It's a Saturday evening, and 45 teenagers have gathered here to watch Richard Eng perform. Some days he'll play to three or four times as many kids, his high cheekbones and bright teeth projected on flat-screen TVs. Tonight, the bangs that sweep in a copper-streaked diagonal across his forehead are frozen in place with what looks to be a copious amount of hair spray. The designer watch and indigo suede shoes are from his legendarily vast collections. "It's important to give young people stimuli," he tells me later. The 17-year-olds sit rapt as a headset-wearing Eng gesticulates wildly, using adolescent slang and poking fun. They giggle at steady intervals; one girl produces a palpable sigh. When he leaves, they'll congregate to take bets on what he's likely to wear next time. The glossy manuals they hold, emblazoned with the words "Richard 2011" and portraits of the man in various outfits, look like event programs. But this isn't a pop concert—it's an after-school tutoring session.

Source: Slate Magazine