Magic the bum races up Washington Avenue on his beat-up bicycle, screeching to a halt just outside a velvet-rope line. He boots the kickstand theatrically. "Valet!" he bellows. His timing, as always, is good. The beautiful people are just beginning to stream in to club B.E.D., and they turn, like a flock of well-groomed birds, to regard this skinny little fellow in camouflage pants, black boots, and an oversize red hat that hasn't been washed in ages. Magic's bushy mustache and ragged goatee seem to thrust out at them as he accepts their laughter and uses it... More >>>