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After dropping a handful of c-notes on their room at the Roosevelt and dining at the hotel's Dakota restaurant, city-hopping brother blog Gridskipper's L.A. correspondent and a friend still found themselves unable to penetrate celebrity-worshipping proprietress Amanda Scheer Demme's perimeter defenses at the Tropicana Bar, prompting this scribbled "comment card" (at left) and yet another chapter in the rapidly expanding canon of anti-Roosevelt/Trop literature:

Although KLo and I spent over $600 in these precious few hours, we were denied admittance to the Tropicana bar after 7 p.m. on a Friday night, after spending $300 at Dakota and over $250 on a Roosevelt room/cellblock, on the same weekend as the VMAs, when absolutely every “celebrity” you’d ever care to fuck was in Miami, not at the Tropicana shithole.

Much to my amusement (“Money shot, money shot!” I screamed) when this bullshit went down after the Dakota dinner, KLo went absolutely postal on every employee in the general vicinity of the Tropicana’s sorry velvet rope, eliciting such fun comments as “Please sir, I’m sorry, but I’m just trying to make the rent,” or “We’re genuinely sorry,” or “Everyone who comes here has the same complaint,” and “The Tropicana Bar is not owned by Dakota or the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel.”

That last remark caused us to question whether the world is flat, submarines have screen doors, or the Pope is Catholic, considering we had entered the goddamn Tropi-Whore-House before 7 p.m., it is clearly marked on every sign in the hotel as a potential destination, and (as a lawyer who excelled in first-year law school Property class), the Tropicana Bar appeared to the BoHan to be in the same goddamn place as the poorly air-conditioned hotel in which it was located. Maybe we were drunk and down the street somewhere, but I doubt it.

The (lengthy, but worth it) chronicle of Tropicana pain continues over at Gridskipper.