Zach Selwyn Debuts First Novel Stoner Chronicles: Austin Translation Rogue Matter and Macmillan Press Launch New Literary Trilogy
Rogue Matter, in partnership with Macmillan Press, proudly announces the March 24th release of Stoner Chronicles: Austin Translation, the debut novel by writer/actor and musician Zach Selwyn. The book marks the first installment in the Stoner Chronicles trilogy, to be followed by Drop Dead Gorgeous in 2027 and Hudson River Martini in 2028.
Set against the vibrant backdrop of Austin, Texas, Stoner Chronicles: Austin Translation introduces readers to Selwyn’s sharply observed world—where art, excess, and humor collide. With a voice that is both irreverent and clever, Selwyn blends dark humor and emotional honesty, establishing a bold new presence in contemporary fiction. Famed Texas author/musician and personality Kinky Friedman wrote the foreword for the novel a couple of years before his untimely passing.
“Kinky was an inspiration and a mentor in many ways,” Selwyn says. “The whole reason this book came about was because I was recording Kinky for a podcast down at his ranch and we started talking about writing – he encouraged me to finish the novel and keep creating.”
The novel lays the groundwork for a trilogy of novels that move across cities, mysteries, and (often intoxicated) states of mind.
“This book was one of those Covid projects written during the height of fear,” Selwyn says. “I was struck by how many people in Texas were defying the masks and vaccines – as compared to Los Angeles where we were all panicking and wiping down our groceries with Clorox.”
Stoner Chronicles: Austin Translation is available for pre-order now through Rogue Matter and Macmillan Press.
For review copies, interviews, or additional information, please contact: Trent Olsen
From April 25 – 28, ZACH will lead a band featuring Nashville legends -while performing LIVE at the world famous Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge in Nashville during live tapings of the hit NFL Network show “Good Morning Football”Zach’s band Zachariah & the Lobos Riders recently released their new album “Hacienda” to high praise Lead singer Zach Selwyn, a former ESPN personality and digital sports content talent for TBS currently hosts the new interactive game show “Stacks” – Returning fall 2019. Stay tuned for more NFL Draft information! Show airs 6am-10am – prepare for NFL FREESTYLES, COUNTRY REWRITES, COVERS, EPIC CLOTHING and Zachariah ORIGINALS!
I am uncomfortably straddling a white folding chair with 40 other people, ages ranging from 21-60 on a 103-degree day in Alta Dena waiting to work as an extra on a network TV show for the day. The pay isn’t terrible – $142.37 – or something like that, plus whatever gargantuan amounts of Craft Service snacks, candy, sodas and mini sandwiches I can shove into my shoulder bag to take home, but the overall feeling is grim. There is some old Greek food suffering beneath a sneeze guard nearby, a lot of discarded banana peels and a large fan blowing cool air towards us to keep us comfortable – like we’re NFL running backs playing a September game in Phoenix.
The scene has a prison-like feel to it. There are the lifers, the newbies and the guys who are only here for a few days trying to get their health insurance. I fall into that last category, but the fear of getting sexually assaulted by one of the older “inmates” is very real. Only problem is I can’t kick anyone’s ass to prove that I’m “tough.” Instead, I choose to bury myself into my iphone and hope the 45% charge lasts another 8 hours.
A year ago I was in New York City promoting my own TV show in Times Square for Tru TV. Now I am listening to a 22-year-old kid talk about how Hot Tub Time Machine is the main reason he dropped out of college to try to make it as an actor. You gotta love this business.
Typical extras holding areaThe majority of chatter amongst these “background players” or “atmosphere” is about the world of extras. Many relay the legendary scene in Ben Hur where an extra forgot to take his watch off during the chariot race. (Look it up – it’s hilarious). Others talk about how Ricky Gervais ripped off their idea when he did his Extras TV show. However, the subject that keeps coming up time and time again is the “bump up.” A “bump up” is when an extra is promoted from an extra to a principal role. Suddenly, the lucky bloke can go from zero to hero and earn Screen Actors Guild daily rate. However, according to everyone, incidents like that are more rare than finding a piece of sushi that hasn’t been in the sun for six hours beneath the cast and crew food canopy.
I am here today because I need to make $6300 before the end of the year as a way to qualify for Screen Actors Guild health insurance, a plan I have somehow managed to attain for the past twelve years. This year, however, the jobs dried up, a ton of work went non-union and I have finally aged out of the commercial actor category of “young, shaggy haired beer-drinking party guy.”
At this pay rate, it will take me working nearly every day for three months to earn the necessary SAG income to keep my family on the health plan. Alternative options – Obamacare and Cobra – basically guarantee that I will be paying 75% more money for lesser benefits. It has long been noted that SAG has terrific health care. The problem is that you need to earn an outrageous amount of money to qualify for it, and this year has been an ice bath as far as SAG work has been going.
“My dad was Jimmy Smits’ stand-in on LA Law,” a man named Sonny who was dressed as a Native American jewelry salesman bragged to the lot of us huddled beneath the blue pop-up tent. “He told me to find a niche as an extra. When I started out I only played Latino, only roles were for prisoners or a gang members. Now that I play Native American, I work all the time.”
I suddenly found myself wishing I had some Native American cheekbones.
Snacks all day long at Craft Service. Experienced extras call it “Crafty.”As the day rolled along, I began to hear everybody’s story. You coop someone up for long enough, they will eventually tell you their life’s narrative. Every extra on set seemed to have a tale about the one legendary time they were “bumped up” to a principal role. One woman claimed she was bumped on Two and a Half Men because Charlie Sheen fired the original woman who had been cast for her one line of “Suck it, Charlie.” A guy who often plays blue-collar types said he got his bump on Dharma and Greg and had his career-defining moment in a bar fight scene when he raised his fists and said, “Meet my two friends… Mary-Kate and Ashley.”
And then there was Sonny, who said he specifically learned the extinct Native American language Kiowa to nab a line in a Civil War series. His line was “D’on T’ap Piii.” Which translates roughly to “See deer eating.”
I stared at Sonny for a long while. He did look familiar, as that Native American guy you sort of see in films, but I wasn’t sure. Which meant he was a great extra. One who blended in. He bragged of his work on The Alamo, Oz, The Longest Yard, Texas Rising, Hatfields and McCoys. Dances With Wolves and of course, That 70’s Show. The way he saw it, he was an integral part of these films. A guy who went uncredited – but felt he deserved all the success.
“There should be an extras lifetime achievement award,” he offered.
As a young actor, I did some extra work at age 22. At the time, like most young dreamers, I thought I was a small break away from my own series and I treated the other kids in the high school dance scene like castaways and future failures. When I started booking some jobs and enjoying the confines of an air-conditioned trailer with a private bathroom, I swore I’d never go back to the extras holding again. Yet, here I was. A 15-year TV veteran with a decent resume that I was too embarrassed to share with the other inmates. I decided to shut up and do my time and maybe get out of there with a few Clif bars and some coconut water.
Then, there was a call to action.
“Peter, Mike, Donna, Marla, Zach – party scene, now!” An Assistant Director yelled at us, directing us towards the makeup department to get touched up.
I put down my phone and walked over to the area, when Donna, one of the younger extras, mentioned that she often worked on the show. She then proceeded to refer to one of the makeup artists as her “glam squad.”
A short, effeminate man named Ty erupted in her face.
“Don’t call me ‘glam,’ don’t call me ‘glam squad’ or I’ll shove this hairbrush up your ass,” he screamed.
Emily, another makeup artist stopped him before any penetration took place. It was surreal. Never in my life had I seen a fight between an extra and a makeup artist. It was like the Cubs-Pirates bench clearing brawl in the National League Wild Card this season. You couldn’t believe it was happening.
It was a major altercation. Apparently, Ty was sent home and Donna was threatening to sue the show for harassment. It didn’t make sense. In my opinion, being called the “glam squad” wasn’t nearly as bad as being referred to as “background” or “ambience.”
My scene was fairly easy. I had to drink some iced tea and mouth the words “peas and carrots” to another extra. The entire time I was placed in the corner of the party and they shot about 9 angles and we let the main actress do six takes before she was happy. As the director stood merely three feet from me, I tried to convince him that a line would be appropriate for my character. I pitched him ““D’on T’ap Piii.”
He didn’t respond. Apparently he didn’t speak Kiowa.
Kiowa. A lost language.Lunch was at 1:00 and the extras were told to not touch or come near any food until the entire cast and crew had eaten. I was actually quite full from snacking – so I didn’t need to rush, but a lot of the extras bitched and moaned about the lack of respect. I turned to a fellow extra named Tony, who was about my age.
“Why can’t everyone just relax?” I asked him.
“Welcome to the Screen Extras Guild,” he responded.
An hour later, following one of those naps when you fall asleep with your chin in your hand, there was a small rumbling about a potential bump up for one of the extras. Apparently, a producer had seen one of us and wanted to add a line. The bit was that the lucky person would confront the female star of the show – who was wearing a fur jacket – with an uncomfortable long hug and then said, “you feel like a plushie.” All the extras began rehearsing their lines as if this was an audition for the next Coen Brothers film and we all got excited. I even took a walk around the tent and worked on my delivery.
Eventually, the female star and the director came to the extras tent and started looking around at all of us as if we were cattle being sold at a livestock auction. The female actress passed the first few folks, skipped the youngsters and then whispered to her director, “I need a middle-aged schlub.”
I am certainly creeping up on middle age, but I don’t feel like I look that way. I’m in great shape and still have hair and my skin has been hiding from the sun throughout the years as I write my life away. However, I was chosen as one of the three finalists to play “middle-aged schlub.”
We all went and had a private audition with the actress and director. I immediately messed up my hair, raised my jeans to mom-jean height and did my best to look like a total Midwestern chump who would give a hot girl a “long hug” and make her uncomfortable.
The author – doing his best to appear like a middle aged schlub.“Mmm, you feel like a fluff – wait, what’s the line?” The first guy said, immediately messing up his chances.
“You feel like a plushie,” said the next guy who was 40 pounds heavier and 100% balder than me.
When my turn came, I looked deeply into the actress’ eyes. She stared back at me for about five seconds. I knew this was my job to lose… so I did my best to “eye-bang” her and get the job on the spot. Instead, before I could get my line out, she interrupted me.
“You look like that guy from that Tru TV show,” she said.
“I am that guy!”
“What are you doing in the extras tent?” She replied.
“Trying to get my health insurance,” I said, hoping she would feel my pain and give me the bump up on the spot. I dug deeper into my plea, mentioning that my family had been sick a lot the past year and I was a huge fan of the show.
“You might be too recognizable,” she blurted. “Second guy, you got the job.”
And with that, the fat, bald guy went off to his own folding chair, better food and a holding area behind the video village where the producers and directors hung out.
I returned to my spot in the tent. All the other extras wanted to know what had happened and I told them I relayed the story as best I could. When I mentioned that the female star had said I was “too recognizable” the tent wanted to know why. After all, not one of these folks had any idea who I was. I told them. Nobody had even heard of my show.
“I get recognized all the time,” said Sonny. “People stop me when I walk down the street.”
The rest of the day I watched my phone dwindle down towards the 3% range and eventually die. In a way, I felt like that iphone charge… A year back I was flying high at 100%. Now, I was hanging onto 3.
Actor Kevin Costner as a beer-swilling extra in the film “Night Shift” (1982) A legend to extras everywhere.Before I left, I managed to fill my bag with enough high fructose corn syrup snacks to kill a small village and I hopped into the first awaiting white van that would shuttle us back to the parking lot. Luckily, I ended up in the same row as the female lead actress from earlier.
“Hey,” she said. “I’m sorry about that moment back there… I just recognized you from that other show – I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”
“Amazingly, you’re the first person to know me from that like, ever,” I said.
She smiled.
“I’ll tell you what. Give me your manager’s name and I’ll make sure we get you in for a small role this season,” she offered.
I couldn’t believe it. Here she was telling me that she would go out of her way to get me a speaking part on her show. I got her personal email and said I’d be sending my demo reel and headshot over immediately. We exchanged good-byes and I returned my mom jeans to the costume department and signed out for the day.
As I walked to my car, the lead actress shook my hand and said I would be hearing from the production office very soon.
We play “Fake or Florida” and talk about women’s panties…
The Derby in its heyday, 1997
The Day The Derby Became a Bank * By Zach Selwyn
And the Derby today… A Chase Bank
I live about a mile from the building that was once the famous swing dance club known as “the Derby.” In the mid-late 90’s, when the swing music revolution twirled its way across the streets of Los Angeles and turned regular farm boys from the Midwest into Rat Pack wannabes, “the Derby” was the swing club to frequent.
In 1996, Jon Favreau was so inspired, he made a pretty great film about it called Swingers and suddenly star Vince Vaughn had the entire town looking for “beautiful babies” and saying that everything was “money.” I passed a bootleg VHS tape of the film around my college friends and soon fell in hook, line and sinker. After graduation, I dove head first into the post-Swingers madness that raised dirty martinis all over Hollywood. Lines formed around the Hillhurst/Los Feliz street corner where the Derby resided awaiting entrance into the ultimate haven of swing-cool.
I owned 15 bowling shirts, white “creeper” shoes, Cadillac-emblazoned pants, shoulder-pad heavy sport coats, a flask, three Big Bad Voodoo Daddy CDs and a t-shirt that said “It’s Frank’s World, Were all Just Living in It.” I went to Las Vegas monthly, drank gin and tonics and swept my hair up into a James Dean-inspired pompadour. I remember feeling so confident that my “swinger” image would live with me for the rest of my days, I traveled to New York City around 1999 and searched out underground West Village swing clubs to show Manhattan that a “Real Life Hollywood Swinger” was in their presence. Somehow the façade worked and after ringing up a $290 credit card bill, I managed to make out with a girl named ‘Kitty’ who had a Stray Cats tattoo on her shoulder before retiring to her floor mattress in Brooklyn where she woke up six times during the night to smoke Marlboro Reds.
It was all because of Swingers.
And then, about five years ago, it was announced that the Derby was going to be transformed into a Chase Bank. The bar where I spent my early 20’s was suddenly going to be a place where I would curse the teller for charging me a checking account fee… The club where I once dated the hottest bartender in town was turning into a place where a gal named Evelyn would inform me my mortgage was ten days late. When I heard the news, I knew this was not good. The Derby? I thought… A bank? WWJFD? (What Would Jon Favreau Do?)
Turns out, Favreau had bigger fish to fry. Even though he could have easily bought the Derby and used it to store his Iron Man memorabilia, he ignored my twitter plea for him to buy the bar and turn it into a museum. I’m sure Vince Vaughn most likely drank at “Mess Hall,” the restaurant next door, toasting the ghosts of the barroom that made him a movie star… but he was also too busy and uninspired to save the bar. I even tweeted actor Patrick Van Horn, who played SUE in the film. He at least took the time to write me back by quipping “End of an Era.”
A week before the Derby was to be gutted, I gathered my old “Swinger buddies,” – now dads who had traded in slick sport coats and suspenders for Old Navy hoodies – and we poured out some gin for Favreau and Vaughn, for Sinatra, for dirty martinis, for the incredible wooden Derby ceiling, for the memories we had shared at the bar and for the debauched nights spent watching amazing swing bands like Royal Crown Revue sing “walk right in, walk right out…”
We even quoted the movie a few more times to make sure we still knew all the classic lines. “Get there…” “This place is deaaad anyway…” “He’s all growns up… I would never eat here.” “You’re the fun-loving out going party guy, and you’re sweating some lawn jockey?” The night went on and on.
Seanny Walls, Big Daddy Jake and the author, feelin’ “Money” in 1998. #jawline
As the evening died down, we all retired a lot earlier than we had in the late 90’s and excused ourselves back to our families. The next week, the Chase Bank transformation had begun and the last remaining memories of my first few years out of college were carried out and discarded.
A few weeks ago, I found myself in line at the Chase, staring up at the exact same wooden ceiling that I had spun girls beneath in the past. The ceiling beneath which I had done shots of Crown Royal a hundred times. The ceiling that watched over me as I tried to find assimilation with a unique sect of people during those weird times when you’re not yet quite sure who you were – who you are – or where you are going.
I got up to the bank teller and deposited my meager check, taking a moment to remark that this building was once my one-time favorite nightclub.
Without making eye-contact she mumbled, “Yep, every one of you middle-aged guys who comes in here has the same story.”
“Fuck off,” I whispered under my breath.
I took another glance at the ceiling and thought of the days gone by. Hollywood is forever a town of transformation. Very few restaurants and bars make it ten years… hence the stories you read about now defunct clubs like The Trip, The Cathouse and Gazzari’s that were the most happening places to be. In my life, the Derby was certainly my place. The place where I was part of a nationwide fad that engulfed my youth when I was a mere lump of clay awaiting to be molded into the lump of Play-Doh I am these days.
As I looked down at my bank receipt and realized how far this journey in Hollywood had taken me, I thought of the dreams I had at age 22 that were still somewhat unrealized. When places that mean so much to you as a kid disappear, you fail to immediately recognize that they will be gone for good and the memories will fade or melt into new ones until all you have left are a few photographs and some journal entries. I look back at my two years as a pseudo-swinger as important remembrances that I will take with me through all of my life. At the time I thought I’d be 22 forever, twirling cute tattooed ladies across slick wooden floors only pausing to sip drinks and wipe the sweat from our brows. I never thought I’d be 40-years-old and in the exact same room looking down at a bank statement stressing about the fact that I barely had enough money that week to cover my DWP bill.
The line leading to these steps would wrap around to Los Feliz Blvd.
Again, my thoughts turned to Jon Favreau. As the worlds most in demand director, he probably never imagined he would achieve the level of success he has back when he was simply searching for familiarity amongst the Hollywood night-crawlers of the mid 90’s. I reached back out to my old swinger buddies and arranged another drinking night to sit back and reminisce about the Derby days gone by, and we all agreed to get together on a following Tuesday night.
Of course, by Monday morning, everybody had flaked and the plans were cancelled so we could spend some time with our families. We all agreed to try again later, and I thought about how a little piece of all of us died the day the Derby did…
And a part of me knew, that somewhere, high up in those Malibu Hills, Jon Favreau was feeling the same thing…
Buy Zach’s Book “Talent Will Get You Nowhere” on Amazon.com!
The tipsy, long-legged freshman blonde I was talking with staggered back a few paces. She took a sip out of a Coors Light beer can that she had been smearing with guacamole residue for the past five minutes and flipped her silken hair back over her shoulder. She hiccupped, adjusted her neck and gazed up at me. She answered.
“Uhhhm, I don’t know, 1980?”
“1980?” I responded. “What! No, I’m only 37!”
“Oh my God,” she said. “You’re my stepmother’s age.”
I didn’t cry. I didn’t have to. I just shook my head and walked away. I walked back towards my tailgate section, where 10 of my closest buddies from my days as a student and football fan at the University of Southern California stood, inebriated and buzzing – longing for those glory daze of yore. Back when Notorious BIG was still alive and Sublime played our fraternity parties. Back when my major and the quality of my fake ID was all that mattered. Back when tailgating on campus was for the old, creepy people – and we were the future generation, heckling the 40-year-olds for showing up with beer bongs – trying to get some Alpha Phi to show them her tits…
1980. Really? Are you serious? I was FIVE! I couldn’t believe it. I silently fell down into the area on campus where my buddies were hanging out. I slouched down towards the cooler and grabbed a beer. Well before I sat down on my portable beach chair, my friends could tell I was upset.
“Yo, Z, what’s up? My buddy Spencer asked.
“Oh, nothing. Just that that freshman girl over there thought I was 54 years old.”
Tailgating is a time-honored tradition amongst my friends and me. Once a year we pool together about 100 bucks a person and blow it on beer, cheap food, snacks and football tickets to see the mighty USC Trojans football team play at the Los Angeles Coliseum. Most of our day is spent ogling young college girls on campus, drinking beer, throwing footballs around and reminding each other of all the amazing times we had in college. The majority of the afternoon is for us to pretend we are 20-years-old again. In fact, over the past 15 years since I graduated, I think I’ve maybe sat through one whole half of a live football game. The score? Well, as far as were concerned, a win is a good thing, but most of the times we have done this, we are so wasted by the time kick-off rolls around, we don’t feel it necessary to even go to the actual game anymore.
The fact that this freshman girl thought I was nearly 20 years older than I am, reminded me of how naïve, unworldly and young we are in college. Students think they are doing great things and studying interesting subjects and having meaningful relationships, but in reality, most of them are using the four years as a crutch to get by without facing the real world of work, marriage, children and bills. Most of them think there are jobs waiting outside the campus with six-figure paydays and keys to executive bathrooms. Even I was guilty of this. Back in the 90’s, I thought that by studying Broadcast Journalism, I’d be offered the first on-camera sportscaster spot that became open at NBC here in Los Angeles within two or three weeks of graduation. What I realized many years later, is that my degree meant jack squat. And based on the success I have had in my career thus far? I might as well have majored in Bongwater.
Saturday, September 22nd started out not unlike any other tailgate day my friends and I participate in. We loaded up on greasy food, found the few USC memorabilia T-shirts we might own and barely scoffed at paying the $25.00 parking fee in a local structure by campus. (The fact that I had no problem dropping 25 bucks on parking – whereas I am angrily putting off my son’s $25.00 AYSO Soccer registration fee because I think it’s too high – makes no sense to me…)
My old roommate Spencer wore a red, collared USC shirt. My friend Neil chose a 50-0 USC/UCLA score recap shirt and a black USC baseball cap. Our pal Riley was wearing a #55 hockey jersey – if only to start new conversation with super-fans. As for me, I spent the previous week trying to manufacture cheap t-shirts that we could sell on campus to stupid college kids that read: “IT’S BANG A FRESHMAN DAY!”
The printer wouldn’t let me make them.
The author had planned to sell these shirts on campus for $25 each. Sadly, the printer claimed they were too offensive to print.
We made it to campus around 9:00 in the morning, and had cracked cans of Miller Lite by 9:03. We strolled near our old dormitories and hangouts, noting that the school had severely upgraded everything since we left campus back in 1997. Back before the Staples Center was built and the surrounding campus became desirable Back when it cost me $425 a month to live with three dudes in a full shag-carpeted condo across the street from a grocery store parking lot were a dismembered female body was found in a dumpster the year before we moved in. Back when the school was an affordable $25,000/ year. (I took out roughly $92,000 in student loans. So far, 15 years later? I’ve paid back 18 bucks).
Where once stood rusted volleyball nets, now stood a sprawling quad full of shirtless Greek system Gods and Goddesses. Old dormitories looked like Westin Hotels. And the on-campus bar, “Traditions” – which once sat about 20 people (ten comfortably) – was recently transformed into a cavernous USC-themed booze playground that resembled an ESPN Zone in Las Vegas.
Yes, the times had changed with us. And nearly everything I did that fine Saturday, made me realize just how far removed from college I truly was.
The author drinks with his friend Neil in 1993…
And today…
The first questionable thing I chose to do after being mistaken for a 54-year-old, was pull out a bottle of red wine. Not some $7.99 Trader Joe’s bottle of cheap Pinot swill called “Nosedive” whose label features an actual nose skydiving, but a legitimate 1994 Shafer Cabernet Sauvignon Hillside Select. I’m talking about a 152 – dollar bottle that I bought at a wine auction in 2010 for half the price. A bottle you either save for an anniversary – or lose when your teenage son has his friends over in ten years and they find the wine cellar in the basement. Still, having pretty much shunned beer recently for my new red wine obsession, I figured this was a terrific bottle to share with my best buddies from college on a grassy patch of tailgate where a delicious bottle of wine would offer a fresh alternative to Miller Lite # 19… Oh how wrong I was.
“Dude, seriously?” Riley snorted as he watched me use my Reef flip-flop with the attached corkscrew to get the bottle opened. “Red wine? Are you gonna take your bra off when you drink it?”
“It’s 97 degrees outside!” Neil offered.
“What is that, two-buck Chuck?” Spencer chortled.
When I explained to the guys that it was, in fact, a significant bottle of 1994 Napa Valley gold, they laughed, cracked another canned beer and continued taking stealth cell-phone pictures of the crew of scantily clad Kappa Kappa Gamma girls playing wiffle ball 30 feet away. As I poured my glass, I knew it was a wasted bottle, but I figured I’d try to enjoy it anyway.
“That ball was outside!” I yelled at a fraternity pledge who had been acting as the umpire during the wiffle ball game. Before I could get into a Billy Martin-like argument with him, I let him look over at me and size me up. I knew what he was thinking: Great, another old, jerk-off alumni who is trying to be funny around the sorority girls. After I tried to put on my best I was once on ESPN broadcaster voice and call some humorous play-by-play, I quickly realized just how out of place I was. 37-years-old. Married. Two kids. Somehow still thinking I would be able to get the female response I used to get back in college -when my nickname was “The Oil-Rigger.”
Fact is, my two-and-a-half-year-old DAUGHTER is closer to her freshman year in college than I am. Yes. When I graduated college, the majority of today’s freshmen were three and four-years-old. I was already taking PROPECIA for crying out loud… Today? My six-year-old son’s kindergarten costs roughly $25,000 a year. As for USC? Typical tuition starts in the $54,000 range. You also need about 1000 points higher on your SAT to get in than when I slid by with a 1050 back in 1993… (I’ve decided that my kids are going to University of Phoenix by the way.… ONLINE.)
So there I was. Sipping $50/glass wine from a red plastic cup, watching five tank-top sporting, wiffle ball playing frat dudes – with names like “Blaise” and “Carson” – try and work their magic on a crew of sorority girls. Girls who I once would have once easily convinced to come “power hit” a bong-load with me in my apartment as we listened to Blues Traveler 4. Girls who I once would have taken CD shopping on a date. Girls who think I graduated college in 1980.
After a few drinks, I took a trip to the port-a-potties near the Von Kleinsmid Center – a building where I had once aced a few classes on gerontology and gang relations. I remembered it well.
The port-a-potty lines were long and the sun was blazing hot. Somehow, I knew that there were bathrooms in the building somewhere, but being that my memory was a little hazy, I decided to just use the filthy port-a-potty and get back to finish my wine before getting down on some Costco bar-be-cue rib dish Riley was amassing. So, I stood there in line, along with about 75 other older people, awaiting a chance to relieve themselves.
After about 15 minutes or so, as I started to inch closer to the front, a young kid around 21 came bounding by with four Duct-taped beer cans in his hand. (Apparently a new college fad is to Duct-tape together your beers into some sort of beer-saber so you can defeat a Sith Lord by the end of the tailgate)… When he handed his girlfriend the beer-saber and strolled past the line we were all standing in, he looked directly at us, and laughed. His next words were the ones that hurt the most…
“Standing in the port-a-potty line? What a bunch of NOOBS!!!”
Noobs? No. Sorry, You can never call me a noob. I used to know every toilet on campus. From the row of thrones near the bookstore to the hidden journalism school former darkroom toilet in the basement, I was the king of finding a bathroom at USC. This little fucker just called me a NOOB? I used to be on Attack of the Show! For three years! We practically invented the term “noob.” I planned on confronting the prick when he came back and demanding an apology.
He was back in three minutes, his bladder emptied, as I still stood in the never-ending line from hell.
He grabbed his girlfriend and his beers and went off to chase more college glory. I ended up peeing in a honey bucket that had a USC-logo baby diaper smeared on the floor. Perhaps I was a noob indeed.
A USC girl holds her boyfriends duct-taped “Beer-saber” as he uses a secret bathroom.
Even though the tank-top kids had to leave the game to fetch their frat masters some more beer, the Kappa Kappa Gamma wiffle ball game was still going strong. Somehow, Neil (a one-time NorCal 5-tool baseball prodigy) was recruited to throw batting practice towards the girls as they giggled and whacked plastic balls towards Tommy Trojan. I managed to sneak myself into the game as the catcher, hoping for just one blissful Lingerie Football League– like play at the plate… As one girl after another stepped up, I began ribbing them the way Yogi Berra might have back in the glory days of baseball.
“What’s your major?” “Ever date a Jew?” “Need a date for your spring sorority formal?” “Nice grip — lucky bat…” It went on and on. Until this blonde girl named Jessa took her gum out of her mouth, turned to me and told me to shut the hell up.
After we somehow got three outs, we demanded that we get to bat. Jessa – who told me she was a senior – made her way to the mound and began stretching like Jennie Finch before a College World Series Softball game. I got scared. We all did. Still, the experience had turned us into college kids again. And we all loved it. Somehow, these girls let us into their game and we were happy to be the creepy old guys who were willing to play nine innings against an infield of short skirts and memories.
It was old-timers day at the ballpark and we didn’t give a FUCK.
Then, Jessa yelled that she needed a drink. You have never seen a crowd of more desperate, overweight men run towards a girl than you did that afternoon to Jessa. It was like a bench-clearing brawl where we all rushed the mound – but with beers in hand. Somehow, however, she decided against a beer and went for a sip of my glorious wine… I was thrilled. As I broke down the currant undertones, floral notes and chutes of ember in the bottle, she took one sip, spit it out and said, “That’s the worst thing I have ever drank in my life!”
My buddies nearly fell down laughing.
This hot Kappa Kappa Gamma girl drove in 4 runs against our team. She was 3-years-old when I graduated college.
Down 5 – 0, I finally got up to bat. Riley had led off with a double and Neil had singled him over to third. I had a chance to drive in a few runs here, and like most men who play sports around a bunch of women, I really felt like I wanted to do a little better… become that high school jock I never was. Make up for batting .117 my final year of Little League. All I knew, was that I refused to strike out – that would be the worst thing in the world. I had one motive. I needed to go yard.
Jessa readied for the pitch and leaned back on the mound. After throwing me two dastardly sliders – which I had fouled off – I knew she was coming with the heat. I looked at Neil, and he knew she would throw it as well. It was then, that I decided to go for the laugh once more.
“Throw me a cock-high fastball,” I said.
Jessa laughed. In fact, everybody laughed. The comment I had stolen from a Sports Illustrated writer discussing locker room quotes that never make the paper, prompted more uproarious laughter than we had all experienced during the entire afternoon. And right there, in the southern California sun, for a brief moment, I felt like I might have been back in college once again. Running the game. Getting the laughs, having the right major and preparing for some crazy booze and pot-drenched after-party in my apartment. I cracked my neck and stepped in the batter’s box.
I was so energized, I felt like the time was right to try and regain my manhood. It as time I got a second opinion on when a hot, young college girl thought I had graduated.
Jessa looked into her sorority sister’s glove as I heckled her one more time. She shook off the sign.
“Hey, Jessa,” I said. “What year do you think I graduated?”
She paused and looked back at me. She made eye contact. I gave her my best “Luke Perry” smolder – forgetting that this girl had no fucking idea who the hell Luke Perry even was. She responded.
“Uhh, I dunno – 1984?” She said as my confidence drained from my body.
She threw me a cock-high fastball.
I swung at it, and I missed…
Zach Selwyn, Los Angeles California, September 24, 2012
Zach’s band 
Zach Selwyn 