If you feel unnoticed when you stay at the W Scottsdale then you’ll certainly feel unheard at the W Hollywood. Unsurprisingly, the lousy service attributable to the W brand is on full display at the W Hollywood. Twas three years to date that I made the great decision to celebrate my 30th at the W Hollywood. What better way to mark the age of maturity than by blacking out in the city of glitz and glamour? And so begins the W Hollywood review.

Before arriving at the W, I received an email which listed the names of everyone staying at the hotel for the weekend. This mass message sent in error did not contain the name of any recognizable celebrities. Upon checking in, I told the manager that negligently disclosing this information could be problematic if I was someone important, a concept they couldn’t seem to grasp. In a mood to celebrate not complain, I headed to my upgraded room, the Marvelous Suite, and arranged the countless bottles of champagne. The room was indeed marvelous. There was a television in the living room for NBA playoff basketball and another in the bedroom for post partying passing out.

The next day we went to the pool party at Drai’s on the roof of the hotel. The pool is technically part of the hotel but Drai’s is not. Therefore, when Drai’s is having an event at the pool guests of the W aren’t necessarily given access. Guests have to wait in line and hope that the douchey doorman allows them to use an amenity that otherwise would be included. To be fair, the doormen do their best to accommodate guests of the hotel. The pool isn’t as nice as the W Scottsdale but is a hidden gem compared to the surrounding areas of West Hollywood.

At this point, you may be asking, why shouldn’t I stay here? The room is nice, the pool is cool, and the douche-baggery is implied, i.e., people stay at the W and people visit Hollywood for this very reason. Here’s where the story takes an interesting turn. After two too many birthday toasts, I recognized that it may be time to take a break and call it an afternoon. When I went to retrieve my shirt, I found that it had gone missing. I informed security that my shirt was gone and headed down the elevator to get back to my room. The exit from the elevator opens to a public sidewalk which is technically in LA County and not part of the hotel. When I attempted to enter the hotel, the security said the dress code of the hotel requires a shirt. I informed him that I had already told Drai’s security that someone had stolen my shirt. He insisted that this was hotel policy and that I could not enter.

Irate, I showed him my room key and again explained the situation. They not care for my explanation and threatened to call the police accusing me of attempting to trespass on private property. Finally, someone with common sense verified that I was staying at the hotel, escorted me to my room, and let me get back to my celebration. In case you’re wondering where my friends were at this point, they had left to see the worthless Lakers game. The next day with a few bumps and bruises, I checked out of the W Hollywood. Perhaps things didn’t go exactly as planned or perhaps things went exactly as planned. Nonetheless, in the context of Hollywood, 30th birthdays, and parties at the W, I’m sure my stumbling and bumbling doesn’t rank in the Lindsay Lohan top 50 of drunken debauchery moments. In conclusion, the hotel could’ve been a bit more helpful. Happy birthday? No such thing…