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By Root 285 0

her to a swingers’ convention—epitomize a combination of avarice and unbridled hedonism in Hollywood. It’s a topic that has obsessed me for years, and one I’ve observed firsthand. Years ago, I lived next door to a professional dominatrix. By pressing an ear against the wall and listening—something I did almost nightly—I could hear her doing unspeakable things to the clients who arrived nightly in their luxury cars. A sense of unwavering professionalism prevented my neighbor from divulging the names of those she bullwhipped, burned with cigars, urinated on, and dressed as adult babies—but she would acknowledge that most, if not all, were high-ranking studio executives, talent agents, and successful comedians.

Weintraub doesn’t hide his ambition or his appetites. In fact, he doesn’t seem to care at all what others think. On an outing with Carey and her housemates, he openly mocks the cast members as washed up has-beens. The fact itself couldn’t be any great revelation to them, but actually saying it out loud is inherently cruel. Eventually his words appear to wound the Crazy Town singer, Seth Binzer, who embarks on a careening crack binge through Hollywood, all of which he conveniently records on his video phone for broadcast lest he lose any screen time. Weintraub is something of a reality TV renaissance man. He both produced and co-starred in a show called Sons of Hollywood, which followed him and his wealthy friends, Sean Stewart, son of rock star Rod Stewart and a Celebrity Rehab season two alumni, and Randy Spelling, son of television producer Aaron Spelling, as they simply, well, existed. He also appeared on the show Date My Ex—he was kicked off for baking obscene cookies and talking back to the host. And, according to his Web site, he is currently producing a series featuring fashion designer Christian Audigier, the man responsible for the steroid-abuser-friendly Ed Hardy and Affliction clothing lines.

I’ve long believed in confronting my fears, a tendency that has yielded mixed results. There have been some minor triumphs, but it has also landed me in jail, wasted years of my life, and given me a life-threatening liver disease. Regardless of the hazards, I decide I need to meet Weintraub and face my uncertainties about the reality television world. I locate an e-mail address and send him a note identifying myself and asking if we can talk. He agrees.

Days later, I arrive at a coffeehouse in West Hollywood across from the Ivy, a star-studded restaurant, and next door to the Kitson store, which bills itself as the “home of celebrity shopping.” It’s a small stretch of street that has become ground zero for the swarming paparazzi and their mostly willing prey. Minutes after I arrive, there is a sudden commotion and a horde of photographers begin chasing an Olsen twin down the street. Weintraub soon saunters up with Mary Carey in tow. She is wearing a short black dress, stiletto heels, and heavy, overly dramatic makeup. It’s an odd outfit for a casual cup of coffee—or for daylight in general. As we enter the restaurant, Carey takes out a small camera and begins snapping photos of herself.

Sitting down inside, I experience an odd feeling of familiarity—as if I’ve suddenly been transported into a not-yet-aired episode of Sober House. They, on the other hand, seem agitated. It turns out that they’re not at all happy with Weintraub’s portrayal on the show. Both claim that a pivotal scene was edited to make it appear as if Weintraub had called her a “stupid porn whore,” when in fact it was the show’s producer who said it. It’s definitely possible: As anyone involved with reality shows can tell you, they’re technically not reality. Beyond the practice of editing for story lines, many of the scenarios are set up by the producers in the hope of sparking on-screen conflict.

“Sober House is a complete sham,” Weintraub says sullenly. “I’ve been getting a lot of hate mail. People think it’s real. But they’re the ones who called Mary a dumb porn whore. They decided to make me the villain, even though I helped them put the show