Tales From The Trop: The Weasel Cometh

It seems like we've been sounding the death knell for Amanda Scheer Demme's Taj Mahal of Unrepentant Starfucking, the Roosevelt Hotel's Tropicana Bar, for months now. A Defamer operative reports that Demme's poolside cauldron of Hollywood nightlife evil might finally have bubbled over, flooding the place with a D-list potion so unfashionably potent that none could escape unscathed.

Please upgrade The Tropicana from "circling the drain" to "flushed". The end came Saturday night around 12:40am when, while enjoying myself at a poolside party, I felt something in the air behind me that chilled me to the bone, and when I turned around to investigate, it all made sense. I was in the unmistakable presence of the Grim Reaper himself:
Pauly Shore.


He was trying to work the "self-depreciating" routine on a group of 20-something wannabe chicks who ridiculed him mercilessly the second he walked away.

I like to think that somewhere out there Amanda "Club Promoters are REALLY Important!" Demme is curled up the fetal position, sobbing uncontrollably...even though in reality she's probably lounging in a bathtub filled with honey and milk covered thousand dollar bills and eating souls.

We think this is all going according to the wily Demme's nefarious plan. As the evenings turn L.A.-chilly, she's probably spiriting all top-shelf F.O.A.s (Friends of Amanda) to the newly opened, absurdly exclusive Teddy's, protecting her best and most interesting pals from the harsh elements. A suddenly lax Tropicana entrance policy will draw in the Pauly Shores and the Tara Reids, who will instinctively huddle underneath heat lamps for warmth. Once enough cut-rate club-fodder is assembled by the pool, Demme will slash a finger across her throat, a signal to one of her minions to detonate the booby-trapped lamps and bring the Trop Era to a sudden, bloody end. Roosevelt drones will spend the off-season preparing the space for its next incarnation, but it will be an arduous process; they'll be finding charred bits of flesh tucked into scraps of server's tennis outfits or stripey blazers around the grounds for weeks, if not months. But come summertime, the New Tropicana will be ready for a second life.