back. Amazingly in Los Angeles, that’s only like, five nights of work…
However, my wife and I chose to not use her again.
The last I saw on Facebook she was living in Oregon with a Spanish guy named Pau.
For most of my adult life, I have been a lover of thrift stores. I would go into any Goodwill, Savers or church-owned thrift shop and pillage the racks for hours until I found the perfect used t-shirt to compliment my 1972 patchwork denim jeans. I loved putting together some phenomenal 1960’s-inspired rocker outfit complete with old cowboy boots and a stranger’s snap cowboy shirt layered under a suede jacket with half the inside liner missing… For decades, I dressed like a member of the Southern Harmony-era Black Crowes who had stumbled across Waylon Jennings’ closet….
My mom always wondered how I could walk into a Goodwill store in say, Seattle and decide that a used flannel with a hole in the elbow and a cigarette burn on the collar met my criteria as a “miracle find.”
“I’ll throw it in the wash and it’ll be perfect,” I would say.
“You’re absolutely disgusting,” my mom would answer.
Eagles 1972. How I’ve dressed since 1994.
For years, my mom would send me clothes from designer stores, trying her hardest to get me to wear a nice shirt, a tie or even (gasp) a sports jacket… I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I loved wearing stranger’s clothing… I relished the compliments the fashion forward men of my generation paid me when they admired a rare orange-tag denim shirt that came straight off the set of Urban Cowboy… I was a thrift store loving vintage picker… and my closet was full of the finest 70’s and 80’s shirts, caps, henleys, jackets and jeans any man could ever want.
My thrift store beliefs have even trickled down into my children’s lives – as I have tried to convince them that the Star Wars lunchbox I found in the thrift store toy aisle is just as good as the one they sell for $21.99 at Target… In retrospect, that was probably not the best decision.
“Hey kids, find a lunchbox and lets go!”
Recently, however, I have been examining people around me a little bit closer than I have before. And you know I have come to realize?
In general, people are pretty disgusting.
Filthy.
Unshowered.
Unkempt.
Smoking cigarettes.
Looking like they slept on a couch the night before.
Wiping snot onto the legs of their jeans.
Pony-tailing their greasy hair.
Rubbing their heads into their baseball caps.
Wearing exercise clothes for hours after the gym.
Itching their asses.
Chances are this guy once wore that cool shirt you want from Savers.
As I start my 40’s, I’ve suddenly started thinking that perhaps my mom was right… All of these thrift store clothes I own are suddenly looking pretty gross.
So, when I needed a jacket this winter, I decided to finally give up on shopping for dirty vintage. I headed down to an actual store that sells new items.
My first stop was the Levi’s Store where I immediately found the perfect flannel jacket with some sort of sheepskin lining. It had no weird stain on it… There were no cigarette burns or small rips or slightly discolored armpits… It fit like it was made for me. I walked around the store proudly. I got compliments from the cute sales girl. I stared at myself in the mirror… Damn. Did I look, dare I say, handsome?
After ten minutes, I even took a fucking selfie with it.
And then the cute sales girl told me it cost 375 dollars.
I got the fuck out of there and went to Goodwill…
My typical outfit. Thrift store everything. Total cost: $12.00.
I spent 30 minutes yesterday explaining to my brother that a deep part of me believes in the theory that our entire human race is the result of aliens coming down and impregnating chimpanzees with alien DNA.
“Oh my God you’re an idiot,” he told me.
“What? Why?” I responded.
He took a deep breath and went into a perfectly believable explanation about how we we’re once all neanderthals, apes, chimpanzees, et al. and how we have evolved over thousands of years. He cited scientific evidence, showed me websites of evolution and perfectly explained Darwin’s theory.
“But” I said, “What if were all wrong?”
Nervously, my brother laughed, even going as far as to point out that we once produced, wrote and directed a parody song about creationism vs. evolutionism for Comedy Central years ago… It was a burn on the actor Kirk Cameron who had recently gone on a TV show and produced a banana – which he claimed was “an Athiest’s nightmare – and proof that we were all created by a higher being.”
The video went viral and Kirk Cameron sent us hate mail.
My brother was confused at how I went from evolutionary hippie evolutionist to alien-worshipping creationist.
“Look man,”” I said. “I’m not saying I’m anti-religious, or that I even believe what I’m saying – I just really have started to think that aliens founded our planet and possibly created humans out of the lifeforms that were here before us… dig?”
Complete silence.
My only explanation for these new beliefs is that I watch WAY too much of the TV show Ancient Aliens on the History Channel. Ever see this show? It’s the most convincing TV program of all time. It will have you convinced that the Pyramids are intergalactic phone booths, the spiritual symbols of Peru are prayerbooks to “those who came from above” and that Fenway Park was originally designed as an “Alien Toilet.”
Plus, once you see how many “flying discs from the sky” are featured in Renaissance art pieces, you are forced to start to think a little differently… And I wasn’t saying I believed in creationism, I was simply quoting the self-proclaimed “Ancient Astronaut Theorists” from Ancient Aliens.
My brother demanded that I join him on a walk with his dog. I tried once again to explain myself, using the dog as an example of an entirely different creature that we do not know where it came from. He shook his head in disappointment. We changed the subject to the next morning’s Total Solar Eclipse, which was scheduled to mesmerize Americans and clog Instagram feeds the following day, August 21, 2017.
“So what’s your plan for the eclipse?” He asked. “Are you planning on making a cardboard sign that says ‘Take me With You?’”
I laughed and we called it a night.
The following morning we awoke and went to Hermosa Beach. Avid Boogie-boarders, we decided to ride some waves before the solar eclipse began – which was approximately at 9:08 a.m. with the sun being totally obscured at 10:18 a.m. It was in the water that morning when we noticed a few other local swimmers paddling around watching us ride a few waves. Then a few more came. Eventually, over 20 swimmers had gathered in the early morning ocean. Funny, we thought. It’s never this crowded…
“These are total eclipse waves, am I right?” A heavy-set woman paddling nearby muttered to a long-haired surfer a few feet over.
“Fully,” the surfer responded. “Crazy sets all morning… best waves of my life.”
“I’m Artemis,” she offered.
“I’m Jonas… I wonder if the eclipse will freak out the dolphins.”
My brother and I looked at each other.
“Excuse me,” I yelled over in Artemis’ direction. “Do you really think that the eclipse will affect the waves?”
It was then that Artemis turned towards us and revealed that she was wearing a pair of “eclipse glasses.” Yeah, the ones your friends bought online for $300 to stare at the sun safely for ten minutes. I had mistook them for goggles.
“Absolutely,” she said. “In ancient Germanic text, the Moon God ‘Mani’ claims that a total solar eclipse will affect everything it controls, from the waves of the sea to the female menstraul cycle…. In fact, I’m heavily menstruating right now.”
“We gotta get out of the ocean,” I told my brother.
We walked back to our spot on the beach and watched as my kids ran around chasing sand crabs.
As the eclipse came and went, and our social media feeds were overrun with kids looking into cereal boxes, people posting photos of themselves looking at the sky and our President staring directly into the fucking thing itself, it dawned on me that everybody was hoping to see something amazing. Of course, most people were underwhelmed, but some folks were hoping for a sign – a symbol from another world, perhaps. A trans-galactic message from space. Everybody was looking for an explanation…
“Look,” I told my brother. “Can you just maybe give me the benefit of the doubt that maybe, just maaaaybe, we don’t know how we got here and that human experimentation by extra-terrestrials is a possibility?”
As he uploaded a picture of the eclipse that he somehow took through a set of binoculars, he shook his head.
“No.”
“Haven’t you ever seen that TV special about aliens abducting pregnant women and creating ‘hybrids?’ You know, my kids could be half Pleiadian or even half Reptilian!”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of the ‘Humanzee’ experiment?”
“Zach,” he said. “When you come back to planet Earth, let me know. Until then, why don’t you go talk to Artemis in the ocean, maybe she’ll have some answers.”
He left on a run, and I stood on the beach alone, staring out into the sea.
Artemis had long left for the day, but Jonas was still out there, riding some of the best waves of his life…
COME SEE ZACH TAPE HIS PODCAST LIVE! THIS SUNDAY at 7pm!
Social Media star Matt Bellassai drinks bottles of wine on camera and talks about his problems for a living… Obviously, he was a natural fit for the new ep. of @mightbang1 – up now! With songs like “Smash an Orgasm into a Woman” & “Murder at the Airbnb” DOWNLOAD AND SUBSCRIBE!
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.
I still have a copy of this… somewhere.
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 classic book “Goodnight Moon.”
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.
Crisp hunneds. In a bag. How Seismic wanted to be paid.
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.
Dope Green suggested I call Ja Rule instead
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.
If Looks Could Kill – the film that started it all
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.”
Urban Dictionary definition of a “hesher.”
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.
Tucson’s Finest Mexi-Shwag circa ’91
And then:
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?
And finally:
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?
The Mixtape I Made and Never Got to Give to Jenny
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!”
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Zach Selwyn 