https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/ep-3-scott-macarthur/id1217686743?i=1000383315241&mt=2
Tag: Zach Selwyn
Facial Tattoos, Needles and the Homeless! Welcome to Raising Kids in Hollywood…
This morning I drove past two skinny homeless men with multiple missing teeth who were smoking cigarettes before nearly running over a mangy stray dog panting in the street. I made a left turn at the Hustler Hollywood store, narrowly averting a woman who was squatting and urinating into a discarded water bottle. I eventually parked and walked around my car, side-stepping two discarded needles some dog crap and a used condom. I dodged a speeding Hyundai that was being driven by a dude vaping and texting at the same time before opening the passenger door… and helping my kid get out of the car.
“Ready for school?” I asked.
Welcome to Hollywood.
I was raised in a peaceful, quiet corner of the desert where coyotes and jumping cholla cacti were my biggest fears while walking to school. I didn’t see a homeless man until I was about 13. Hustler was a magazine that only prisoners and truckers read and needles were something only a doctor could get a hold of. Yesterday, my son asked me why the guy who lives in the dumpster across the street from his carpool pick-up lane is always shouting, “Ho ass bitch” while shuffling down Selma Avenue.
I am raising my children in Gomorrah and it’s starting to freak me the fuck out.
This school year, my son’s entire fifth grade class was moved to a new school campus – about 10 blocks north of the previous campus where they had been since kindergarten. The new campus is on Selma Avenue and is a stone’s throw from the Hollywood YMCA. It’s also a block south of Hollywood Boulevard, nearly 10 medical marijuana dispensaries, six seedy bars, smoke shops, two run-down hotels, a vintage street clock that has been permanently set to 4:20 and about nine tattoo parlors.
Back in my 20’s, when I was stumbling out of the bar Boardner’s (a block away from the school on Cherokee), I could never imagine that someday my son would be taking “Beginner Spanish” 50 yards from where I once puked after a night of Vodka – Red Bulls. I never thought I’d be raising my kids anywhere but some pristine little tucked away school with manicured lawns and open fields and morning sing-a-longs. Little did I know that barbed wire fences, metal detectors and cement soccer fields were going to be the norm for my children…
At a back-to-school meet and greet two weeks after the first day, some other parents expressed their concerns as well.
“We just don’t like the way the school feels,” an angry parent offered.
“We are striving to make everybody comfortable,” the principal, a 40-something man named Reggie replied.
“It’s hard to be comfortable when I smell marijuana every day when I drop my kid off,” another mom piped up.
Hollywood has changed immensely since the rundown 1990’s. Tourism is up, souvenir stores are making great money and people from all over the world are still traveling here to take photos of the sidewalk where an actor’s name is etched into a star. Of course, when the tourists come, so do the hustlers. You’ve seen them selling rap CD’s, trying to get you to take the TMZ Tour and drunkenly swaying into your photos while dressed up in a piss-stained Spider-Man costume demanding five dollars.
Look, my high school was no picnic. I witnessed a shooting, a lot of fights and certainly saw my share of LSD and dirt weed from Mexico, but I was in high school… Not fifth grade. Being raised in the desert certainly shaded me from the inner city realities of gang-ridden America, but I was also lucky enough to travel to places like New York and LA to see how other kids were growing up. Ultimately, their fast-paced lives had a strong effect on me because I headed for college in Los Angeles the minute I turned 18. Thinking back about my childhood dreams, I turned my son one day after school.
“Hey dude, where do you want to live when you grow up?” I asked him.
“Probably the beach… or New York I guess.”
Obviously he hadn’t thought this one out. Not me. By the time I was ten, I had it narrowed down to Los Angeles and Los Angeles.
My son is also already planning out his first tattoo, based on a conversation we had last week. After pouring over NBA star Brandon Ingram’s arms as we were watching a basketball game, he asked me a question.
“Dad, if you could get a tattoo, what would you get?”
“Oh wow, I dunno – probably your name and your sister’s name,” I said. “Something small and hidden and meaningful.”
“I’d probably get Savage in cursive across my eyebrow,” he said.
“You’re not getting a tattoo,” I told him.
“Why not? All the sickest rappers have face tattoos now…”
Oh boy.
As we listened to my kid’s Spotify playlist, I heard no less than ten “N-Bombs”, three songs about abusing Xanax, Percocet and Molly and over ten about Gucci, 80,000 dollar watches and ‘Lambos. Every song featured sound effects like “Skrrr” for a cool car or “Skrrrrratatatatata” to mimic an assault rifle peppering an enemy with bullets… Look, I love rap music. I chased a rap career myself at one point… but no 5th grader should be asking his dad what Codeine, Mountain Dew and Jolly Ranchers taste like together.
Alas, the reality of this situation is that I can’t afford to shell out 35,000 dollars to private academies like Campbell Hall or Oakwood… Although from what I remember from college – most of the heaviest partiers came out of these schools. Which gives me some hope… And truthfully, other than the dead guy who was wheeled away from the apartment down the block last week, the school is fun, diverse and growing and I’m actually proud to be a part of the community.
So, as the years roll along, I’ll just have to deal with the syringes, homeless guys and Hustler Hollywood foot traffic for a few more years until junior high. Luckily, that campus is located downtown in a much more secure location…
It’s across the street from an outpatient clinic for opioid addicts…
Read Zach’s interview about freestyle rap, brands & corporate events!
Read Zach’s New Short Story – “My Son and I Ran Into the Playmate I Slept with 17 Years Ago…”
In the late 90’s I was lucky enough to sleep with a Playboy
Centerfold. For the sake of this story, let’s call her “Miss July.” She
wasn’t the current centerfold by any means, in fact her issue had
already been off the racks for nearly seven years at the time of our
tryst, but she had been a popular Playmate in the 90’s… and one that I
had admired for years. For some reason, the planets aligned and she
and I shared a three-night fling at our respected apartments doing all
we could to pretend that we had anything in common outside of our bed
sheets.
Following our little hook up, I rifled through a used bookstore for
her back issue, buying at least six copies to give to my high school
friends. I called nearly every guy I knew to share in my glory and
walked on air for a good three months after our encounter, knowing
that I had achieved one of the ultimate male fantasies. I even sent a
back issue to my dad. After all, Playboy was my bible growing up and
bedding one of the world’s most beautiful women suddenly made me feel
like I could accomplish anything in my life.
Last week, while walking through a grocery store with my 10-year-old
son, I ran into Miss July in the produce section. At first, I stopped
and stared at her, like every man in the store had been doing since
she walked in the vicinity. She was still gorgeous and shapely and
wearing an outfit that only a Playmate can get away with.
Her breasts were still high and on display. He hair still blonde and
bountiful, with ringlets cascading beneath her shoulders – as if she
was currently in the middle of a photo shoot. I ogled for a minute,
before coming to the realization that she was, indeed, Miss July. My
Miss July. The girl I had slept with all those years ago. I hadn’t
thought of her in so long, I assumed she had moved to the other side
of the country where I would never see her again.
And now here she was fondling a pair of avocados.
“Why are you staring at that girl?” My son asked, snapping me out of
the coma my 40-year-old mind had drifted into.
“Oh, I think I know her,” I said, secretly hoping that he might
recognize her beauty and high-five me after we left the grocery store.
“Cool,” he responded. “Can I play on your phone?”
I gathered my thoughts and strolled around to the coffee aisle. I
wasn’t sure if I was going to say hello to her, afraid that she would
think I was some stalker from her Playmate days. I also didn’t want
her to blurt out something stupid, like “Oh my GOD! You were that guy
I slept with in the 90’s!” Worst of all, I thought, she wouldn’t
remember me at all. I let my son pick out some cereal as I mulled over
my next move.
Like most happily married men, I still harbor the memories of my
single years when one-night stands were so daring and fun and
whimsical. After all these years, they hold a nostalgic place in my
heart as something fantastic and perfect – when in reality they were
normally panic-riddled and led to health concerns and loneliness.
My week with Miss July began at a nightclub in Hollywood. She was
gorgeous, fending off the masses with her icy stare and constantly
turning down drinks from potential suitors clamoring to be in her
airspace. I had no idea she was a Playmate at the time, but she
certainly had the look. She was dressed to the nines in a fur jacket
and sipping on a vodka drink when my friends dared me to go speak to
her. As I was in my cups, I waltzed directly up to her and began
rubbing her jacket.
“Interesting. A New Zealand back country field rabbit coat… Very
rare,” I said.
She laughed and stared me deep in the eyes.
“Are you on ecstasy?” She replied.
“No,” I exclaimed. “Not at all… why?
“Normally when I wear this coat out a bunch of druggies just want to pet it.”
I laughed and thought of a quick comeback.
“I’d rather pet you,” I blurted out confidently.
She actually laughed and wrote her number down on a bar napkin. I told
her I’d call her and I did – the next day – breaking any rules which I
had learned from popular movies like Swingers. She was surprised to
hear from me. We made plans to go out to a Casa Vega, a Mexican
restaurant in the valley for margaritas the following night. When she
cancelled on me two hours beforehand, I thought I was doomed. When I
asked her why she had to cancel, however, my eyes lit up.
“I have to fly to Iowa for a Playboy convention in the morning, I’m so
sorry,” she said.
“Why? Do you sell advertising for them or something?” I inquired.
“No, silly – I was Miss July a few years ago! I thought you knew…”
I didn’t know. Now I did. I immediately called my friends and sang
them J. Giels Band lyrics through the receiver. Yes. My baby was a
centerfold.
A week later, we hit Casa Vega. At one point she went outside
to smoke and I let her go alone. (I was trying to quit at the time).
When a guy at the bar saw this, he motioned to me and said, “Dude, you don’t let a girl that hot out of your sight for any amount of time.”
I ignored him, assuming she would brush off any potential creeps and
return back to our bar stool where we’d finish our drinks and continue
our evening. After 20 minutes, however, I began to grow nervous.
I went out to the smoking section, and sure enough, there they were:
MEN. All kinds… Guys who had intended to come inside for dinner but
were so mesmerized by her beauty that they decided to hang outside a
little longer. Guys who didn’t even smoke were bumming cigarettes from
her and chain smoking. One guy even flipped her a business card and
said, “I scout for Playboy, if you ever want to be in the magazine,
let me know…”
She laughed and to my surprise grabbed me by the arm. All the men’s
faces dropped as they saw this 23-year-old kid with a Strokes haircut
coyly slip his hand around the top of her waist. Dejected, the guys
all walked inside with their heads down, preparing to settle for
baskets of chips and salsa and not the ravishing creature who I was
lucky enough to be spending the night with.
We went to another bar and then went to my place. Two nights later, I
joined her at her place. We went out once more, on a Saturday, but she
got swept up in a crowd of famous actors and I stood around waiting
for her to return to me, feeling like the unpopular kid in junior high
who can’t muster up the balls to ask a girl to dance. Eventually, when
she began partaking in their bottle service vodka, I grew frustrated,
knowing my time was up. Without even saying good-bye, I grabbed my
jacket and made a quick exit, calling my buddies to meet me for a
heartbreak beer at Coach and Horses, my old favorite dive bar.
“So what if it’s over?” My buddy said. “You were with a Playmate!”
“Yeah dude, my last hook up was with the hostess at Yankee Doodles in
Agoura Hills,” said another.
As the drinks flowed, my confidence returned and I quickly got over
the fling with the help of some good friends. The next day Miss July
and I exchanged a few phone messages, but never reconnected.
Even though it was over, I was still waking on air, feeling as if I
had done all I could and was now exuding an air of confidence that
nobody could touch. I even kept two of her back issues for myself. One
to put on the coffee table, and one to put in a pristine cellophane
folder where it would remain intact on my bookshelf until the end of
my days… It still sits there today.
As I rounded the bread aisle, I saw her again. As luck would have it,
we were approaching the check out line at the same time, inspecting our carts and reaching into our wallets for ATM cards. I purposefully took the spot in line directly behind her and noticed as she unloaded
an unusual amount of dog food onto the conveyor belt. She also bought butter, apples, avocados, bananas, Kombucha and a pre-made tray of
sushi. I was still staring. My 10-year-old took advantage of my distant
gaze and slipped two packs of M & M’s into my cart. I didn’t care. I
had butterflies in my stomach as if I was back in that Hollywood
nightclub 17 years earlier… But then it hit me: I was married. I was
standing with my child. I had no reason to not say something. If
anything, I thought, it would extend the memory a few more years. I
decided to go in for the kill.
“Is your name Taylor? (Not her real name)” I asked.
She looked up at me and smiled.
“Yeah, who are you?”
“My name is Zach,” I said. “Not sure if you remember me, but we sort
of dated about 17 years ago… we met at a nightclub and went to Casa
Vega…?”
She looked me over, perplexed.
“Were you that drummer?” She asked.
“No, but I play music…”
“Oh, you were the guy who knew Green Day!”
“No,” I said.
“Oh. Did you know Quentin?”
“Nope,” I responded, realizing that I was barely a flicker of memory
in her mind all these years later – whereas she had held the top spot
in my gallery of former flames for close to two decades. I was a bit
embarrassed.
“Oh, wait!” She said. “Did you used to have long curly hair? And you
lived on Harper Avenue and you played me Crash into Me by Dave
Matthews Band on your guitar?”
The cashier chuckled.
“Uhh, yeah, that was me,” I said, blushing.
She hugged me as if we were long lost siblings. I felt my wobbly arms
go around her body once more, immediately wondering what would have
happened if I hadn’t been so stubborn at that bar all those years ago.
My chest pressed against hers and for a brief moment I was 23 again,
stupidly running around Hollywood with a group of horny friends
worrying about nothing but a 10 a.m. commercial audition and where I
was going to be drinking that night. She pulled away and paid for her
groceries and stood behind the bag boy waiting for me to pay and
rejoin her. When I did, we caught up briefly and I introduced her to
my son… who seemed to not have any interest in this beautiful woman
that his dad was talking to.
As it turns out, Miss July still did Playmate conventions. She was
living in the valley, had been married for a year but was divorced and
was raising her 3 small dogs, Gucci, Dorito and Mr. Farts-A-Lot. She
didn’t go out anymore, was disappointed with Tinder and loved
The Big Bang Theory. I felt like she was reciting her “Turn-On” list
from her Centerfold interview page – but had updated it as a
middle-aged woman.
We exchanged numbers and she remarked on how handsome my son was. I
told her I’d invite her out to see my band if we ever played again and
I watched her speed off in her Prius. I thought back to the nights we
had shared together and then looked back at my son, blissfully playing
on my phone, seemingly unaware of what had transpired between his father and
that mysterious girl in the produce section 17 years earlier.
As we drove home, he handed me back my phone and stared out the
window. As I watched his eyes dart around the city, I thought of his
future and how he was still so young and innocent and had the entire
world ahead of him. I realized how happy I was to be spending my life
with my wife, my daughter and him, and not a smelly pug named Mr.
Farts-a-Lot.
And then, after a few minutes of driving, he broke the silence.
“Dad, I wanna learn some Dave Matthews Band songs on guitar,” he said.
They grow up so fast…
READ ZACH’S NERDIST STORY “RE-EXAMINING THE NBA DRAFT ID I HAD BEEN SELECTED!”
https://nerdist.com/re-examining-the-1997-nba-draft-if-i-had-been-selected/
Zach Starts Shooting new History Channel Travel Series!!
Zach recently began shooting a multi-episode series for History Chanel – where Zach travels deep into the heart of America to find the most unique and unusual people, jobs, locations and history he can find! Produced by Bullet Point Films, expect the series to premiere on TV and online in late 2017 or early 2018! Here’s a sneak peak of Zach at Rhinebeck Aerodrome in upstate New York and in Grand Teton National Park… Look for him on the road!
NBA 2K Sent Zach to New York to play 2K18 early – Watch this Video Vlog!!!
Read Zach’s New Short Story: “Aliens Made Us, Bruh.”
I spent 30 minutes yesterday explaining to my brother that a deep part of me believes in the theory that our entire human race is the result of aliens coming down and impregnating chimpanzees with alien DNA.
“Oh my God you’re an idiot,” he told me.
“What? Why?” I responded.
He took a deep breath and went into a perfectly believable explanation about how we we’re once all neanderthals, apes, chimpanzees, et al. and how we have evolved over thousands of years. He cited scientific evidence, showed me websites of evolution and perfectly explained Darwin’s theory.
“But” I said, “What if were all wrong?”
Nervously, my brother laughed, even going as far as to point out that we once produced, wrote and directed a parody song about creationism vs. evolutionism for Comedy Central years ago… It was a burn on the actor Kirk Cameron who had recently gone on a TV show and produced a banana – which he claimed was “an Athiest’s nightmare – and proof that we were all created by a higher being.”
The video went viral and Kirk Cameron sent us hate mail.
My brother was confused at how I went from evolutionary hippie evolutionist to alien-worshipping creationist.
“Look man,”” I said. “I’m not saying I’m anti-religious, or that I even believe what I’m saying – I just really have started to think that aliens founded our planet and possibly created humans out of the lifeforms that were here before us… dig?”
Complete silence.
My only explanation for these new beliefs is that I watch WAY too much of the TV show Ancient Aliens on the History Channel. Ever see this show? It’s the most convincing TV program of all time. It will have you convinced that the Pyramids are intergalactic phone booths, the spiritual symbols of Peru are prayerbooks to “those who came from above” and that Fenway Park was originally designed as an “Alien Toilet.”
Plus, once you see how many “flying discs from the sky” are featured in Renaissance art pieces, you are forced to start to think a little differently… And I wasn’t saying I believed in creationism, I was simply quoting the self-proclaimed “Ancient Astronaut Theorists” from Ancient Aliens.
My brother demanded that I join him on a walk with his dog. I tried once again to explain myself, using the dog as an example of an entirely different creature that we do not know where it came from. He shook his head in disappointment. We changed the subject to the next morning’s Total Solar Eclipse, which was scheduled to mesmerize Americans and clog Instagram feeds the following day, August 21, 2017.
“So what’s your plan for the eclipse?” He asked. “Are you planning on making a cardboard sign that says ‘Take me With You?’”
I laughed and we called it a night.
The following morning we awoke and went to Hermosa Beach. Avid Boogie-boarders, we decided to ride some waves before the solar eclipse began – which was approximately at 9:08 a.m. with the sun being totally obscured at 10:18 a.m. It was in the water that morning when we noticed a few other local swimmers paddling around watching us ride a few waves. Then a few more came. Eventually, over 20 swimmers had gathered in the early morning ocean. Funny, we thought. It’s never this crowded…
“These are total eclipse waves, am I right?” A heavy-set woman paddling nearby muttered to a long-haired surfer a few feet over.
“Fully,” the surfer responded. “Crazy sets all morning… best waves of my life.”
“I’m Artemis,” she offered.
“I’m Jonas… I wonder if the eclipse will freak out the dolphins.”
My brother and I looked at each other.
“Excuse me,” I yelled over in Artemis’ direction. “Do you really think that the eclipse will affect the waves?”
It was then that Artemis turned towards us and revealed that she was wearing a pair of “eclipse glasses.” Yeah, the ones your friends bought online for $300 to stare at the sun safely for ten minutes. I had mistook them for goggles.
“Absolutely,” she said. “In ancient Germanic text, the Moon God ‘Mani’ claims that a total solar eclipse will affect everything it controls, from the waves of the sea to the female menstraul cycle…. In fact, I’m heavily menstruating right now.”
“We gotta get out of the ocean,” I told my brother.
We walked back to our spot on the beach and watched as my kids ran around chasing sand crabs.
As the eclipse came and went, and our social media feeds were overrun with kids looking into cereal boxes, people posting photos of themselves looking at the sky and our President staring directly into the fucking thing itself, it dawned on me that everybody was hoping to see something amazing. Of course, most people were underwhelmed, but some folks were hoping for a sign – a symbol from another world, perhaps. A trans-galactic message from space. Everybody was looking for an explanation…
“Look,” I told my brother. “Can you just maybe give me the benefit of the doubt that maybe, just maaaaybe, we don’t know how we got here and that human experimentation by extra-terrestrials is a possibility?”
As he uploaded a picture of the eclipse that he somehow took through a set of binoculars, he shook his head.
“No.”
“Haven’t you ever seen that TV special about aliens abducting pregnant women and creating ‘hybrids?’ You know, my kids could be half Pleiadian or even half Reptilian!”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of the ‘Humanzee’ experiment?”
“Zach,” he said. “When you come back to planet Earth, let me know. Until then, why don’t you go talk to Artemis in the ocean, maybe she’ll have some answers.”
He left on a run, and I stood on the beach alone, staring out into the sea.
Artemis had long left for the day, but Jonas was still out there, riding some of the best waves of his life…
COME SEE ZACH TAPE HIS PODCAST LIVE! THIS SUNDAY at 7pm!
Zach raps to Richard Marx on new ep. of “Missi and Zach Might Bang!”
Watch Zach’s New ‘Reportist’ Video: “Fake News: An Expose”
Zach Selwyn is the reports. He does an expose on FAKE NEWS. ENJOY~!
Read Zach’s New Short Story: Why Did I Buy an Autographed Lamar Odom Basketball at a Charity Auction?”
Browsing the silent auction table at my kid’s Little League baseball charity day, I was prepared to put my money down on all the usual stuff. The $60 restaurant gift certificate that was available for half the price… The one-on-one baseball training sessions with an ex- Major Leaguer for my son… Even the autographed script of the cast of Stranger Things was appealing. But instead, I was drawn to the one seemingly out-of-place item in the auction… An autographed Lamar Odom NBA basketball.
I have never really been a Lamar Odom fan. I thought he was a gifted ballplayer in college and had some incredible years in the NBA – even winning two titles with the Lakers in 09-10 and taking home Sixth man of the Year in 2011… But he never really lived up to his potential. (A few marijuana busts, suspensions and even a weird incident where he disappeared before his final exams at the University of Rhode Island always made him a high-risk player…) However, due to some horrific family tragedies and the fact that he had to play with Andrew Bynum, I was always willing to give Lamar Odom a pass. Yet, I was just never really a fan.
Still, something about a Lamar Odom-autographed basketball was appealing.
Obviously, these days, Lamar Odom is more known for his Kardashian marriage and his drug-fueled exploits at a Las Vegas sex ranch than he is for his fairly respectable basketball career. His now legendary two-week hooker bender, drug coma and relapse made the covers of every tabloid magazine and for a minute, Lamar Odom entered that Charlie Sheen level of debauchery that most celebrities never seem to come back from…
That’s when I figured out exactly why I wanted that basketball.
I love celebrities and especially athletes who PARTY. I loved Sheen’s Two and a Half Men meltdown. I rooted for Josh Hamilton, worshipped the entire 1986 New York Mets cocaine-fueled roster and I may be the only person who truly respects Johnny Depp’s savagely impressive admission that he spends 30,000 dollars a month on wine. When Lamar Odom was found in that brothel in Vegas, I was immediately a bigger fan. Not because he had divorced a Kardashian, but that he bounced back from it with a massive orgiastic adventure that average men living average lives can only dream of… Somewhere, deep down inside, every man in America looked at Lamar Odom’s drug-and-sex-capades and thought to themselves, “Oooh, that sounds fucking fun.”
My winning bid was for $75.00. Online, Lamar Odom autographs range from $8.00 basketball cards to $399.99 official game used basketballs in designer glass cases, so I basically paid market price. This ball is not game used, but it is in a case that probably runs for about $50.00 retail. It looks great even though the only certificate of authentication is in the form of a handwritten Post-it Note sadly just reading, “Lamar Odom.”
One question remained… Who donated the ball to the Little League charity in the first place? Was there a Little League dad who worked with the NBA? Or was a sober companion? When I inquired deeper, nobody came forward with the admission, and I was left to assume that the ball was donated from a private collection by a dad whose wife was furious that her husband had collected such a womanizing drug-addled autograph… Meanwhile, my wife looked at it as it entered our house and commented, “You didn’t bid on the restaurant gift certificate?”
So now, in my very modest collection of NBA memorabilia, I have a Lamar Odom-signed basketball. Amazingly. More people comment on this souvenir than anything else I have collected since I was a kid. My Shaquille O’Neal signature? YAWN. The autographed Gronk jersey? Snooze. Even the Charles Barkley signed ball gets a fervent ho-hum from my friends when we have a few beers and look through the pathetic corner of my house that I refer to as my “Man Cave.”
But the Lamar Odom ball sparks conversation…
“Woah! Did it come with a hooker and blow?” is a common response. “Dude, hilarious – remember when he went on that bender in Vegas? I’d KILL for one night of that!” is another.
So as men, we drive the Little League carpools, do our best to support our families and every once in awhile we get together to drink beers and live vicariously through Lamar Odom’s signature… He may not be remembered for his Michael Jordan-like career or his Hall of Fame potential, but he will forever be respected by the members of the “live life by the rules” folks who will never have the balls to head to the Bunny Ranch with a bag of blow and a suitcase full of Viagra.
Here’s to you Lamar. I know you’re a survivor. As long as you’re out there living it up, men like me will toast your praises. Even if my wife is still bummed that I didn’t get the restaurant gift certificate…
Missi and Zach welcome Matt Bellassai from “Wine About it”!!!
Social Media star Matt Bellassai drinks bottles of wine on camera and talks about his problems for a living… Obviously, he was a natural fit for the new ep. of @mightbang1 – up now! With songs like “Smash an Orgasm into a Woman” & “Murder at the Airbnb” DOWNLOAD AND SUBSCRIBE!
Zach Selwyn 