Zach Selwyn

Actor. Musician. Host. Writer. Dinner Guest.

  • By Zach Selwyn

    THE CONCEPT:

    Recently, as a creative experiment, I decided to commit myself to sitting in the Hollywood YMCA sauna for 20 minutes every morning for ten straight days in a row.  

    My plan was to arrive at the same time every day… roughly 9:45 a.m. and see what different characters I would meet from all walks of life. After all, as a longtime YMCA member, the sauna has always offered up a diverse cast of dreamers, stars, trust fund kids, drunks and Hollywood failures and I was hoping that maybe this little adventure would lead to a fairly decent piece for Los Angeles Magazine. So, I re-upped my monthly membership and sauntered down through Hollywood at the beginning of May for my first documented YMCA sauna adventure. 

    DAY 1: 

    A toothless man wearing jeans and a hoodie with a bandage around his head just told me that he was currently recovering from a Samurai sword attack…

    As he began unwrapping his head bandage, I quickly noticed a large raised scar that slightly resembled the laces on a football running across the crest of his cranium.

    “Holy shit,” I said. “Is it – SAFE for you to be in a sauna?”

    “I dunno,” he chucked. “After the attack, the YMCA let me join for free for a month so I figured I’d try it out.”

    I soon came to find out that this man’s name was Ray and he had moved to Los Angeles in the 1980s to make it in “fuckin metal, man!” He claimed that he had some minor success but got derailed by the drugs and now he was pushing 65, missing a few teeth and living just outside of the park next to my kids’ old middle school.

    I asked Ray if the jeans and hoodie thing was some sort of extreme weight loss plan – like when wrestlers jog with garbage bags on to cut weight.

    “No – I just don’t get naked around other men since I was released from prison,” he said. 

    “Oh,” I eeked out. “I’m gonna go.”

    Before I could go, he wanted to explain the scar on his head. 

    “Some guy was swinging a Samurai sword over by the Pla-Boy Liquor Store,” he explained. “I tried to stop him – but that was a bad move. Luckily the clerk called the hospital and I got stitched up. This town has changed since I opened for Faster Pussycat, man.”

    That was day one. 

    DAY 2:  

    In the 30 years I have been going to gyms, I have never walked into a sauna and found a guy playing with himself while sporting two nipple clamps on his chest… However, on only my second day in my sauna quest, I was met with a dude who looked like that Gilgo Beach serial killer Rex Heuerrmann proudly fondling himself. 

    “Uhmmmm,” I said as I walked in.

    “Sorry, saunas make me horny,“ he said. “What about you?”

    I have been hit on by men before. Christ, I was a 22-year-old actor in Hollywood back in the day… But this was excessive. I was staring at a grown man’s penis, and was solicited with the fact that saunas ‘turn him on’ within 30 seconds. I crouched in the corner for a few beats, praying that somebody I knew came in, but I told myself that I would commit to a full sauna session – especially since my day one experience had ended so abruptly. 

    He then asked me if I wanted to retreat to the steam room because, “The smoke provides better cover for hand jobs and stuff…”

    “What?” I said, horrified.

    “I feel like a zoo animal here because everybody can walk by and look at us inside.”

    Jesus Christ. I proceeded to tell him that there were other dudes at the Hollywood Y who would fuck him up for even suggesting a sexual favor in the sauna, but he just scoffed. He did not seem at all intimidated by my threat in the slightest… He then followed up with another line that made me laugh.

    “Have you ever had an orgasm in 180 degree heat? It’s fucking mind blowing”

    “Well… I did grow up in Arizona,” I said.

    He laughed. Shit… Why did I make him laugh? 

    I finally told Rex that I had to go pick up my kids. I had lasted four minutes and 30 seconds… So far my 20 minutes a day goal has been limited to nine minutes in total.

    DAY 3:

    I have never taken my cell phone into a sauna, but for some reason a lot of people do. And today, a younger guy was in the sauna taking selfies of himself while wrapped in a beige towel.

    “Do iPhones even work in this heat?” I asked him, just happy that he wasn’t playing with himself or showing me a scar on his head caused by a katana that was once used in feudal Japan. 

    “The new ones do,” he said. “It’s great for Influencer stuff.” 

    So are you a ‘Sauna Influencer?’” I asked, hoping that he was so that this sauna piece would really have some legs… 

    “No – I’m a Sober Influencer. Follow me @soberguy1989 on Insta.”

    Ugh. Sober influencers. Due to my regular IG posts about bars and drinking, I get a ton of suggested sober influencers placed into my algorithm… and  most of them tell me that I definitely have cirrhosis and that I have been dead since I was 32. No shade, but I hate sober influencers… I do love sober people, and I have hundreds of good friends who are clean and sober –  but just don’t try to preach your way of life to everybody who might still be able to handle a few cocktails every once in a while. 

    “So you get paid to talk about how great it is to be sober?” I asked him.

    “Sometimes… I mean, I used to drink a lot – like 4-5 beers a night!” He explained. “But then, when I hit 30 I couldn’t do it anymore.” 

    I’d chuckled knowing that I was currently sweating out two bottles of Trader Joe’s Campo Viejo Rioja onto the floor at that same moment. Which is when he began spreading his gospel.

    “Have you ever asked yourself the addiction questions? Like… Are you employed? Are you happy? Are you single or broke? Are you in massive debt?”

    “Yes,” I said. “Well, in reality –  I’m happily married and fairly happy overall – but  I am definitely unemployed and in massive debt – but I guarantee you that I would be the same way even if I was sober.

    And that was that. He took some more photos of himself. I did my 20 minutes and went on with my day. 

    DAY 4: 

    The Hollywood YMCA sauna used to be a creative cocoon for industry veterans, actors and mainly…screenwriters. I knew dozens of guys with past TV deals and feature films who often discussed how they were optioning some comedy series to NBC. Of course, this was back when Hollywood was still functioning.

    I met writers, directors and first AD’s from all walks of life in that sauna – and heard fantastic stories. One I recall in particular was from Randy Carter, who was Francis Ford Coppola’s Assistant Director for decades, who would spin Apocoalypse Now Martin Sheen stories that would make any film junkie feel like they were losing their minds in the jungles of 1969 Cambodia. 

    Today, however, I sat in the sauna with two young kids who called themselves screenwriters. They ran off a string of complaints about how selling your original script would never happen and I laughed under my breath at their naivete. Still, they kept on about “established IP” and began complaining about the fact that they were writing scripts for a vertical platform called ReelScreen – and how they should both be the next Tarantino. 

    “Wait… So you guys are actually currently employed as writers?” I inquired.

    “Yeah, but it’s like, bullshit vertical soap opera stuff,” one kid said. “It like… barely covers my rent.”

    What? I thought to myself… Rent? Writing? A possibility? 

    “So – Sorry to pry,” I said. “But  – are they accepting writing samples – or looking for writers?”  

    The kid studied me for a few seconds. I was the epitome of middle age… Dad bod. Beer belly. Thinning hair…

    “Uhm… It’s a pretty young platform,” he said. “So probably not.”

    I decided not to pitch them my sequel to Splash and I finished my 20 minutes in silence.

    DAY 5: 

    Today was one of those rare days where I found myself alone in the sauna. It was beautiful… and the wood was dry and it just felt safe and peaceful. I let the sweat drip down my body and fall onto the surface where I made a little Rorschach Tests for what shapes I found. It was a parade of dragons, butterflies and weird silhouettes of men scooping ice cream… It felt like I was on mushrooms… More days like this please. 

    DAY 6: 

    Reid, an old pal of mine from the basketball courts, was in the sauna today and asked me if I heard about the old guy who got kicked out for regularly soliciting hand jobs in the steam room. 

    “Holy shit, that dude hit on me!” I said. “Did he look like that Gilgo Beach Long Island serial killer Rex Heuermann?”

    “Yes! He tried to lick my nipples last time I was in here – turns out he was 64!” 

    Suddenly, I didn’t feel as special, knowing that this dude was basically chasing every dick around the sauna. I took some pride in the fact that I was 15 years younger than him, so for a second I considered myself a “twink.”

    Wait. What? 

    DAY 7:

    Big delay upcoming. The sauna was closed because somebody had defecated on the rocks. I think I may be done with this experiment. I also wouldn’t be surprised if it was the Samurai Sword guy…

    DAY 8:

    It’s been two weeks since the sauna reopened after being scrubbed and sanitized. I have certainly missed my daily trips but was looking forward to getting back to a nice schvitz following a quick jaunt to New York where I slept for a total of nine hours in three days. 

    So, imagine my surprise when three fully naked old Korean guys and a moss of white pubic hair greeted me on a random Thursday. The three guys were laughing about something I was not privy to, but there were no towels or clothing ANYWHERE. I mentioned that this YMCA demands that you wear some sort of covering, but they didn’t understand me. All I heard was that the Koreatown YMCA was temporarily closed, so a bunch of members were coming here now…

    I walked out early, but was pleasantly amused when fifteen minutes later I saw the same three naked men try to walk into the co-ed jacuzzi area buck fucking naked. 

    They were politely asked to leave… I waved at them before going to do 40 crunches.

    DAY 9: 

    Look, I never liked the guys who use the sauna as their “gym.” They use it to do crunches and squats and shadowbox and shit. Today – some dude was getting after it. HARD. I am pretty sure that there is an unspoken rule that you are not allowed to exercise in the sauna, but I’ll be damned if this guy, who was wearing a pointy felt hobbit hat, wasn’t taking up the entire room with jabs and push-ups… 

    “Dude, what does that elf hat do?” I asked him. 

    He threw a few crosses before alerting me that it keeps the heat closer to the head and therefore you can stay in the sauna longer.

    “Yeah, but you look like Frodo Baggins.”

    He stopped and looked at me. He was larger and had some bad tattoos and I immediately regretted commenting on his Lord of the Rings hat. He didn’t even respond. He just took the towel from around his neck and wrung it out over the electric sauna… right in front of the sign that clearly states “Do not put liquid on the electric sauna – it will short fuse.”

    Frodo then walked out and left the door open… About two minutes later he came back, soaking wet from what I assumed was a trip to the shower. His hat was gone – and he started doing push-ups on the floor. I walked out a few seconds later, 11 minutes short of my goal. 

    DAY 10: 

    My final day of this experiment was somewhat heartbreaking… especially because Reid was back – and he informed me that his mother was recently conned out of her life savings by a
    “man” she met online who claimed to be Van Halen lead singer Sammy Hagar. 

    Now, apparently Sammy himself had reached out online and told his mom that he was in debt and needed some money for surgery… He also tossed in that he thought she was very attractive. (For the record, she is currently 82-years-old). 

    Well, the next thing Reid knew, his mom was on her way to Los Angeles to meet the famed Red Rocker at the Sunset Marquis Hotel… Of course when she got there, Sammy Hagar was nowhere to be found and her $450,000 dollar nest egg was gone. 

    “Jesus, that’s heartbreaking,” I said, flabbergasted. “That’s like that one girl who thought she was married to Brad Pitt.”

    “Exactly,” he said. ”Apparently this fake celebrity thing online is a new scam on the elderly… It’s happening everywhere – My cousin’s dad just sent 200 grand to Chilli From TLC.”

    “What the FUCK!,” I said. “Who could be that stupid?”


    “Dunno. The world is full of online scammers. By the way, are you hooping today?” He asked.

    “No, I’m writing a story about the sauna.”

    “Ew.”

    Reid high-fived me and mentioned a future beer together and I nodded and smiled knowing that my ten day experiment had finally come to a close. 

    I also made a mental note to not return the email I recently got from Stevie Nicks…

    So there ya go. 10 days. One sauna. Many stories. I’m sure there have been more lascivious tales, steamy stories and 180 degree orgasms in the days of sauna past but these were my encounters over the past month… But do me a favor and check back next week… 

    I’m thinking of doing 15 days in the steam room… 

    Read “Blood on the Floor” – Zach’s Latest Short Story for Hiii Magazine

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  • Someone get this to Bravo and Andy Cohen… #Ozempic

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  • Move over Jimmy Fallon –  Zach informs you about the latest Jingle Punks happenings – Lil Dicky, Hoodie Allen and MORE!

    <p><a href=”http://vimeo.com/110420785″>Featuring Hoodie Allen, Lil Dicky, Meow Mix, and more</a> from <a href=”http://vimeo.com/jinglepunks”>Jingle Punks</a> on <a href=”https://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a&gt;.</p>

     

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  • Zach was a runner up for this legendary reality show and it changed the course of his career. 20 years ago! That hair! That jacket! HOLY FAAACK!
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  • New album available TODAY! CLick and download – ! Enjoy!!!

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  • 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!

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  • Zach Selwyn has begun hosting a comedic “Real Fake News” Podcast for www.Audioup.com called AUDIO UP NEWS NETWORK or AUNN. Download EVERYWHERE and SUBSCRIBE!

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    Secondly, Zach is working on the script for Warner Brothers COuntry Artis UNCLE DRANK’s new Podcast. Follow him on IG @uncle_drank

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    CHECK OUT THE WEBSITE for more!

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  • 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…
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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.”

     

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    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!! 

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    Red Fuckin Wine – New single coming SOON!

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Tag: Zachariah

Read Zach’s New Short Story: “The Freestyle”

  • September 12, 2012
  • by zachselwyn
  • · The Writer · Uncategorized

THE FREESTYLE by ZACH SELWYN

A week ago, I got into a freestyle rap battle.

Now, I know this is not something that a 37-year-old father of two should ever be writing, but for some reason, last Wednesday night – I felt a burning desire to join an intimidating rap circle and try and drop some dope-ass, quick-minded, funny lyrics on some totally unsuspecting strangers.

If there is ever a moment in my life I could have back, it is this one.

Standing out in front of the Smokehouse restaurant in Burbank – in front of my wife and another couple – whose kid is in the same kindergarten class with our son, I decided to stumble over into a “cypher,” or crew of people rapping together in a cyclical pattern. I suddenly turned from “the bearded weirdo who always drives the soccer practice carpool,” into “the drunk dad from the kindergarten class who thought he was Eminem.”

Let me back up here a minute. See, I used to be a rapper. That is not a typo. I didn’t “wrap” presents… I RAPPED. I recorded a few CD’s and everything. I had skills. A future. A following.

I know, laugh it up…my outside appearance is deceiving. I am white, fatherly and pasty. I wear basketball shorts and t-shirts 90 percent of the time for “comfort.” I occasionally have non-dissolved Rogaine foam in my hair. I am not intimidating at all.

But, believe it or not, at one point in my younger life I was a bona-fide, authentic, legitimate, validated, record deal – having, somewhat admired freestyle rapper. Arguably, one of the best in the world. I could rhyme like Dr. Seuss on a mushroom trip. I could think off the top of my head faster than 99 percent of all improvisational actors I have encountered. I used to perform my skills live with  bands in nightclubs, at late night parties and at sketch comedy shows. I garnered mad respect. People would come up nightly and ask me, “How the hell does your mind think like that?” The truth is? I had no idea.

I bet you’re wondering how this all started…

In 1987, if you had asked my mother what career she thought I’d pursue as a young man – based on the thousands of dollars I made mastering Jose Canseco and Mark McGwire’s signatures – she most likely would have said “professional autograph forger.” (A quick arrest at the local baseball card shop in 1989 ended that career…)

She might have guessed I could have followed my father – who is a doctor – into medicine – but a quick “D” in chemistry my sophomore year of high school stifled that dream. (I even cheated. And I still got a D…)

I may have even been able to make a living in the courtroom, brandishing my gift of gab in front of honorable judges while trying to convince the jury that the defendant was not even in the country when the crime occurred… But to me, law school was for the geeks who couldn’t talk to girls at junior high parties. Or make them laugh at summer camp… Or freestyle rap their way into their pants.

“Yo Melissa/ I wanna kiss ya/Take off your dress and I wont dismiss ya…”

The first time I made a rhyme up about a girl was in eighth grade. Her name was Melissa, and we were at Dana Restival’s Halloween party. Everybody knew I was the best rapper in school – and when I dropped those lyrics to her in front of a crowd of people, she continued to follow me around the party for the rest of the night. Around 9:30, we snuck away, near a saguaro cactus in the Tucson desert – and shared our first kiss. It was sloppy, but unbelievably perfect. Brilliant and everything I had ever imagined. In my mind, Melissa was going to be my girlfriend. I thought I had it made… Problem was, she ended up letting John Coates – school hesher – feel her up on the school bus a week later.

Back in the 1980’s, if you were into rap music, it made you unique. I had a partner in crime named “Ryan the Rhymer” (Now a dentist in Tucson) – and we comprised the tightest white-boy rapping outfit at Townsend Junior High School in 1989. We were a two-man wrecking crew known as “SO FRESH.” I wore African leather medallions to school and sported those 3rd Bass/ Dwayne Wayne flip-up glasses as a way to seem more “intelligent.” We wrote raps and performed onstage as a crew at talent shows, and were basically laughed at for not listening to cheesy hair-cock rock like Poison and Slaughter. Back then, we were the musical outcasts, because we liked Beastie Boys, Shinehead and Boogie Down Productions. Then, one day, we won a student council election based on one of our raps (Called “Do it for the School!!!”) – After that, we were no longer considered out-of-touch losers.

The author, posing hard as a member of “So Fresh” in 1989. Note the chin-up bar in the doorway.

The first rap I performed at my high school was when a kid named Eric Tiberon challenged me to a rhyme-off in ninth grade. He was black, and had the entire school behind him mainly for the sole reason that he had a high-top fade that looked like Kid from “Kid ‘N Play.” When I accepted his challenge, people were somewhat scared for me… but the final parking lot battle went a little differently. Eric basically recited Eazy-E’s classic Eazy-Duz-It. I made up a rap about how much being in ninth grade sucked.

Eric rapped about his cars and his girls (Both of which he did not have).

I rapped about being beat up by a high school bully named Jason and getting a C in Geometry. I remember my verse well.

“School sucks, I get up so early/ Bully named Jason always looking so burly/ Said I looked like a freshman girlie/ stuck my head in a toilet and gave me a swirlie…”

Yeah, I know it was WILL SMITH-ish… It wasn’t hardcore or gangsta – but it was funny – and the people loved it. So much so, that Eric and I became friends after that – even going to see Ghostbusters 2 together just to hear Bobby Brown’s new song “On Our Own.” (Still holds up today. CLASSIC jam).

After that, high school was certainly an awkward stumble through athletics, music, girls and experimentation – but hip-hop music was always a staple in my life. I rapped over Humpty Dance break beats at high school proms and earned my juice on the dance floor busting out the Running Man, Roger Rabbit and the Butterfly to songs like The Choice is Yours by Black Sheep during my junior prom. By my senior year, I thought I’d even try to make a legitimate rap album.

And then The Chronic came out.

Dr. Dre’s album changed my life Suddenly, dancing wasn’t cool anymore. My style of rap sucked and whatever street cred I had amongst my Tucson, Arizona brethren went out the window. I was Vanilla Iced-out. Squashed. 187-d. Ignored.

At the time, I was surprised at how little I cared. In fact, it was a relief to know that my rap career had ended…  And the following fall I enrolled in college at USC in Los Angeles – where I engulfed myself in West Coast G-funk – but also expanded my mind into other areas of music as well. I picked up the acoustic guitar as a means to get laid – and even started my first band with my pal Jason Richards. (The only other freshman that could play more than 3 chords) We were called, sadly – “Two College Freshman.”

One-Half of “Two College Freshman” – Summer 1994. Realizing that singing Jackson Browne songs got the author laid more than trying to be a member of A Tribe Called Quest.

We were at USC – which is a terrific campus in the middle of south central Los Angeles – and we were one year removed from the famed LA riots of 1992 – so the West Coast dominance of rap music was everywhere – but I no longer wanted to be a rapper. In fact, based on the amount of girls I got when I rapped compared to how may I got when I did an acoustic guitar cover of “Your Bright Baby Blues,” I suddenly realized that I really   wanted to be JACKSON BROWNE. Especially when legends like 2Pac and Notorious BIG were murdered, I knew the rap game wasn’t exactly cut out for a 3.8 GPS-having son of a Jewish doctor.

I ended up paying tuition and making ends meet in college by DJ-ing and Emcee-ing fraternity parties and weddings – and I eventually branched out into Bar Mitzvahs after school (An entirely different story altogether). But by the time the late 90’s rolled around – and I found myself hanging around musical friends like the bands Matchbox 20, Paperback and even boy-band acquaintances like ‘NSYNC – I noticed that everybody always talked about the newest rap music out at the time. Puff Daddy, Mase, Nelly – you name it. This was the music of the time, and even the biggest musical stars I knew were obsessed with the genre. I’m not sure where it happened for the first time, but I was around some guy who began freestyle rapping. He was decent, but his trite choice of lyrics and lack of originality made me consider attempting my own rap. I jumped in. He nodded along, probably unimpressed – but nonetheless enjoying my effort. When I was done, he gave me a fist bump and walked away.

I did it again with the guys from ‘NSYNC. Living in Los Angeles in 1998 meant I had a lot of young friends who were trying to act, sing, dance, direct, produce – you name it. One of my buddies had grown up with Chris Kirkpatrick – probably best remembered as the guy Eminem threatened to beat up in a song in 2000 – and the dread-locked “bad boy” of ‘NSYNC – the most popular boy band in the history of the world. Chris and I would get drunk together and end up in some random hotel room with a bunch of girls and background dancers and rap producers at two in the morning. Somehow, after 30 Heineken bottles littered the floor and a few joints were passed, people began rapping. I started stepping in. I started getting the laughs. Making up rhymes – and ultimately having the tightest flows of any so-called “rapper” hanging around these after-parties.

Sadly, after partying with ‘NSYNC the night before on New Years Eve, the Author was comped at their concert in Las Vegas on January 1, 1999.
The most embarrassing ticket in his collection.

Once, around 1999 – I ended up in the Standard Hotel with Dr. Dre. He was surrounded by 300-pound bodyguards and a crew of slinky women who looked like they were in En Vogue. – He employed a personal “blunt-roller” and was encircled by about ten wanna-be rappers. That night was the first time I was actually afraid to rap in front of somebody in nearly ten years. In fact, after witnessing three saggy-pantsed douche-nozzles try to rap Dre’s ear off, I decided that perhaps my rap future was a pointless joke. I guess I always knew what I did in hotel rooms with my friends was more of a party-trick, and less of a career choice, and it didn’t bother me. I had no interest in becoming a professional rapper. I was committed to having fun and getting laid and occasionally jumping on-stage after 10 drinks to freestyle along with my friend’s band at their Hollywood club gigs. None of it made any sense. We were 25-years-old, wasted and happy and sleeping until noon. We were young, dumb, naïve and convinced that fame and success was just around the corner. One of my friends, a former hip-hop dancer for the local rap station Power 106 – began calling me “Zachariah.” I immediately took on the moniker as my rap handle. “Zachariah, the Rhyme Messiah.” There it was. My party trick. I would go around any room and rap about what people were doing, wearing, drinking, you name it. I never thought it would lead to anything but a few free drinks and some laughter.

And then somebody offered me a record deal.

The first studio time I ever had booked was around this time. A girl I had fooled around with named Lisa knew a rap producer named “Cookie” and she arranged a meeting for us at the Skybar on Sunset Boulevard. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do during this meeting, but I put on a cowboy shirt and fluffed my hair up to Lindsay Buckingham –heights. Anything to seem somewhat marketable and charismatic.

At the time, nobody in LA had any type of haircut but a short spiked boy-band thing, so my wild Jew-fro gave me a little edge. It somehow made me a bit more reckless. Maybe even dangerous  – if only in that “I don’t give a fuck” drug-addict look that you see outside of Venice Beach grocery stores.

At the Skybar, “Cookie” – as he introduced himself – told me to order a beer. Lisa was next to me, and I think I ordered a Corona because Mexican beer was about all I lived on in my early 20’s. Lisa bragged about my ability to freestyle and Cookie then stared me down, took a long pull off his beer and asked me to “do something impressive.”

It was on. Was he serious? I nearly froze. I was unsure of what to do. Should I recite some lyrics? Tell him some song ideas? I wasn’t sure. Instead I rapped off the top of my head to the cocktail waitress.

“Come here now for a second Miss blondie/ Any chance you wanna get on me?/ You live in LA? I’m from Arizona/ Do my boy Cookie a favor – another Corona?/ Don’t mistake this – I Cant fake this – you’re so hot for a waitress/ Do ya have fake tits? I cant tell/ That’s alright, I still think yer swell/ My name is Zachariah, how do I look?/ Trying to rhyme for this dude named Cook/ Ill steal yer heart like a bona-fide crook/Ill take yer naked photos and put em in a book/ So lets just let this relationship bloom/ So here’s the key to my hotel room…”

The waitress smiled. Cookie looked at me and said, “I want to capture THAT in the studio.”

I made out with the waitress that night.

So a week later, we were in Cookie’s studio, known as “LeftSide.” I had written a song in Las Vegas with my friend Jason Jacobs called “Runnin’ Shit” about two guys who slept with girls, traveled to Mexico and Vegas on random Wednesdays – and got high and drove really nice cars. In reality, we were both Southern California Bar Mitzvah DJ’s. The last time I had been to Mexico was with my mother over a family Christmas vacation (typical Jewish trip – Mexico over Christmas) and I drove a 1989 Dodge Lancer.

To top it all off, I was desperately unable to do anything in the studio that night – but SUCK.

The studio was a small rented office space off of Slauson and La Cienega. Cookie hooked me up with a producer named Warrior – who was a master of the MPC 3000. We smoked some weed, made a beat and put together a silly rap song full of voice imitations and bad jokes and pop culture references. It was called “Come On” and I was convinced it was my ticket to the big time. A crossover hit… a massive smash. Cookie started marketing me to record companies as “If Eminem hung out at Dawson’s Creek.” I should have quit right then.

“Dawson’s Creek” meets “Eminem.” (Meets a beer gut). The author freestyling at a party circa 2001

I put out an EP on Q/LeftSide Records – and it went triple plastic. Every major label denied me. I ended up with a closet full of 3500 CD’s – which included a song called “Other Side” featuring the powerful voice of a silk-voiced friend of Cookie’s named Stacy Ferguson. Today she’s known a little differently. She’s Fergie from Black Eyed Peas. I never thought she had much of a future. She did have a voice from God, but so did a lot of girls. When we stopped hanging out, I didn’t think she’d go very far.

After LeftSide folded, I ended up starting a country rock band that dabbled in hip-hop. We had a little local success, but not much more. From there, I caught a lucky break and got on TV – where I was able to convince the folks behind the screen to let me attempt to record some songs for nearly every show I have been a part of. Today, those residual checks amount to roughly 63 cents a year.

I also recorded a bunch of stupidly silly comedy rap songs about Cartoons I’d like to F*%&, White People Problems and the TSA. I have released a few CD’s on some small labels and I have been hired by over two dozen companies to write and record rap songs for their products, from Levi’s Jeans to Netgear. So, I guess, technically, I once called myself a rapper… but I certainly never took it seriously. And now, the style of rap is so much different, I have no idea how to imitate lyrical geniuses like Lil Wayne and Drake. I’m still stuck in that Will Smith meets Skee Lo style. Storytelling, comedy and fluff rap.

According to my calculations, it had been nine years since I truly “battled” somebody. A battle is when you trade rhymes with another emcee, often including insults, braggadocio and clever wordplay. A lot of rappers suck at this. For some reason, I was always able to come up with quick rhymes. In fact,  I have never lost a battle in my life. Other fools have claimed they out-rapped me, but most of them recited something I could tell was written beforehand. I was strictly improvisational.

Freestyle rapping is like working out. You need to do it all the time or you get rusty. Rarely do you take nine years off and step up to the microphone and sound like Rakim. For some reason, however, last week – following a few glasses of red wine, I thought I was back in the Skybar in 1999.

The three dudes standing outside of the Smokehouse restaurant in Burbank were sharing a joint and rapping about “Maybach’s” and “Stackin’ Chips.” The valet parking attendant took our ticket as I caught one of the guy’s eyes. I guess in the 90’s you would call what he was doing “Mad-dogging.” I would normally run from any large crew of wasted black dudes in a parking lot at 11 o’clock at night, but for some reason, I felt the need to jump into the rap battle. Maybe it was because he kept staring at my wife and obviously commenting under his breath about her. Whatever it was, I felt like I needed to say something. I took a step towards them.

“Punk ass bitches get stitches like snitches/rub you out like a genie, grant ya 3 wishes/ Im a killa, son, drinking Miller, son – All the tracks on my album dope, no filler son…”

I heard the guy’s rhyme. Not bad, but I knew I could hang. I sort of stumbled over as my wife failed to pull me back and stop me from entering the cypher. As I walked up, they noticed me and rapped about my approach.

“White boy stepping up, what the fuck he want/ Gonna kick him in the dick if he pull a stunt…”

The 3 guys laughed uproariously. I started getting nervous. I heard my wife gasp. The other couple we were eating with immediately signaled for their Volkswagen Touareg to be ready to drive off should I get into a street brawl or something. I slipped up to the crew of rappers.

“Are you guys rapping?” I asked, realizing I sounded like that fat pledge in Animal House asking the frat brothers if they were playing cards.

They burst out laughing. I thought I was doomed.

“Yeah, you wanna step in?” A large man with a diamond encrusted grenade-chain offered.

“Well, I actually freestyle… was hoping to get in on the cypher.”

More laughter. They punched each other’s shoulders and leaned their heads against one another.

“Are you gonna put your doggie bag down first?” One of the guys asked.

I looked down. In my hand was a plastic bag of leftovers with a red bow around it. I looked like the schlub I used to make fun of when I was younger. The out of touch chump who was taking home half a New York Strip and three pieces of cheesy-bread after a double-date night. I knew the only way out was to rap. I began firing.

“Yo -I take a bag of leftovers from the smokehouse/ you can continue with your jokes now/I’m broke now – so I have to eat this for breakfast/ When’s your next concert? Put me on the guest list/ I spent my weed money on my wife’s gold necklace/ That’s her over there, she’s got the Best Tits/ I’ve ever seen and they aint even fake/ We live in a house over in Toluca Lake/ I bust freestyles in only one take/ Put the kids to bed stay up late and get baked/ and I know I look lame and somewhat old/ You guys look like a younger De La Soul/ But my wife’s calling me to get the car and go home/ Because she don’t want me to catch another cold/ So I’m out – thanks for giving me time / I doubt any of ya’ll can defeat that rhyme!”

I stepped back and took a breath. Wow. I had dropped 16 bars in front of a crew of three hardcore hip-hop heads who probably took rap music more seriously than I ever did… I had held my own. I was proud and I looked back at my wife and the other couple, who were stone-faced and somewhat impressed. Wait until I tell my son about this!!!  I thought to myself.

And then one of the guys began answering my challenge. His name was Black Angus.

“Yo, white boy – your white noise aint right boy/ yeah I see yer wife, she no longer tight, boy/ cause I did her last week/ in the back seat of my Jeep/ Did it in five seconds without a peep/ while you was asleep/ getting kids ready for school/ I gave her my tool and took a piss in your pool/ Smoked your bullshit weed/ pulled it indeed/ Killed you like Drago did Apollo Creed/ Planted a seed – inside her – you mind?/ Now you wonder why your kid looks like mine?/ Don’t step into my circle unless you bring skills/ go home to your anti-anxiety pills/ Watch whack white TV like that show the Hills/ and keep being a sucker and paying yo’ bills/ You a dumb-ass honky who cant rhyme for shit/ Now go back to your Minivan before you get HIT.”

The crew cheered. Our friends Touareg sped off and I was silenced. A terrifying chill, like one I’ve had on airplanes when we hit some odd air pocket that scares even the flight attendants, engulfed my body. I was smoked. Forget winning a freestyle battle, I had been pulverized, insulted, dissed and clowned by a dude outside of a steakhouse that I would probably never be able to go to again. I faked a laugh, and tripped backwards towards my wife and our awaiting car. Which, by the way, is NOT a Minivan.

“How’d that go for you?” My wife asked as we raced off into the Burbank night.

“Uhm, not well,” I said.

After five minutes of complete silence, I uttered my final words of the incident.

“Why’d they have to be so mean?”

The Smokehouse. Many a Hollywood deal has been brokered here. And at least one embarrassing freestyle rap battle.

I sulked into my home. Being a little buzzed, I passed out watching SportsCenter and the thought of rap music sickened me with every commercial starring Andre 3000 or Ice Cube. It was a cold bucket of water to the face that reminded me that I am – at best – an above average rapper. I am a decent freestyler, but in no way cut out to be a professional. Bottom line? I am too much of a pussy.

The next morning, I pulled out the leftovers from the Smokehouse and considered making a steak-and-egg omelet. The one indulgence I was going to allow myself. When I saw that half of a New York Strip in the bag, it brought back too many bad memories from the night before. I tossed the meat in the trash and settled for a bowl of Trader Joe’s ‘Honey Nut O’s’ instead.

That afternoon, the new Rolling Stone arrived.

Fergie was on the cover…

– Zach Selwyn, September 12, 2012

Other Side        (Click to hear Zachariah “Other Side” featuring FERGIE)

Buy the MP3 HERE!!

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Read Zach’s New Short Story “4 Old Guys Go to a Phish Concert”

  • August 20, 2012
  • by zachselwyn
  • · The Writer

                    PHISH STORY (Four Old Guys Go to a Phish Concert)

In 1995, I had hair to my back, owned 329 bootleg Phish cassette tapes and dated a girl who didn’t shave her armpits with whom I shared a cat named “Fee.” Phish was more than a band. They were a way of life, and whenever they sauntered within 300 miles of Los Angeles, I was out the door, in my Honda Civic that I had named “Hayley’s Comet” (After an obscure Phish song), en route to another show somewhere down the road. In the 19 years since my first concert, I have seen Phish in 13 different states (and many altered ones). I have snuck into their dressing rooms during long, improvised jam sets and taken pictures of their guitar cases. I even made a long trip to Europe in 1996 to follow them around as the opened – yes opened- for Santana. The highlights of this trip included meeting Trey Anastasio in an Amsterdam café and shaking Mike Gordon’s hand outside of the venue in Paris… (As well as making out with plenty of European women, who didn’t speak a word of English). Yes, I was fanatical. Phish was even the reason I decided to “join the internet” – just to check out their website Phish.net – and they were the benchmark by which I held a person’s character. Did you like Phish? No? Sorry, we can’t be friends.

Mike Gordon’s road case. Taken backstage somewhere around… who the hell remembers. (photo by the author)

Every one of my close friends was right there with me. We would write letters of set lists from East Coast shows to buddies stuck in LA, send tapes, make mixes and throw listening parties. Throughout the years, some of us had been cited for possession, arrested for selling bootleg t-shirts and handcuffed at DUI checkpoints. One friend – Frisco Freddy – in an ecstasy-fueled dare – once got married to a girl he met at the Aladdin Theatre in Las Vegas at a drive-through chapel following the show. The danced to “If I Could” and made love in a hotel room shared by 12 people that night – as we all giggled listening to Frisco Freddy reach his climax. It was all part of the adventure. (The marriage was annulled 2 days later. Frisco Freddy is now Fred Goldfarb, commercial real estate agent).

It seemed so normal. It was our existence. If we timed our chemicals right, we might peak during a terrific “Chalkdust Torture” that would stoke college apartment discussions for weeks on end. My favorite moment/lyric of any Phish show was in the same song when Trey erupted into the brilliant line “Can’t this wait ‘til I’m old? Can I live while I’m young?!” The lyric clanged through our heads like the National Anthem.

The words were a true celebration of our freedom. Of being young, making our own bold choices and not wanting to face any responsibilities of the reality of survival in the real world. That lyric was my unofficial catch phrase for my way of life.

The author (on the right) with fellow Phish fan Dan Ryan on spring tour in 1996

When Phish concerts were announced, a plan was hatched to buy tickets and block out the dates roughly an hour after the show was revealed. We traveled anywhere, drove in any state of mind – and slept five deep on friend’s apartment floors. It was all part of being 20 and being in love with a band of 4 vagrant virtuoso musicians from Vermont who had captured the hearts of our generation. Nothing could ever distance me from my brothers – both onstage and in that endless, dancing crowd. The nameless faces who said to me “Have a good show” before every gate opened – and the post show strangers who would sell me a Pheelin’ Phine sticker and joint for ten bucks in the parking lot to help face the impossible comedown on the drive home.

And then, something happened.

Around 1998 – somewhere between college and the real world, something changed. I remember going to the July 20, 1998 show at the Ventura County Fairgrounds – and for the first time, at age 23 – feeling as if the band and I had suddenly grown apart. Maybe it happened during “Poor Heart” when I didn’t get up and dance like a maniac like I used to do – or maybe it happened somewhere in the second set during “Maze” when I suddenly developed a bunch of insecurities about my career choices and lack of girlfriend – I was never quite sure. All I knew was that there was definitely a grand abyss that suddenly presented itself before me. And my old friends in Phish somehow took the unlucky slack. I contemplated a drive to the following night’s show at Desert Sky Pavilion in Phoenix– site of some of the most memorable concerts of my youth… and I decided against it. It somehow seemed a little irresponsible and desperate. It seemed like another distraction from chasing my new path.

Don’t get me wrong, plenty of my friends attended and sent me letters telling me that they couldn’t believe I missed my home state gig – but I somehow didn’t care. (I think I saw Big Bad Voodoo Daddy at the Derby in Hollywood that same night and felt pretty damn good about myself…) Needless to say, the tides had turned. I was a different man.

I guess it seemed like Phish was a band that would keep me treading in the same spot rather than blazing a new path forward. The recent passing of a dear friend – who I last saw at a Phish concert a year prior – had brought a vague sorrowful cloud over the frivolity of my youth. It was as if a window of life had closed and a dream had ended. I sold Hayley’s Comet that summer and bought a more sensible 1998 Honda CR-V. It went unnamed.

My final show was September 17, 1999 at Shoreline. I sort of wandered around during a long jam session during the second set, seemingly bored. It was as if the drug had worn off and I couldn’t wait to get back to my room and climb into my bed. I was only 24 years old, but I had peaked. It was time to settle in, make some money and follow my own dreams of leading my own band – instead of just following someone else’s. I felt like the pupil who was about to overtake the instructor. When I finally got my band together, in 2002, the goal was to outdraw Phish in five years… Didn’t quite happen. (My band went on to hit some extremely minor success on the zombie country – rap music movie soundtrack circuit, but other than that, we never quite sold out Madison Square Garden…)

Oddly enough, a year after my last show, Phish would break up. I felt like I had timed it perfectly. For six strong years, I followed a band to the ends of the Earth – Draining my wallet while feeding my head and my soul. I was 25, and engulfed in Hollywood – listening to new finds like The Band, Gram Parsons and Little Feat. Suddenly, Phish seemed like a tiny speck on the musical map and I was done with their guidance. It had been a gorgeous journey but it had to come to an end. The CD’s and tapes began collecting dust as I opened my mind into a deeper track list of song and only occasionally reminisced about getting to do the clapping thing along with 13,000 people during songs like “Stash.” The band had broken up, my hair had been cut off and things like set lists and rides to shows no longer mattered. I didn’t think I’d ever see Phish live again.

The phone call came in two days before the concert. Our old friend Larry had bought four tickets to the 2012 West Coast summer tour kick off show at the Long Beach Arena. His first instinct was to gather the tribe back together for a reunion show. It was brilliant. Larry had assembled a crew of former fraternity brothers and Phish-heads alike, none being bigger than me – a man with nearly 35 shows to my name – including some back as far as 1993. Our pal Mike was coming – his first show since 1997. Also along for the ride was a man known as “The Sauce” for his heroic drinking capability back in college – a longtime fan who had seen over 12 shows. And Larry. As advanced a partier as I have ever known. Never without a pocket full of Percoset and a bottle of 18-year-old scotch in his back pocket. We were four old warriors returning for one more battle with the great gentle giant of our past. Prepared to run the place, the way we did in 1997… Prepared to experience an earth shattering revolutionary moment of clarity. Perhaps at a time when we all needed it the most.

All of us are in our late 30’s and married. Three of us have steady every day high-paying jobs. I’m the one without one. (Still coasting along in the entertainment industry). Amazingly enough, whereas we used to compare make out stores and conquests, now, all these years later, there are 9 children between the four of us. There is one stepdaughter and one baby on the way. It was a far cry from the days of smoking an ounce of weed in an old Ford Explorer with our sorority girlfriends. It was our time to prove that we could pretend we were 20, but always be aware that we are 37.

Larry’s offer was impossible to refuse.

See, I had actually broken my Phish hiatus a year earlier. The summer of 2011, I had gone to see Phish at the Hollywood Bowl, my first show in 12 years. It had blown my mind. The songs were familiar and inspiring and even new jams like “Backwards Down the Number Line” had me believing for a few glorious hours, that my life with the band was all worth it. I hit peaks, flashed back to marvelous memories on highways and in hotels, with girls and old friends and eventually simmered into a state of serenity as I took a $5.00 cab home from my neighborhood venue. I had never seen a more perfect concert. So, the possibilities a show in Long Beach held were endless. Old friends gathering once again in a beach community to smoke a little, drink a little and dance a little? It was a no-brainer. I signed up immediately. Mike and the Sauce were in too. The stage was set. We would meet down at the Long Beach Hilton around 5:00 pm and pre-party before hitting the show. If all went too crazy, we’d share a hotel room. We’d even try to carpool down to save money for parking and gas. We were planning on being more responsible, trying to spend a night not thinking about the troubles at work, our kid’s schooling and whether or not to sell our Facebook stock.  Larry had even mentioned ecstasy. After a minute-long consideration, we all passed, but the knowing smiles we shared with each other only reminded us of a time more innocent when rolling on a tab of E was a guaranteed path to a brilliant Phish experience. Now, we decided to just have a few beers and maybe split a joint. We had grown.

A page from the author’s 1996 European scrapbook. Note the Santana/Phish Paris ticket. Oddly enough, that’s Larry on the right, walking a dog in a French countryside with our friend Chris.

The 5:00 meeting did not happen. When work let out, the traffic to Long Beach from Los Angeles was unbearable. I left my house at 3:30 and met up with the Sauce at 5. We then spent another hour and a half on the 405 and 710 to the LBC. It took us roughly three hours to get to the concert. I was fuming.

Back in the day, a two- day drive to Texas for a show would have never been out of the question. Now, however, spending three hours in a car these days is not my idea of a “night out from the kids.” And years ago, joints would have eased the pain of the ride as we blasted some live tape from 1992 smiling at the cars we crept along the freeway with. Now we were afraid to hold our cell phones up to our ears to avoid getting pulled over for not having “hands-free” devices.

The Sauce and I made a wrong turn off the 710, but somehow ended up meeting Mike and Larry at the hotel. After long lost friendly pleasantries were exchanged, the immediate recognition of spotting the familiar Phish army sank in once again. Kids showed up in John Fishman dresses – kooky Phish t-shirts from 30 years of merchandising gone right and plenty of MAN-dals. It was all as familiar as a “Bathtub Gin” guitar riff. As we approached the venue, we became aware that we were definitely amongst the older generation – probably by 7-10 years – and we quickly noticed the similarities between 1995 and 2012. Except for instead of being the longhaired young kids with hot girlfriends, we were the dirty old dudes drooling over hot 20-something hippie girls who were there with their boyfriends. It should also be noted that the hairy armpit girls of the 90’s were nowhere to be seen. The California crowd was HOT. Young, bountiful, blonde, sexy, natural, curvy and gorgeous. A far cry from the dreadlocked smock-wearing wanderers that would hitch rides with us from town to town in the 90’s. Somewhere in the past 15 years, Phish’s female fan base somehow got SMOKIN’ hot.

I smoked a joint with my old friends. We laughed, shared pictures of our kids and split decent gyros we bought from some dude on a bicycle. It started to feel like home once again. As we saw the throng of concert goers celebrating the very fact that it was a religious night we began smiling like we were all young and innocent again, We were transported back to a time of peace and incorruptibility, purity and clarity. We were in heaven.

I’m pretty sure I made my first mistake when I stood in a 30-minute line to get a wristband to buy beer. Nobody had told me that inside, there was a smaller line – so I freaked out and wasted a half hour. I also made the mistake of not using the port-a-potties outside. I saw five people waiting to pee and got frustrated. But when I went inside, the line was 75 dudes deep. Took me another 20 minutes to hit the head.

Still, as the anticipation mounted, the familiar feeling returned. I knew I was seeing one of my all-time favorite bands and I couldn’t wait to get into the music like I did one year earlier at the Hollywood Bowl. It had been five hours since I left my house. I had drunk a few beers and took a long hit off of another friend’s chillum pipe. I was flying high when they opened the show with “Suzy Greenberg” – an old school jam that I used to LOVE. I hadn’t even thought about the song in 16 years. But it sounded as boisterous and thunderous as it had all those years ago. The set continued. “Kill Devil Falls” is one of my newest favorites. “Bouncing Round the Room” made me reminisce of old friends and women dancing around my apartment. Just young and dumb and free… Fucking FREE.

The funny thing was, back in the 90’s I would have been able to tell you what song was beginning by the first three notes. I knew every opening riff, line, bass thump, drum kick, you name it. Now, it took me half a song to even recognize what it was. I wasn’t as up to the familiarity as I thought I was. Still, it didn’t matter. That first set was perfect. We were all happily stoned, shrugging off the $10.50 Miller Lites and ignoring the fact that the Long Beach Arena should really have been reserved for a WNBA game – and not a Phish concert in a fine-looking slice of California near the sea. Even the dozens of people near us smoking cigarettes didn’t bother us just yet. We were all in a Phish trance, heckling stadium vendors trying to sell kettle corn and churros to a bunch of drugged out super fans and doing our best to remember our killer dance moves.

My first Phish show cost me $15.00. These were $60 – Nothing but respect…

Everything was conscious. Everyone was free. Everyone was happy… Until they played “Stash.” It was then that I decided to make my first journey into my iphone to see what the name of the song was. (Back in college I would have had the lyrics tattooed on my arm, but now, I was struggling with the title). As I looked at my phone, my wife’s name appeared in a text. As did my brother’s. And a text from a possible business opportunity. Suddenly, Phish was GONE. I had to return my wife’s text to make sure the kids were OK. I had to send my brother a pdf file. I had to go talk to my business contact about the TV show idea he had. I was distracted. I suddenly realized it was Wednesday. Oh man, I had shit to do.

The classic “Stash” lyric “Was it for this my life I thought? Maybe so, maybe not” began.

It made sense when I was 20. It made perfect sense again.

I made sure I clapped at the right places and sang the “Ohhwooahh woah woah ooh” part in the song somewhat properly, albeit less enthusiastically than I had all those years ago, but I listened to that lyric repeat itself as I embarrassingly dove back into my phone. Afraid my friends would make fun of me for not being as entranced in the show as they were, I was pleasantly surprised to look over and see that Larry, Mike and the Sauce were all frantically texting into their phones as well. We were once slaves to the music. Now we were slaves to technology, wives, kids and work.

I decided to wait to go outside to call my wife until after the first set, which was a good move. But when Phish crushed the arena with “Quinn the Eskimo,” I was as as festive as anyone my age can get. As I drooled over some ridiculously hot dancing brunette who reminded me of half the girls I had dated in the 90’s, I began whispering to my friends about how old I felt at the show. We all nodded, laughed and high-fived.

I think The Sauce was the first one of us to yawn.

Still, I knew I had to go find a quiet place where I could calmly call my wife in peace and let her know I wasn’t wasted and that I would be home on time to wake up with the kids so she could go to work in the morning. As the set ended, and the place erupted, I darted for the doors. Somehow, I beat the bathroom line and even got a beer before getting stuck in sweat-filled traffic towards the front entrance where a full cell phone signal awaited. I called. It rang. My wife was asleep. I looked at the time. 9:45 p.m. Once, the beginning of my nights. Now? Fucking LATE,

I looked around at all of the fans around me. Most of them were texting, tweeting and updating Facebook pages, which I chalk up to the generation. However, when I saw the crew I had rolled with come outside, it was thoroughly predictable. We were all blowing kisses to our wives, checking on kids and even taking business calls. (Larry opened and closed a lawsuit between sets).

The Sauce took a 10-minute business phone call.

Mike went off to buy a churro and didn’t return for 40 minutes.

I sent photos of the crowd to my brother.

The guy next to me played Angry Birds.

30 minutes later, we were all exhausted and ready to call it a night. Still, we  forced ourselves back inside. The anticipation was gone, the reality of an hour long drive back to L.A. sank in and we all crowded around the Long Beach water fountains for free cups of polluted tap water – just to avoid $4.50 twelve ounce Dasani’s from the concession stands.

The light shows are still spectacular, but once you have kids, they resemble “nightlights” rather than mind expanders…

As we sat in our seats, the lights came back and an unfamiliar tune came on. After five minutes of pretending we knew what it was, a guy behind us finally used his “Shazam” app on his phone and figured out it was “Rock and Roll” by Velvet Underground. The Phish version went on for 25 minutes. It was amazing. But then. The pdf file I sent earlier didn’t go through. Larry’s lawsuit took a turn for the worst. Mike’s churro sucked and The Sauce had to discuss hotel design with somebody in Macau. We were suddenly no longer the four Phish phreaks who would bed five girls before the night was through. We were grown men with responsibilities and allergies, children and long drives home. We were fading fast. When “Ghost” started, I shrugged it off. It was never one of my favorite songs, but I knew it well. It was one of those songs I had heard back when I began to separate myself from the band. Still, the song sounded great, and my body seemed to once again start buzzing… Until I realized it was just the buzz from another iphone text from my wife. Our two-year-old daughter was awake and crying. I felt guilty for not being there.

I’m pretty sure I was the second one to yawn.

Larry soon informed me during “Guyute” that he had a place for me to crash on his hotel room floor. My contact lenses were burning – and the drive home seemed impossible, but I figured it would be better for me to get home and not wake up in Long Beach hitching a ride back to Hollywood at my age, so I decided to go get some water from the tap once again. Four glasses later, and I was in the bathroom, staring at the bags below m eyes in the mirror while listening to two 20-something kids discuss some Festival in 2008 that I had obviously missed. I heard “Guyute” climax into that space age three chord re-birth that always made me happy and I smiled again. I was back inside, full of energy and ideas and resilience and glee. Until I returned to our section to find a good amount of the fans in my section seated and unconsciously bored.

“I’m bouncing like a newborn elf,” sang Trey.

Really? I didn’t see any newborn elves dancing near me. I saw four guys who were exhausted, rubbing their temples and beginning to worry about their hearing.

I stuck it out for “Julius” – one of my all time favorites – but when I noticed that our crew was all in the wife-texting mode we all looked at each other with an unspoken knowledge that it was time to go home. Yes, we had blossomed into the OLD GUYS AT THE PHISH SHOW. We weren’t quite what we used to be. And I think, truthfully, we were all a little grateful that we weren’t.

I remember waiting in line to buy Phish t-shirts as a kid to wear around college and try and instigate conversation. I made it a ceremonial task to buy a shirt at every show I went to. I have something like 22 Phish t-shirts in a closet in my house and I’ll hold onto them forever. Mike, Sauce, Larry and I thought we’d take a look at the newest merch and maybe drop a few bills. Of course, the only item that appealed to us was the baby onesies. Mike bought a toddler t-shirt and a newborn onesie. Larry got a onesie as well. I decided against it, as my kids were a little older, but it was the final moment of truth. We were now here just to tell our kids that we were there. The thrill had somewhat faded and we were all just looking forward to a decent night’s sleep.

The four of us attempting an iphone picture at the end of the show. Could be the first time the author has a cup of tap water in his hand in a photo – and not a beer – in 15 years.

It was the first time I had ever left before the encore. It was the first time I was happy to do so. It was the first time I hadn’t bought a beer, weed or burrito in the post-show parking lot. It was the first time I hadn’t left completely blasted out of my skull.

When Mike suggested taking a taxi back to the hotel three blocks away, all four of us smiled. Yes, a taxi! Brilliant! We were close enough to walk, but forget that idea, man. When we arrived at the Hilton, We split the $5.25 charge amongst four of is, said some pleasant good-byes and split apart. We had come to do what we came to do… sort of. It was a new experience on an old battlefield. WE were the decorated aging generals of yonder.

On the way home from Long Beach in my car, I fired up the MP3 player to “Chalkdust Torture.”

There was that magical phrase again.

“Cant this wait ‘til I’m old, can I live while I’m young…”

Well, I guess I let it wait ‘til I was old. I lived when I was young! And even though 37 still seems young in a way, when there are babies to feed and diapers to change at 6:00 in the morning, 37 is really fucking old.

Still, Phish will forever hold a deep piece of my heart – and should they play anywhere within 10 miles of me (haha) I will go anytime. The band is one of the reasons why I became a confident stage performer, a songwriter and a well-traveled man.  They were a part of my youth, but also of my adulthood. They continue to offer inspiration and wild creativity but they also continue to keep me grounded. To know that nothing lasts forever… be it friendships, bands, trends, beauty, money… you name it. All we have is belief, love and music. And that ain’t bad at all.

Still, if anybody has an extra ticket for tomorrow night’s San Francisco show, I’m totally in… I’ll drive….

                       —-  Zach Selwyn * August 16, 2012

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Zach and Dan Cortese team up to host Tru Tv Show “Guinness World Records Gone Wild!”

  • July 5, 2012
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Uncategorized

Zach’s busy summer continues, as he has been tapped to host the upcoming truTV show “Guinness World Records Gone Wild.” Alongside Co-Host DAN CORTESE (Hot in Cleveland, Veronica’s Closet) and Guinness adjudicator LIZ SMITH – Zach will provide humorous and amusing color commentary as people from all across the world will attempt to break Guinness World Records.

Set to premiere later this year on truTV, Guinness World Records Gone Wild challenges people to push themselves to do astonishing things for their place in history. The one-hour series is being produced for truTV by High Noon Entertainment (Tough Love, Cake Boss, Hurricane Hunters).

“Like the title says, Guinness World Records Gone Wild is a wild hour of television,” said Marc Juris, executive vice president and chief operating officer for truTV. “This is an exciting show that really puts you on the edge of your seat while also making you laugh out loud at the crazy things some people will do to break a record.”

Zach’s other TV show, Americas Secret Slang, is also slated to premiere in the late summer on History Channel or H2.

Liz Smith, Dan Cortese and Zach Selwyn on set this week in Santa Monica, CA.

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Watch Zach’s Stand Up from Zanies Nashville, March 2012!

  • May 31, 2012
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Comedy Music News

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25 Min. Set from Laffs – Tucson, AZ. April 2011

  • July 28, 2011
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Uncategorized

<p><a href=”http://vimeo.com/27013802″>Zach selwyn stand up LAFFS – April 2011- 25 minutes</a> from <a href=”http://vimeo.com/user3121417″>Zach Selwyn</a> on <a href=”http://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a&gt;.</p>

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Zach to return to ESPN on July 9 – 6pm PST/9pm EST – for Jimmy Rollins/Red Bull special !

  • July 6, 2011
  • by zachselwyn
  • · Uncategorized

Philadelphia Philies All Star infielder Jimmy Rollins and Zach will be featured in a Home Run record breaking TV special on July 9 on ESPN and again on July 11 on ESPN 2 during the Home Run Derby! The special, where Rollins tries to break a Guinness Record for world’s longest batted baseball, was shot on Ben Franklin Parkway in Philly… Zach hosts the event with Uncle E and Doug Glanville! Look for “Jimmy Rollins World Record Hit!”

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