Zach Selwyn

Actor. Musician. Host. Writer. Dinner Guest.

  • https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/countrylinen/make-it-happen-country-linen-zachariahs-new-album/widget/video.html

    https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/countrylinen/make-it-happen-country-linen-zachariahs-new-album/widget/card.html?v=2

    country rock kickstarter Outlaw Country Warren Zevon Wilco. Zach Selwyn Zachariah Zachariah and the Lobos Riders
  • CREDITS…

    In the Presence of God *

    Firing Squad $

    New Suit for My Hangin *

    Honky Tonk Saloon @

    Bartenders in LA @

    You Built me a Ghost Town (Gia Ciambotti) #

    The River (With Bobby Joyner) $

    Gower Bridge #

    Dellmus Colvin @

    Last Country Road $

    City of Angels #

    Executive produced by The Pale Ryda

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

    Papago Records.

    MUSICIANS:

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

    (Drum Programming) Leroy Miller

    (Bass) Mark Antoleonos, Jeff LeGore

    (Keys) Brian Lapin

    (Fiddle) Lucy Clearwater

    (Harmonica) Bobby Joyner, Zachariah

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

    MIXED and PRODUCED BY:

    • – *Jesse Siebenberg
    • $ – Leroy Miller
    • # – Dan Wistrom
    • @ – Justin Jay
    country cowboy hip hop killers Lobos Riders Outlaw Country Rolling Stone steve earle todd snider true crime western Zach Selwyn Zachariah
  • Bartneders country rock Los Angeles Zach Selwyn Zachariah
  • Someone get this to Bravo and Andy Cohen… #Ozempic

    Andy Cohen Bravo Comedy funny Ozempic Real Housewives SNL Zach Selwyn
  • Screen Shot 2019-08-26 at 9.30.31 AM
    It was around 2:15 in the morning when a hammered single mom of three kids with a very visible C-section scar approached me following my music gig at a place called Peri’s in Marin County, California.
    “Hiiii Mr. Talented…” She slurred. “I live two blocks away and my kids are prolly asleep – D-ya wanna come have a drink and smoke and hang ouuuuut?”
    I looked this woman over. She was about 40, had a swollen and (possibly) fractured purple ankle and was heavily puffing on an e-cigarette…. From behind, half of her dress had hiked up and lodged itself in her butt, revealing a horrifying leg tattoo of a dragonfly that started mid-thigh and ended probably just above her Va-jayjay.
    She also had one dreadlock.
    “Uhhh… Well, the thing is…” I stumbled. “I’m married – sooo I don’t think it would be a good idea, ya know?”
    “Fuck you! You’re an asshole for leading me on!” she snapped.
    Wait, what? Leading her on? How was I leading her on?
    A few seconds later, it hit me… When I was performing on stage a few minutes earlier, I recalled saying:
    “Who’s the hottie in the back/Nice body, nice rack/
    Meet me outside in five – My name is Zach.” 
    Oops.
    Look. If you have ever seen me or my band perform live, I often jokingly flirt with girls in the crowd with improvisational freestyle rap lyrics from the stage… This, however, was one of those rare moments when the girl actually stuck around and thought I was serious… I felt terrible. (Here’s a sample of a freestyle from NYC in 2017)

     

    “Sorry, it was a joke, – like a part of the show??!??!?” I tried to explain to her.
    She threw a drink at me, turned around and stopped at the door to say good-bye.
    “Your music fucking sucks anyway,” she screamed.
    By the way? I never made it home that night. Since I was too drunk to drive, the bartender let me sleep in the back seat of my Prius in the bar’s parking lot…
    Did I mention it was a Tuesday?
    What the fuck am I doing?
    I am 44-years-old. I have two kids and a wife. Most men my age are in bed by 8:30 every night, binge-watching Netflix and thinking about some meeting they have at work the next day with Nancy from H.R.
    Not many dudes I know are living like me this summer… touring bars in their mid-40’s trying to sell 20-something kids t-shirts and CD’s of their country hip-hop band that – in most people’s eyes – peaked when they opened for Jason Mraz in 2008…
    For the record? On this tour I sold ZERO CD’s.
    But let’s go back a few years…
    In the 2000’s, every bar I played in was always PACKED. Friends, fans and industry folks lined up outside awaiting new songs – or a 10-minute freestyle rap where I might drop their names into a verse… They bought CD’s and shirts and sang along and I would walk out of the bar with $400 and a thousand business cards… My band played across the country and stayed in fine hotels, sipping top shelf whiskey and partying with rock stars…
    But, then came adulthood. People had kids and a lot of my musician friends got real jobs. Some band members moved out of town… Most guys gave up or got into real estate. Even I took a break from it for a while to be around the family and work in the TV business. However, the thrill of performing live was always missing…
    So, this past summer I decided that a 9-venue mini music tour of Northern California would be the best thing for my mind, body and soul.

    Railroad Station Poster jpg
    Tour posters from the road...
    Tour posters from the road…
    Guitar Heroes Flyer
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    As the days rolled on, I sort of forgot about the ways of the road… Late nights, uncomfortable beds… bad habits reintroducing themselves… When you’re out driving down I-5 at 9:30 at night – a restaurant like Subway suddenly becomes a solid option. The Yellow American Spirit cigarette suddenly becomes “healthy” decision… Not to mention that most bars where I play like to avoid paying musicians – and instead – offer up FREE DRINKS instead – which ultimately leads to me drinking $4.99 mini bottles of Sutter Home Cabernet – guaranteeing a foggy and painful morning.
    Oh, and most bartenders who hear me ask for “the best red wine in the bar” often think I’m joking and laugh in my face.
    In all honesty, I quit drinking hard liquor ten years ago…. Waking up in a Super 8 Motel with two lines shaved into your eyebrows like D’Angelo Russell will do that to anybody… 
    But that’s a whole ‘nother story…
    The “Zachariah: Backyard and Wineries” tour began in San Francisco, at a private party where some tech geniuses of the world dug my music and my improv songs about how expensive the city had become… The host had somehow procured 25-plus bottles of the legendary Pliny the Elder beer from Santa Rosa and he was extremely generous with his liquor cabinet. However, as people got more sloshed, a supremely drunk friend of theirs named Kelly demanded I sing Shallow by Bradley Cooper and Lady Gaga.
    “Are you gonna sing it with me?” I asked her.
    “Fuck YESSS!” She screamed as the party encouraged her.
    A few chords later and she was warbling through the “Wooooaaaah – ohhh – h ohhh ohh ohh oh AWWOWOHHHWHWHWH” section of the song. Let’s just say she didn’t nail it, but it didn’t matter. The vibe and energy was fantastic and I assumed every gig would end up this beautiful and natural.
    But the next night I drove up to gig at Peri’s Bar in Marin County. It was certainly a success, but I was definitely under-paid and over-served awful tiny bottles of Sutter Home… (Thus the reason why I slept in a parking lot).
    When I woke up in the back seat of my 2008 Prius at six the next morning, having sweat through my clothes on stage the night before, I decided that a shower was indeed in order. I quickly Googled “YMCA Marin County” on my phone and found one 10 miles away where my Hollywood “Family Membership” would let me use their facilities. This is also a practice that HOMELESS people participate in.
    I ended up spending 45 minutes in the sauna listening to two men talk about their new tech venture that would “change the dumpling game forever.” After they noticed me listening in, they began whispering and eventually left the sauna altogether, protecting their billion dollar dumpling idea.
    A billion dollar dumpling idea? What I derived from this moment was that I am definitely in the wrong business…
    That night, I performed at the Lagunitas Tap Room in Petaluma. The venue was amazing and they even offered up cash ($80) for the gig. Plus, per usual, they served me all the beer I could drink. Initially I had planned on having one or two beers because I had to drive to meet my wife and kids up north in Cloverdale once the night ended…
    However, after my show, I quickly found myself 8 beers in. Since my head was spinning, I asked my new friend Pete (who booked me there) if he had a better idea than drunk driving to Cloverdale.
    “Yeah brother… my buddy Andy has an Airstream in a forest that he rents out – it’s $45 for the night,” he said.
    “Uhh… like, HOW in a forest?” I inquired.
    “It’s desolate, man… super chill and quiet and you won’t hear anybody’s voice for like, 9 hours straight!” Pete replied.
    OK. Look. I enjoy nature. I love converted Airstream trailers. But 9 hours alone in one in nature? Yo, I’m not trying to live that Into the Wild life… I am a social person. I need conversation. Shit, I need some WiFi, ya know?
    “I don’t know Pete,” I explained. “I sorta need a bed – I slept in my car last night.”
    “They have a killer Aerobed,” Pete said. “I’ve slept there sooo many times, you’ll love it – I’ll even drop you off!”

     

    And with that, Pete took me to a beautiful house with 40 acres of land in the woods, where we knocked on the door and met Pete’s buddy Andy who was extremely tired and reluctantly thrust the trailer keys into my hand. He also passed me a Romancing the Stone-like treasure map explaining how to find the forest Airstream… Pete left and I slugged through the dark forest, absolutely fearing for every second of my life, before coming across what was a beautiful 1950-something converted Airstream “Cabin.”

     

    Screen Shot 2019-08-26 at 9.13.15 AM
    This was terrifying.

    I unlocked the door and went inside. It was about as rustic as you could expect.
    There was an Aerobed with a blanket on it…
    On the wall hung a calendar from the year 2013…
    And there was a shovel in the corner next to a roll of toilet paper beneath a sign that said, “Use Nature’s Facilities.”
    Holy shit. What? So no bathroom? Was I gonna have to re-learn the “One-armed tree hang” I had been taught at summer camp as a kid?
    I decided to just crash and wake up as early as possible to split.
    30 minutes after I went to sleep, I woke up on the floor. The Aerobed had deflated. It was about 45 degrees in the trailer. With no visible air pump nearby, I turned the deflated Aerobed into a pillow and did my best to sleep for the next six hours.
    A couple of hours later I woke up to the sound of what must have been two bears humping in the woods… I also swear a mysterious light flashed across the sky and for two hours I panicked about being abducted by aliens and anally probed above the Redwoods. Eventually, around 6:30, I awoke with a stiff neck and took a $20 taxi back to my car at Lagunitas.
    Up in Cloverdale I met my family and began thinking that perhaps, the road life was no longer for me… I took the family to the local trampoline park and hit up some small town burger place and I was amazed at how comfortable the safe and respectable family life felt again… For a minute, I almost cancelled my final three gigs…
    But, since I can rarely turn down a chance to perform, I decided to carry through on my commitments.
    As I was playing the night at an all ages restaurant, the local town drunk “Banjo Bob” (yes, his real name) taught my 13-year-old son how to best hold a pool cue if he was ever to get into a bar fight.
    (His advice? Hit the guy with the skinny end, that way if it breaks off – you’re left with the more dangerous thick end of the stick as a weapon.)
    To quote my late grandmother: “That’s wonderful?”
    The following night, I played at a pretty cool bar in Healdsburg where I ate pizza that a guy had made from an oven that he dragged behind his bicycle… I know what you’re thinking: Bike Pizza? Trust me – It was absolutely delicious.
    On the last night, we drove down to San Francisco and the tour ended at a bar in the Marina called Jaxson for a friend’s fundraiser party in the city – where, as I was playing live, a man and woman dry-humped each other on the dance floor in front of me…
    Now look, I’m all for dancing, but this was kind of ridiculous… I actually didn’t care. They were wasted and they loved my music and I felt at home for a few minutes with the young Marina area crowd of San Francisco…
    Here – watch the video and make your own assumptions:

    For the record? That girl dancing did not ask me to come back to her place after the gig.
    But the guy did…
    “Hi Mr. Talented,” He said… “Wanna come party with me at my place?”
    “I’d love to, but, the thing is… I’m married,” I said.
    I woke up the next morning in the back seat of my Prius…
    ZACH IS NOW BOOKING VENUES FOR HIS SUMMER 2020 TOUR!! 

    RfW_06.1
    Red Fuckin Wine – New single coming SOON!

    www.ZachSelwyn.com
    AMC Bukopwski Comedy Comedy Central ESPN essay funny G4 humor hunter s. thompson Sedaris short story TBS writer Zach Selwyn Zachariah and the Lobos Riders
  • I could have fucked one of my teachers back in high school. I didn’t. But I could have. She was into me… She told me I made her ‘quiver…’ She said I looked like a movie star. She tried to kiss me. This was 25 years ago… I still think about it.
    Nowadays these stories are everywhere. Open any internet browser and you are greeted by a photo of a young teacher who was recently arrested for seducing their 16-year-old Biology student with marijuana and booze and throwing group sex parties and shit. Their mug shots get splashed all over websites and people everywhere shame these women for fucking underage boys…

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

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

    Except in my high school.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    I went back to see Adam.

    “What was that all about, dude?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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    Remember this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    I never saw Les Miz again.

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

    I haven’t smoked Mexi-shwag in decades.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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    I envisioned this happening in my bathroom

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

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

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

     

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    My entire house smelled like this guy

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

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

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

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

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

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    Birds-Eye View of our new planter

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

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

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

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

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    My daughter’s room. Morning.

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

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

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

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

    gonobillboard2
    Drug-Resistant Gonorrhea is here!

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

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

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

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

    Watch Zach interview BOB DYLAN!

    air BNB bukowski cigarettes david sedaris essay gonzo journalism humor hunter s. thompson short story tom wolfe Zach Selwyn
  • https://www.hiiimag.com/articles/ooh-lala

    So…

    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….

    Okay, let me start at the beginning… HIT LINK TO READ MORE!

    420 cannabis dispensary edibles funny humor Los Angeles Only Fans Sedaris sex sex toys writing Zach Selwyn
  • The Worst Cocktail in LA.

    By Zach Selwyn

    It was a hungover morning. Most of them are hungover mornings, but this one was particularly bad. It was actually quite unbearable. It was 91 degrees outside, but for some reason I was in a good mood based on the fact that it had finally stopped raining in Los Angeles. L.A. had been miserable lately. Not to mention depressing. My gas bill in January had skyrocketed to $1800 and wasn’t looking to get any better. A looming writer’s strike and a desolate media landscape had flattened any creative work available in the city. Shit. Even Disney had laid off 7,000 employees sine January 1st. Not only that, but the rain had destroyed nearly every road in the city and never-ending potholes greeted my car wherever I drove, resulting in more than one flat tire. 

    Anyway, it was a Friday morning and I had to drop my son in the deep valley for a haircut on his day off from school for “Teacher Organization Day.” I wasn’t sure when “Teacher Organization Day” became a national fucking holiday, but apparently, like four times a school year, teachers needed some time to get their shit together. I guess I understood… I need one of those days like, 25 times a month. I just didn’t particularly love when these days were thrust upon myself as a parent, because you suddenly had to do stuff like catch up on haircuts and Costco shopping and shit like going to the Grove to see films you would never pay for on your own, like Dungeons and Dragons. Meanwhile. My son prefers this one particular valley hairstylist to any scissor-slinging tattooed millennial who works at the Floyd’s Barber Shop 0.8 miles from our house, so I basically have to go 13 miles to Encino with him once every three months. And as you know Encino is a pretty miserable place. 

    It’s ten times worse it with a bad hangover. 

    After dropping him off, I had a roughly an hour to kill around the Encino corridor. Looking to curb the uneasiness of the body aches I was fighting from the night before, I Googled local bars and hotels to find any sort of affordable Bloody Mary that might help me open my eyes and face the day a little easier. Not finding much, I walked for a few minutes and quickly realized that I was surrounded by nothing but chain restaurants, weed stores and car dealerships. I was on Ventura Boulevard in Encino. I had nowhere to go. I felt like I had become the man I once swore I would never become: A 47-year-old dad, hungover in the Valley on a Friday morning looking for a drink. This wasn’t rock bottom, but Jesus, it sort of felt like the boat was sinking fast. 

    And then I spotted the Buca di Beppo. Yes. Buca di Beppo. Anyone who has been here knows this place is basically Olive Garden on HGH.  You order a plate of spaghetti and it feeds nine people and you take four pounds home to haunt your fridge for the next month and a half. The leftovers are enough to choke an entire village of starving Albanians. 

    I was certainly their first customer of the day. The general manager, a goateed gentleman named Rick, who was wearing a tie patterned with a bushel of tomatoes, looked shocked that someone had actually entered the restaurant before noon. He struggled to greet me at the door. When he finally did welcome me inside, I noticed that he his shirt was untucked and one shoelace was untied. He brought me a monstrous menu and informed me that the restaurant was featuring a wine special that day: A glass of Apothic Red Wine was going for only $14.00. I thanked him but chose to not alert him that Apothic Red is a bottle of garbage wine found at Trader Joe’s for roughly $7.99. 

    Sweet tie bro.

    Since the dining room was still being setup for the evening rush, I was seated in the empty bar, where half of the barstools were still turned upside down on the tables. They had sports on, so I knew I could easily kill an hour there… and I asked Rick how the Bloody Mary was. 

    “It’s amazing,” he said. 

    That was all I needed to hear. 

    I asked for a Bloody Mary with Tito’s and “all the fixings they could give me.” 

    Rick responded by asking me, “Tito’s? – OK – So Vodka or tequila?”

    “Uhm Tito’s”

    “Oh. So… What is that?”

    “It’s a vodka from Austin, Texas dude,” I said perhaps a little too aggressively. “It’s a Bloody Mary.”

    That was my first warning. I should’ve walked out then. This guy did not even know that Tito’s was a fucking vodka company? 

    I gave him a little side eye as he began working on the drink, making sure he was pouring in the right vodka, but unfortunately, he reached for a bottle of some brand called Helix. Helix Vodka?  I had never even heard of that shit. But I watched as he incredulously poured it into a glass and then poured in some bullshit pre-packaged Bloody Mary mix from a plastic bottle that looked like it dressed Greek salads on its off-days. He didn’t even MIX the drink. He just dumped it in, and served it to me raw-dog, meaning it was lacking any olives, pickles, celery, salt, Tajin, fucking pepper… and flavor. 

    “Dude, Yo – do you guys don’t have any garnish whatsoever?” I asked.

    “We have Tabasco,” he said. 

    “Olives?” I asked. “Maybe a peperoncini?”

    “Uhm well, we have those but it means I would have to open the salad bar, which isn’t quite open yet.”

    Jesus fucking Christ. 

    I took Rick’s bottle of Tabasco and tried to make this drink taste like… something. Anything but Clamato juice and ice. And it fell flat. This was by far the worst Bloody Mary ever served on American soil. Right there, in Encino, California precisely one week before my birthday in the good year of our lord 2023.  

    I sat there for a moment as Rick adjusted his tomato tie and folded napkins and I watched some NBA Playoffs highlights suffering through each and every sip of this bullshit drink. It basically tasted like water with hot sauce in it. The ice cubes were so prevalent that I surmounted that there was close to one to two ounces of liquid in the entirety of the glass. The straw was minuscule and sharp in my mouth. 

    And then I started looking around at the decor. 

    If you’ve ever been to a Buca di Beppo, you know that they fancy themselves as a classic “Family-Style Italian Restaurant.” That requires that they must decorate the walls with photos of great Italian American stalwarts of recent past, including 200 pictures of Frank Sinatra, at least 50 photos of Joe Dimaggio and a few stills from the movie Goodfellas. In fact, there was one large bar photo of Dimaggio that caught the Yankee Clipper smiling and youthful, at the peak of career, probably in the middle of a 200 hit season. He was grinning so widely, that there is no doubt he just flossed his teeth with Marilyn Monroe’s underwear. For some reason that photo made me happy. I pointed at the picture and then back to Rick, who mind you, was probably in his late 30’s to early 40’s and said, “What do you know about that guy?”

    “Oh, Sinatra?” He said. 

    I almost went Joe Pesci on him and slapped him with his tomato tie. 

    “That’s NOT fucking Frank Sinatra, that’s Joe fuckin’ Dimaggio,” I said. “Joltin’ Joe Dimaggio.”

    “Oh, the baseball player,” Rick responded. “Dodgers?”

    If you work at an Italian restaurant and think this guy is Sinatra, you deserve to be fired.

    Let me tell you something. If you work in a Buca di Beppo, or ANY Italian establishment that serves a version of a simple red sauce on pasta or a fucking meatball or a basket full of fucking breadsticks, you BETTER know who the fuck Joe Dimaggio is. In New York City, Rick would have been driven to the Hudson River, fitted for some cement shoes and dropped the fuck off the pier. And even the cops would have looked the other way and laughed about it at a bar later that night. But, this was Encino. And Rick was born in 1987 or so. And I was hungover. And unemployed. And bitter. So I leaned back and continued sipping the worst Bloody Mary of all time. A few sips later, I excused myself to the bathroom. 

    There was a photo of Kirk Gibson above the urinal. 

    I guess that made sense. Kirk Gibson is an LA hero and that 1988 World Series home run is one of baseball’s grandest moments, but I actually began wondering if Rick even knew who he was. When I returned to the bar, I asked him if he knew who the mustached man above the urinal was. He nodded yes. 

    “Joe Dimaggio?” 

    Look. I have nothing against Buca di Beppo. In fact, I have enjoyed many fun nights at this restaurant with family and friends over the years… I’ve murdered bottles of wine and meatballs and large pasta dishes here while singing along to That’s Amore with drunk friends two tables over. But this was ridiculous. My advice is forever avoid the Bloody Mary at all costs, and certainly do not enter any Buca di Beppo before 6:30 PM on any given day. You will leave depressed, disappointed and miserable – and when you face that blazing sunlight outside it will shine in your eyes like God’s high beams, informing you that you have made yet one more mistake in your short, miserable, pathetic life. 

    I paid Rick the $11.00 for the drink and walked outside, heading to pick up my son from his hair appointment. I was feeling a little better, happy that I at least informed Rick who Joe DiMaggio was, and happy that I was now aware of the catastrophic flavor of Helix Vodka. I walked back up towards the salon and texted my son to see if he was done. He wrote me back pretty quickly and seemed happy with his haircut. I squinted in the sun and read his text aloud:

    Dad, can we go see the Dungeons and Dragons movie?

    I went back to Buca di Beppo’s and ordered another round…  

    The Author. Encino, CA. 12;30 pm Friday.

    STREAM ZACH’S NEW SINGLE NOW!

    Bloody Mary Buca Di Beppo Cocktails Comedy Encino humor Joe Dimaggio Los Angeles Zach Selwyn
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Tag: Guns N roses

Read Zach’s New Short Story: An Aging Rocker Revisits Sunset Boulevard’s “Rock-N-Roll Ralph’s”

  • October 11, 2023
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Hero · Homepage · Short Story · The Writer

I moved to Hollywood in 1997 and was quickly initiated into the music scene, which at the time was hanging by a thread to a lost rock-n-roll dream that grunge had laid waste to a mere six years earlier. The glitz and glam of Sunset Boulevard had moved east – away from Gazzazri’s and their tasteless “hot body bikini contests” to more turtleneck and ponytailed night clubs like the Roxbury, where cocaine became less of a party drug and more of a designer hangover from the 1980’s. (Yes, the Will Ferrell-Chris Kattan sketch was based on a real place). MTV VJ Riki Rachtman and his Faster Pussycat partner Taime Downe had closed the Cathouse Club when the metal crowd aged out and the less-than-subtle meat market shoppers grew more comfortable in the darker corners of places like Johnny Depp’s Viper Room and Jon Sidel’s Smalls on Melrose. About the only remaining Sunset staples were the pay-to-play stalwarts that seduced high school bands from the Valley into bringing their friends to watch them hack their way on the same stages once shredded by Guns N Roses, The Doors and every cheese metal hair  band with a name like “Durrty Toyze…”

So, at 22, new to Hollywood with a dream of fronting my own band and a love of all things Rock-n-Roll, I was intrigued by the Sunset Strip. I longed to see the Rainbow, flick a cigarette where Axl Rose did in the November Rain video and make my rounds through the streets where Nicolas Cage drove around in the film Valley Girl improvising lines about dudes getting mohawks from his buddy’s convertible. For a few months, I stumbled in and out of the fading bars like Dublin’s and occasionally chased women out of my league into the SkyBar and Argyle Hotel. I often caught glimpses of people like Dr. Dre, Vince Neil and Hugh Hefner only to end up back at my tiny apartment wondering if I would ever find my scene in L.A. After all, I had successfully traipsed through the bars of my MTV rock video youth, but I was certainly a good 10-15 years younger than the majority of women I chatted up at bars who often bragged to me that they had once dated C.C. DeVille before he had joined Poison.

On most of these lonely Los Angeles evenings in the late 90’s, my friends and I would end up back at some tiny apartment off of Fountain where some stranger we were partying with claimed he had a line on good weed… and we would make a call, page somebody and then wait for 45 minutes for it to show up. Most of the time it didn’t, because we were too drunk or high to figure out how to share directions so occasionally we would have to venture OUT to score the grass ourselves. Whenever we went to retrieve the dope, the scene often unfolded with two or three of us crammed in a smoke-filled hip-hop basement studio pooling together 60 bucks to buy a sack of weed from a crew of 11 guys with six loaded 9 millimeters on the coffee table. We’d pay and leave and feel like we just survived a bungee jump or something. Eventually, we would go home and smoke and drink and watch episodes of South Park. (Yes, that was still on back then.)

Alas, when the weed or the beer ran out, most nights ended up with the most sober member of our crew suggesting a quick trip up to the market for more supplies. After a bunch of cash and waiter tips were collected and handed over, we flipped a coin to see who would drive and we made our way up to the large, often-crowded grocery store located at 7257 Sunset Boulevard. 

A place notoriously known as “Rock-N-Roll Ralph’s.”

Ralph’s grocery store is about the most basic, mid-range priced supermarket in the southern California basin. It is way cheaper than say, Whole Foods or Gelson’s, but comes with its own set of problems. It is much more crowded, much dirtier and offers low-level produce, terrible customer service and has a way more scandalous (if not homeless) clientele. This has been true since Ralph’s expanded its locations to over 200 in southern California and monopolized the market for well… markets. In Los Angeles alone, there are 22 Ralph’s Supermarkets at the time of this writing, and I have most likely set foot in every one of them. And the funny thing is? Some of these stores have been given permanent L.A. nicknames. 

The Ralph’s grocery store at 260 S. La Brea Boulevard has been known as “Model Ralph’s” for decades. Located near where a number of modeling and commercial casting offices are, patrons of this establishment may be treated to seeing former Calvin Klein underwear models buying orange juice, cute actresses from Modern Family searching for organic eggs in yoga pants and even Flo the Progressive Insurance lady wheeling a cart full of frozen food towards the checkout stand. Most LA residents consider “Model Ralph’s” to be fairly safe and it boasts one of the city’s youngest clienteles. 

Another Ralph’s on Los Angeles’ radar is located on Western Avenue and Sunset – and is referred to as “Ghetto Ralph’s” by all of the locals. This rodent-infested flea trap not only boasts of the worst parking lot ever designed by a human being, but it shares a building with a Ross Dress for Less upstairs where I once bought a single sock for 39 cents. “Ghetto Ralph’s” is also where I once witnessed a homeless man walk in, load up a full shopping cart with ten bottles of vodka and just WALK OUT, unscathed and ignored by security. As impressed as I was by his brazen activity, I eventually took my adult shopping back to the much cleaner Gelson’s up the street. 

Then, down south of USC, where I went to college, there was a Ralph’s known as the, “Don’t Ever Go In There Ralph’s,” where the deli counter was operated by a woman who I once saw lose a hair extension into my container of potato salad. 

So when I first heard of “Rock-n-Roll Ralph’s,” I was intrigued… What could be going on there? Was it like the Hard Rock Cafe of grocery stores? Full of gold records and live music and signed guitars from dudes like Don Dokken on the wall? Were rock stars drinking in there? It sounded interesting and somewhat dangerous. The store was up on Sunset, somewhat close to Guitar Center, Sam Ash Music, and the late Voltage and Vintage Guitars (both now vape shops). The Seventh Veil Strip Club, as memorialized in the Motley Crue song Girls Girls Girls, was within stumbling distance. The best thing was that it was far away from the spent casings of the Sunset Strip after-hours bars, where the ghosts of metal bands that once fired blanks into the Hollywood night aiming for world domination still believed that a deal with Mercury Records was one showcase at the Coconut Teaszer away. So, the first time I heard about “Rock-N-Roll Ralph’s,” I knew I had to check it out. I remember calling my new LA friend Reese, who had already slogged five years in the City of Angels, and asking him about it. 

“Dude, it’s so bad-ass,” Reese told me. “Slash and Duff are there all the time, Sebastian Bach buys wine there, I heard Sheryl Crow gets her tampons there and I’ve seen Lemmy, Nikki Sixx and one of the Living Colour guys… I think” 

“What do you mean you think?” I asked. 

“Well, he was a cool looking black dude with spandex and dreadlocks and it was like two in the morning… of course that was like, three years ago.”

“What about tonight?” I inquired, the clock approaching 1:15 in the morning. “Do you think we can expect to see a rock star buying something if we go there now?”

“Hell yeah,” he said. “My girlfriend said Tommy Stinson was there two weeks ago.”

That did it. Tommy Stinson? Slash? Lemmy? I was never a HUGE hard rock fan, but I knew that LA was crawling with heroes of my youth and I was gonna be damned if I didn’t get a chance to run into some legendary guitar slinger while buying a 12-pack of Coors Light. Shit, with any luck, maybe I could get a guy like Tommy Stinson to come back to my apartment and jam with me… THAT would put my music dreams on the map.

So, Reese took me on my first trip to “Rock-N-Roll Ralph’s.” Forty minutes later, after wandering the aisles like a wide-eyed kid hoping to see a celebrity while on the Universal Studios Backlot Tour, I came to a rather jarring conclusion: 

This place was simply a filthy grocery store. 

Reese and I failed to run into ANYBODY remotely famous. The highlight of the evening was when the checkout guy told us that Adam Duritz had been in earlier that afternoon and bought a Honeybaked Ham. 

The legend of “Rock-N-Roll Ralph’s” extends back to the heyday of the 1980’s Sunset Strip scene. Those years were documented by Penelope Spheeris when she turned her camera on the pretty boys and girls parading up and down the boulevard, preening and praying for a record deal to propel them onto the world stage. Re-watching The Decline of Western Civilization Part 2: The Metal Years in 2023 is a harrowing experience, for many reasons. The sheer amount of sexism, hedonism, desperation, alcohol abuse and unbridled debauchery is enough for you to question why you ever begged your mom for a Quiet Riot t-shirt back in 1983. But, what I admired more than anything, was that back then, these musician kids lived 10 to a room, in abandoned Hollywood warehouses and apartments. They were survivors. Dreamers. They were just like me, except that dozens of females in fishnets weren’t floating me cash to pay for cigarettes and rent for a rehearsal space. To survive, these future lords of Los Angeles would rummage through Hollywood and Highland BEFORE there even WAS a Hollywood and Highland, begging for change, turning tricks and selling homemade merchandise that allowed them enough money to get high, laid and yes… buy booze at “Rock-N-Roll  Ralph’s” at closing time.

“Rock-N-Roll Ralph’s” was the type of place where the bag boys concealed tattoos beneath their aprons, the checkout dudes claimed that their band once “opened for Kix at the Roxy” and vixens casually dropped produce on the floor just to bend over in case a casting director was there scouting for the next Warrant video. It was the type of establishment where you could get 30 steps inside before being asked to put out your cigarette. You could shoplift a few batteries for the apartment boom box and not be questioned. It was the type of place where young starlets just getting off of the Greyhound from Indiana could get pregnant in the bread aisle. 

Today, if you drive by the store, you will notice that they have embraced their history and Rock-n-Roll nickname. Someone high up on the Ralph’s food chain commissioned an artist to design a signature Les Paul ‘Ralph’s-logo’ guitar on the front door beneath a silhouetted rock band. This weird mural is an artistic homage to a lost time in this city and to the nickname given to a random grocery store by some long lost L.A. resident. There is one problem, however: Rock-n-Roll in Los Angeles hasn’t been Rock-n-Roll in a VERY long time. 

Think about it. Since the Grunge revolution, can you name five ROCK bands that have come from Los Angeles and conquered the world? Are you still thinking about it? I thought so. That’s because there aren’t many. Maroon 5, love them or hate them, are the closest. Although they’ve adopted LA as a home, Counting Crows is technically a San Francisco band… and far from “hard rock.” Rage Against the Machine, Jane’s Addiction and the Red Hot Chili Peppers were able to carry the flame by being original enough to march forward and you can say the same for Beck. But after that, the city is awash with a cavalcade of one hit wonders like Foster the People, Incubus and Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes. 

The bottom line is that Hip-Hop is king. So, if I was the manager of “Rock-n-Roll Ralph’s,” I would tear down the silhouetted rock band and Ralph’s guitar and replace it with a logo of Kendrick Lamar spitting bars into a fucking champagne bottle.

A few days ago, I went up to “Rock-N-Roll Ralph’s” just to see if anything had changed. I passed through the guitar doors and inhaled the familiar unclean scents of rotting produce. I noticed how the prices had risen dramatically and I looked at some sale prices and perused the wine aisle, considering taking advantage of the ‘30 Percent Off if You Buy Six Bottles’ deal. I noticed a few neighborhood residents buying dog food and diapers and remarked how the interior hadn’t changed at all since I first went in back in 1997. I was disappointed. After coming to terms that this store was no longer something to be enamored with, I chalked it up with the rest of the long gone LA rock palaces. Somewhere in the trail dust of the mid 1990’s, “Rock-N-Roll Ralph’s” went the way of The Cathouse, Gazzari’s and the Starwood Club.

As to not look suspicious by wandering around the grocery store, I decided to get out of “Rock-N-Roll Ralph’s” for the final time. I grabbed a Kombucha and paid for it at the self checkout aisle before hopping in my 2016 electric vehicle and driving away to my two-bedroom home in the Valley. 

Not very Rock-n-Roll at all…

(Check out the Ralph’s-inspired album cover of Zach’s single “Haven’t Seen Much Morning Recently”)

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