Hollywood Home and Garden: Mexican or Meth?

Keeping your living space neat and clean is hard work, but it doesn’t have to be. With a crystal meth hook up and a city full of Mexicans eager to work, you’ve got options. In a matter of hours, both can help transform your abode from dingy to dazzling! So what does a savvy Hollywood homemaker do? Amanda Egge answers the question on every Angelino’s mind: Mexican or meth?

Cost: The street value of meth is about $25 for a ¼ gram. The street value of a Mexican is about $50 for a one-bedroom apartment. In the short run, meth is cheaper than a Mexican. However, if you make it a habit out of it, you’re going to need more and more meth for the same job, whereas a Mexican habit will hold steady at fifty bucks a pop.

Effectiveness: On meth, you will clean the grout out of your kitchen counter, organize your sock drawer and make a hanging mobile out of silverware and fishing wire! No germs can get by a meth user and a bottle of Clorox bleach. In contrast, a Mexican will do a pretty good job making your place look clean, but they will probably not think to dust the top of the doorframe and they definitely won’t hand pick every piece of lint off your carpet. Then again, Mexican’s don’t make your teeth fall out.

The Law: Meth is illegal. So are Mexicans if they are undocumented or paid under the table. Either way you are screwed, especially if you are a Republican and plan on someday running for public office, so you may as well go for the fun factor and Mexicans have Piñatas!

Gay Orgies: Unless your Mexican is a hot seventeen your old boy with a tight ass and a penchant for sucking cock, meth is always the party favor of choice for gay orgies. Plus meth will make you look super hot in your skinny jeans!

In summary, for a one-time spring-cleaning, meth is definitely the way to go, but if you’re looking for cleaner quarters year round without the dental complications, take my Hollywood homemaker advice: go Mexican!

Mr. PTSD

I live in an old, but charming, building in a gentrified, but hip, neighborhood, and I’m the recipient of a lot of perks. For instance, I get: cockroaches in my Lucky Charms, proximity to Reggaeton-blasting neighbors, and a lovely view of Silverlake—my personal Gatsbyesque light in the distance to aspire to while I’m eating my infested noodles ramen.

But the real perk of living in this renovated barrio is the building manager, let’s call him Mr. Barnes. Mr. Barnes is a funny man and full of lots of great stories of yore. And I think he suffers from post traumatic stress disorder.

The thing about Mr. Barnes is that he’s a Vietnam vet. He doesn’t like liberals, he doesn’t like pussies who support “gun control”, and he owns a lot of guns. I own a mag light and a fairly realistic replica of Gandalf’s sword from The Lord of the Rings. If it came down to it I think his Kalashnikov would outgun Glamdring, even if I did cast magic missile on his ass.

On a recent visit to my apartment (I think he just figured it was time for a chat) Mr. Barnes and I talked about government lies, the necessity of nuking the shit out of Iraq, and the liklihood that a pill will soon exist that will make vampires a reality. Somewhere in the middle of this conversation I’m pretty sure he had a waking hallucination of 1971, and it occurred to me that the man most ready to start a militia in my building was also the only guy with a spare key to my apartment. And then it hit me like a Vietcong RPG: what happens when I throw my end of April potluck? Do I invite this guy and hope he leaves his I-remember-when-I-had-to-impale-a-child story at home? Or snub him and spend my nights trembling in a cold sweat, praying I never need a consult on a shit-clogged toilet?

There is a place where survival and social etiquette meet. That place is my home. I have Mr. Barnes to thank.

Trailer Trash: War, Inc.

We will fight this war with the most brutal weapon in our arsenal: irony.


The trailer for War, Inc. begins with two literary references piled one on top of the other: H.G. Wells (The Island of Dr. Moreau) and Céline. Gee, you think this movie’s gonna be pretentious?

It’s also the first trailer that could actually have its own soundtrack album. I counted no less than 5 music cues (at least four of which have been in other movies; count this as the second red flag).

Incidentally, 5 is also the number of times the main character of the film, Brand Hauser, has requested my friendship on Facebook. I am assuming that this is part of some elaborate guerrilla marketing campaign and that Brand Hauser is not actually a real person, despite the fact that we seem to have 12 friends in common.

This sort of looks like a sequel to the film Grosse Point Blank on crack. Coincidently, if you ever see me watching a sequel to Grosse Point Blank, you’ll know that I’ve just smoked crack.

This trailer is so all over the place, it’s almost impressive. Ben Kingsley as a tiny southern war-hawk! Hillary Duff as a sexy A-rab pop star! A snake pops out of a suitcase, a scorpion goes down Duff’s pants, and a Popeye’s chicken explodes. Did I mention that John Cusack drinks hot sauce while wearing a ski mask? Hot sauce! Who thinks of these things?!

Nitpicking aside, this trailer suffers from one fatal flaw: a lack of the funny. There are a couple lines, like the LeBron James joke at the end, that made me think, “Gee, that’s kind of funny,” but didn’t actually make me laugh or even chuckle. In a comedy, that’s generally a bad sign.

Some liberals will watch this trailer and think, “Far out, way to stick it to the man.” I’d love to be on that bandwagon, but instead, what I see is an unfunny, unoriginal, pretentious film that promises to be the 20th failed movie about our failure in Iraq. How’s that for irony?

Hollywood Loney Heart DR#: 01-0612603

Los Angeles can be a lonely city for the lovelorn. Spring has sprung, so let your love flower blossom with this week’s sexy single!

Bachelor #4: William Delgado

Delgado is an avid fan of Battlestar Galactica and will attend his 4th year of Comic Con dressed as Admiral William Adamar . An air sign, this heterosexual Gemini is enthusiastic, sensitive, and a self-described “foody.” William confesses a weakness for movies with talking babies, and one day dreams of bashing in the chief of police’s head with a rusty horse-shoe.

A Gemini’s keywords are “I think,” so challenge William with a romantic word puzzle, or at least ask him about the latest crime he’s committed. Hopefully his answer will be “the crime of loving you too much.” Careful though, too many questions could inspire this Lothario to compose a poem of bruises on your face!

Sex: M
Descent: Hispanic
Height: 5' 9
Weight: 150
Hair: Black
Eyes: Brown
Date of Birth: June 14, 1949
Activities: Threatening Lives, Board Games, Most Violence
Turns Offs: Selfishness, Judgment
Favorite Quote: “I'd never join a club that would allow a person like me to become a member.”
-Woody Allen

Still hoping to feel cupid’s prick? Visit: http://www.lapdonline.org/hollywood_most_wanted

An Open Letter to China

Dear China,

I see you’re having some PR “issues” over the whole Tibet debacle. Although your attempts to avert this potential image crisis are admirable, in reality they are futile. Back in the Golden Age of citizen control (anytime before 1995), all you had to do was arrest the most outspoken protesters (most likely a poor person that no one would miss) and pay off a few high power network executives and you’d stave off a veritable countrywide riot.

But now, within the digital age, there are far too many facets and cracks for people to gather and information to trickle from for you to control. And even if you do manage to somehow plug all those leaks one day, there will be at least twice as many the next. Take, for example, your complete block of YouTube. The next day there was 100 more sites to replace it and you were caught red-handed trying to cover your tracks, making the problem exponentially worse. You’re using pen and paper tactics on a paperless society.


It’s understandable considering you’re still a fledgling capitalist society, but you’re going about this all wrong. It takes time and money to sedate the masses. And most of all, it takes Coke (ke kou ke le). And Levi’s (li wai sz). And Cadillac (kai di la ke). Well, You get the point. Open your lungs and let the corporate crawl in. Soon enough they’ll be flowing through your streets, much like the blood of Tibetan monks. It’ll start slow and obvious, making blatant connections like “buy this and you’ll be more beautiful/smart/happy.” And that’ll work for a while until your infrastructure expands and even the most common of people become educated. Consumers will soon realize that these companies are mostly making false claims, completely legal claims of course, but still false.

The companies will start to ask themselves “How are we going to get people to buy our cars if people are smart enough to realize we’re lying?” The next logical step is branding and image based marketing. Brand ‘A’ car will be for “Manly” men, age 34 - 50 who like drinking beer, watching (insert whatever contact sport you play in China), and makes below ¥50,000 a year. Brand ‘B’ will be for bleeding-heart liberal women, aged 18 – 34 who like dogs, political blogging and make anywhere between ¥75,000 – ¥100,000. And so on until every demographic feels like if they buy a specific product, they’ll somehow further convey an image that an ad agency probably created in the first place. “If I buy Brand M deodorant spray, I’ll become more of an individual,” they’ll all say to themselves.



But then the most educated consumers will soon realize your underhanded schemes and they’ll not only stop buying, they’ll also feel slighted. Naturally they’ll take an anti-corporate stance. Little do they know, these radicals will actually be playing right into your hands. The companies will make a subsidiary company or covertly buy a smaller company to appeal to the counter-culture / rebellion demographic just like it was any other demo. These products will subconsciously and ironically scream, “buy me and you’ll be promoting your anti-consumer ideals.” They will also be substantially more expensive.

Marketers will bombard this culture with ads and pseudo-causes that even the most intelligent people won’t be able to decipher what news is important and what news is just an elaborate front to sell them shampoo. The masses will become so confused, jaded, and numb that they’ll give up on actually thinking they can actually cause a revolution. In fact, they’ll probably stop thinking altogether! Exactly the kind of populous you want. I know it’ll be painful considering the timing with the Olympics, but you’re going to have to weather this storm and by the time you host the next Olympics, the High Jump will be sponsored by wo er ma and the 100 Yard-Dash will be called the “nai ke presents the 100 Yard-Dash.”

Unless you want to just kill everyone that opposes you.

XOXO United States of America

Squash the Newspaper Beef!

On March 27, 2008, The Los Angeles Times apologized for publishing an article a week earlier detailing a conspiracy to kill rapper Tupac Shakur. The original story was based on fabricated documents. In response to this west coast flare up of irresponsible journalism, east coast newspaper rival The New York Times has retaliated with its own misinformed article and apology combo, detailing and retracting a false plot to kill the Notorious B.I.G, continuing the violent feud between the two print publication giants.

I’ve seen it a thousand times: this vicious cycle of newspapers publishing an article based on misinformation, only to subsequently issue an apology for said article is just a publicity stunt by both publications to gain attention and sell more newspapers. But what about the children? Our impressionable youth view these giants of print media as role models, and this ruthless feuding sets a terrible example for America’s kids.

Everyday I walk down the street I see younger and younger kids reading newspapers, dressed like journalists, taunting one another with violent threats such as “The New York Times can eat a dick!” or “L.A. Times 4 Life!” all the while wagging their genitals in arrogance over who has the better subscription to world news, events, culture, sports, and opinion sections. I can’t turn on the evening news without seeing another senseless murder over which newspaper provides better coverage of the 2008 presidential election. This morning I saw a kid get shit all over himself trying to take a dump in a New York Times newspaper stand. It’s shameful.

Please newspapers, heed the words of our late brother, Tupac Shakur: “We need to start making changes; learn to see me as a brother, ‘stead of two distant strangers.”

Please Store Your Cock Ring in the Overhead Compartment

Putting the T & A in TSA.

Standing in line for the metal detector at a Texas airport, I am reminded of an incident about 3 weeks ago, where Transportation Security made a woman remove her nipple rings as a security measure. Which makes me rethink my decision to fly, being that I am an extremely anxious traveler, and the only way I can calm myself from having panic attacks is through the use of several “intimate” piercings and attachments.

Some folks take Xanax, I happen to employ a series of studs and plugs. The thought of having to strip bear in front of strangers while a cold official inspects my Prince Albert, my Arab Strap, my Burmese Anus Wedge, my Vibrating Testicle Cage, and my belly button ring—all of which I need to stay relaxed, is just frighteningly dehumanizing.

Man Texas, why can’t you just be cool like LAX Transportation Security? When me and my body trinkets come jingling down the line, the Los Angeles staff knows that I’m no more a threat to the skies than a walking dinner bell. Once we’re airborne, I’m not going to rush the cockpit; the only disturbance I’ll cause is my nut-wear clanging around like a bag of jacks as I rub one out in the crapper.

Which brings me back to the lady and her nipple rings. Now seriously Texas Transportation Security, was that breast metal really a national threat, or did you just want to see some tits on the clock? I know we’re taught not to “mess with Texas,” but where in your manual does it say terrorists sport booby steel?

I enjoy swinging my gilded dick around as much as the next low-level, minimally powered employee, but these are our air rights we’re talking about, Transportation Security. You can wave that detective wand like you’re St. Peter at the pearly gates, but the second you ban pierced labia because you think there might be a pull-pin grenade jammed up there, I’m moving to Canada.

The Broadway Douchebag

LA does not have a monopoly on people who are annoyingly eager for stardom.

You see the zesty baristas hoping some Hollywood big shit will discover them as they wait for their reverse osmosis filtered cap with .854 pumps of caramel syrup. That's a pure shit PA waiting on that cap, bro. If you are not swapping genetic ooze, you will not be discovered in this town, no matter how dope you think you look wrapped in a green smock.

Yet, New York has its insufferable asses as well, albeit of a different sort. Among the mix are the movers and shakers on Wall Street who went long the financial stocks just before they started shitting chunky writedowns. Then there are the depressive intellectuals, writers and poets forever waiting on Knopf, who make up the city's network of criminally unhelpful booksellers.

But there is another pustule among the people of New York: The Broadway Douchebag or BD.

The BD is no pussy when it comes to being gay. With one airkiss, his glossy lips can trounce ordinary fags. He is wildly contemptuous of metrosexuals because they only flirt with gayness (though they find common ground in driving v-dubs). As for "hets," the BD believes they are as evil as an ipod that doesn't include the "Phantom" and "Les Mis" soundtracks.

At some point in your life, you knew a burgeoning Broadway Douchebag. He was that guy back in the 7th grade who excitedly remembered everyone's lines in the school play (especially the singing parts). He'd also sashay into the boys' locker-room whistling a potpourri of showtunes. His locker was the one wallpapered with Bop Magazine centerfolds of Kirk Cameron in awesomely tight acid wash jeans. He even bragged about singing and dancing on Star Search.

Even as an adult, the Broadway Douchebag boasts that back in junior high his gaydar sensed Doogie Howser made a fabulous candidate for sleepovers and wrestling matches.

Should you wonder where you can find a BD, the answer is Xanadu, baby!

The MadAtoms Guide to Hipster Coffee Shops: Choke

If you’re the kind of hipster that likes to hang out at places that no one’s ever heard about, then Choke is the place for you.

Nestled incongruously on the residential street Normal between Hoover and Virgil, you don’t just stumble upon this place- you hear about it. The other day, I hung out at Choke for about an hour, and all fifteen customers knew Jeff, the owner, as well as each other.

As I waited for my coffee, I was startled by a loud blast of an air hose. I looked over to find Jeff doing god knows what to the shell of a Vespa. The thing about Choke, is that it’s barely a coffee shop. It’s actually a scooter / moped repair shop that also sells espresso.
When I ask him why combine the two, he seems genuinely surprised, as if no one’s ever asked him that.

He’s either hopped up on espresso or has a bad case of ADD. As we talk, he alternates between smoking cigarettes, fixing some gear-looking thing, riding around on a skateboard, and flirting with his girlfriend, who’s here hanging out with a friend of hers.

He’s fixed scooters and motorcycles for a long time. And he loves espresso. He feels the two are just a natural fit.
I ask him about the location. “The fact that it’s on this small, residential street… doesn’t that mean that the only people that come here are the people that already know about it?”

“Well… yeah,” he says, as if it’s a good thing. Things are cool when they’re hidden away. Besides, he likes the street, likes bombing down the hill on his skateboard.

“I’m gonna go bomb the hill,” he says, turning to his girlfriend. “Let’s go bomb the hill.”

Jeff’s girlfriend picks up a skateboard and yells to her friend, “We’re gonna go bomb the hill!”

She turns around. Jeff is already half way up the hill.

These Damn Sarah Marshall Ads

Enough is enough! Does this woman not have text messaging??

The Church of Disney

We all know that Disney has its hands in everything, but church? Heed this cautionary tale before you think about entering a house of worship.

I'm not a religious man, but I had a standing promise to my wife that if she found a church she wanted to try, I'd go with her. Little did I know that her theological compass is bat-shit wonky. One Sunday, she led me to a discreet, seemingly un-insane brick building a couple of blocks from the Disney Studios in Burbank.

It turned out to be a New Thought "spiritual center." New Thought, to the layman, is Hippy 2.0: children of love who've washed and shaved and taken aggressive marketing classes. These are the folks who peddle The Secret on Oprah and preach the Law of Attraction that all you need to attain wealth is to think about attaining wealth. If that were true, of course, I'd have two thousand baby mamas and 47 life sentences for murder.

As my wife and I entered the sanctuary, I couldn't help but sense the gleeful surprise of the worshipers sitting in the pews. It was almost as if they could taste us. As the service began, I discovered that the center had its own theme song, a bouncy ditty that merely repeated the name of the "church" over and over again to what can only be described as "old-timey" music. Everyone clapped on the one and three.

The service, led by a red-faced man in his 50s named Dr. Barry, was an assortment of every bad New Age cliché. Dr. Barry spoke in shallow affirmations and meaningless mantras like "I am a lucky magnet for miracles" and "Practice the now." We exhaled together in drawn-out "Ohhhhhms." I was forced to touch myself as a reminder that "I am."

They made every effort to be non-denominational. There were no crosses, and instead of "Amen" we said "And so it is." But strangest of all were the hymns. In an attempt to piece together a songbook of positive, non-religious, non-offensive music, the primary source material turned out to be Disney films. We sang "A Whole New World" from Aladdin, "Colors of the Wind" from Pocahontas and, of course, that damn Lion King theme song. Was this "spiritual center" really a Mousethedral?

I wasn't about to find out, but my wife actually went back for more. Dr. Barry was so geeked to have her that he fired his musical director and hired my wife. It seems he thinks that she can use her magical blackness to insert some semblance of soul into "When You Wish Upon a Star." To this day, she still goes to the Church of Disney and has gotten her cold, soulless grin down pat -- a little too good, if you ask me -- while I sleep with mousetraps under my pillow.

Spam-a-Lot

Robert Alan Soloway was arrested last summer and charged in a 40-count indictment for using multiple computer networks to send out millions upon millions of junk e-mails. Mad Atoms has exclusively obtained his will, in which he bequeaths various spam programs to his family and loved ones.

To my beloved mother Martha Soloway, you are a beacon of goodness, and I thank you for being the caring soul that you are. I bequeath my spam ads entitled "WANT BIGgER DICKZ OVER NIGHT?"

To my son Jeremy, you are my pride and joy, and it is a tragedy larger than life itself that I will not be around to see you grow into a man. In my stead, I bequeath you my junk emails promising "MILLIONS OF DOLLARS OVER NIGHT and LARGE COCKS!"

To my sister Laura, and her husband Roger, the love you two share inspires me to be a better person, and live every day to its fullest. To you both, I bequeath “Prince oF NiGErIA nEEDs your Help… PLUS Grow a HUMUNGOUS COCK in SeCONDS flat!!!!”

And finally, to me wife Josie, you teach me something new about myself every day, and I promise that next time you nag me about not setting up multiple computer networks in order to send out millions upon millions of junk e-mails, I will listen to your loving words. To you my sweet, I bequeath “BiGGEST PrICKS ArOUND!!!!!---PRICKS ILLEGALLY BIGGEr ThAN yOU CAn HANDLE !!!1!!”

As Always,

Robert Alan Soloway

“Spam King”

Le Car of the Year

My 2007 Prius, Touring Edition, is saving the environment, but killing me.

I’m just not sure what I was thinking when I cobbled together 3,000 American dollars and convinced that credit union that blew up last week to spot me the rest. My car payment is more akin to rent. And I’m a work-from-home writer—I only go out-of-doors to scrounge for food, and I walk to the supermarket. So, instead of hanging my head in fiscal defeat, I invented Transport System 2.0. And it began with departing with my beloved eco-friendly stallion.

Step 1. Sell Prius.
Silver Prii are like blondes, they’re everywhere and everyone wants to be in one, so selling one was super easy thanks to Craig and his magical List. Step two of step one was giving this money directly to said bank, which either needs to change its name to Bank of Bosnia or spend my dollars on walls.

Step 2. Buy The Cheapest/Coolest New/Old Wheels Possible.
I considered what my dream used car would be. It took me about 37 seconds:

The Year’? 1982. That’s like, vintage! It’s sort of indisputable that this is the best car ever made. The only way it could be better is if it was read: Le California Car. Finding one was a bit harder 'cause no sane person would give one of these babies up, but I sleuth’d a mint one in Hawaii. So, 1,500 dead presidents later (500 for the car and 1,000 for shipping) Le Car was Le Mine.

Step 3. Le Driver
With all these Prius Bucks I’m now saving every month, I can afford to hire a chauffeur.
Whenever I want to go out, I roll over to the Home Depot and pick up a day laborer. Preferably one with a valid driver’s license. But I’m not picky, basically the guy that smells the best wins (it’s a small car).

Step 4. Enjoy Life From The Back Seat.
Or out the sunroof! LA is pretty to look at! Driving is hard work! I never need to valet! I’m not one of those assholes who gets car sick, so it’s also free reading time! And there’s nothing like the look on people’s faces when I roll up to Area/Hyde/LAX (club & airport), Jesus/Jose/Juan gets out, walks around the car, opens the passenger door, tilts the seat forward, and helps me out. And for ten bucks an hour, I can go out twenty-five times a month for two hours atta time and it’d still be a savings!

Update: I’ve converted Le Car to Bio-Diesel, so while I’m “out” my driver goes in search of grease!

Meet Gerry, the Morbidly Obese Hipster

My friend Gerry is 841 pounds, and knows the drummer from Vampire Weekend.

I first met Gerry in Silverlake, in front of the Elliott Smith memorial on Sunset. At the time, he was driving a handi-cart with a children’s red wagon fixed to the rear, and wearing a humongous ironic t-shirt (probably made out of a tent). Inside the wagon were old children’s Play Skool toy instruments the obese bohemian had obtained from a thrift shop, and planned to rewire in a circuit-bending project. The wagon also contained about 31 cheeseburgers from Mcdonalds and 4 cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

In the land of hip-threaded slim hips, Gerry manages to stand out by truly doing his own thing, and also by being too wide to enter most music venues. He was the first to accuse the hipster mecca Spaceland of “selling out,” once the club became popular, and also, started to deny him entrance for fear of violating fire codes.

You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but underneath those skin folds piled beneath his, soft, heavy head, Gerry has a really rad neck tattoo of an owl fighting a wolf. His waist size is 72, but he wears a size 69 because he likes his pants to fit skinny. He was the first to sport chunky sunglasses, and has gone through several pairs because the frames barely fit his face, and every time he sneezes, the glasses snap right in half.

Gerry is a mashup of Wes Anderson and the fat section of the Guinness Book of World Records. He is a cross between Beck and bagel bites. He is a hip heart attack wrapped in both fat, and a specially tailored purple hoody out of the American Apparel plus-sized catalog.

But most of all, Gerry is my friend.

Trailer Trash: Righteous Kill

Who the hell came up with the title for this movie, a bunch of dirty hippies? “Dude, we should call it Righteous Kill,” bro, cause then it’s like a double meaning. That’d be righteous!”

What would have been even more righteous would be if Robert DeNiro and Al Pacino made a movie together 20 years ago. I guess that movie Heat was pretty good, except that it was about 16 hours too long.

Both DeNiro and Pacino have, sadly, become carbon copies of carbon copies of their former selves. Pacino plays the dry, sarcastic New Yorker with a penchant for yelling inappropriately. DeNiro plays the hapless, disgruntled New Yorker with a penchant for mumbling.

But at a combined age of 131 years, these are no spring chickens. Don’t cops get to retire once they hit 60? I mean, my dad is 65. I like him just fine, but I don’t want him chasing after a serial killer.

If you blink while watching this trailer, you might miss Curtis Jackson, aka, 50 Cent. Poor Fiddy appears in a grand total of one and a half non-consecutive seconds in this trailer. The black man has a tough enough time getting a decent role in movies, now he can’t even get a line in a trailer? Hollywood is so fucking racist.

To top it all off, some poor bastard (someone in G-Unit?) has gone and made a Sympathy for the Devil hip-hop remix, and stuck it on the end of this trailer.

This is what happens when baby boomers make movies- it’s like if the characters from the Big Chill decided to write a screenplay together. They take these great things from the 60’s and 70’s- DeNiro, Pacino, and the Stones- and re-package them as something that’s new, hip, and relevant. Except they’re none of those things, they are just fucking old.