After a few minutes, I noticed that someone had drawn a bunch of dicks all over the grease board by the door. So I pointed at them and asked, “Hey, who drew all the dicks?” One of the sound engineers immediately jumped up, ran over, and erased them with his sleeve. This is the new and mature Bieber. We can’t have dicks being drawn all over the place. People might get the wrong idea about filthy-rich 18-year-old pop stars.
At eight forty, the PR lady came in to tell me—surprise!—Bieber would not be returning tonight. Finally, after I sat in my hotel room for another day and ran through as many imaginary conversations with the Beeb as any of his 12-year-old fangirls, word came down from the mountaintop: I would meet Bieber at his studio at 6 p.m. that night and we would box. Given all of our suggestions that had been rejected, this made no sense. Well, we can’t have Justin openly buying pornography—why don’t we just endanger his singing voice and orbital bone structure instead? But only a fool would argue. If someone asks you if you’d like to punch Justin Bieber in the face, the answer is yes.