Palace Had the Cure for What Ailed a Messed-Up Weekend

If there’s one thing L.A. needed last weekend, it was the Cure, and by hook or by crook, we got in to see the O.G. Brit band at the Palace on Saturday. We had to exercise our mighty morphin powers to weasel four muzik lovers into a side entrance. There was no guest list. We saw bona-fide rock stars from the Cult and Orgy waiting for a chance inside. But omigod, was it worth the weaseling. The Cure, even 20 years after its first record, gave everyone in the hot sweaty club room some well-deserved sexual healing. The line down Vine hadn’t been that long since NKOTB (that’s New Kids on the Block, folks). Apparently, a known record producer couldn’t “wait” in line and actually urinated outside the club. But the boys in blue were on the beat, and he was cited for being punk in drublic. I guess we’ll all sleep better. . . . Me, I couldn’t sleep a wink after last week’s column, when I learned there were two major errors: The Room doesn’t hate Beauty Bar. The Room loves Beauty Bar. And Eric James (who was pictured in the Sunset Room photo Feb. 17) isn’t the doorman; he’s a club owner for crying out loud (and by the by, doesn’t he bear a striking resemblance to David Duchovny)? The doorman is also named Eric (no one at the Sunset Room would tell me his last name), but I got his number at Beauty Bar’s opening on Friday. Those who were there witnessed another stellar show by Eric the Doorman, who works a velvet rope like a rock ‘n’ roll rodeo star. When a bleeding, drugged-up skater acted a fool outside the pinky fresh new bar, Eric D. waved his magic arm and the guy did a disappearing act. If only life were that easy.