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When Bieber Instagrams a picture, between 500,000 and a million fans “like” it within seconds (by contrast, President Obama’s photos on Instagram garner about 40,000 likes).For the rest of us, it’s a show, vaudeville, and we’re still watching, captivated by who may emerge or simply irritated enough that we keep looking in that stuck-in-­traffic-after-a-car-crash way. Big Man, the innocent boy turned de-virginator, master swordsman at a Brazilian brothel, double-sleeve-­tattooed thug, gold-chain-bedecked hood. We may see something different—a costume of machismo; a slip of a boy buffed up and doffing his shirt like a South Bronx stoopie in August; a white person fetishizing blackness with the laserlike focus of someone for whom “being down” is the most important thing in life—all of it, perhaps, a way of covering up and hiding so that we don’t find out what’s behind the curtain, in case there is nothing at all.

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” with a grin, as if an impromptu gift was better than a thoughtful one.

As we spoke, Bieber struck me as a ­precocious kid, talking about mastering the Rubik’s Cube and spewing forth lines memorized from rap songs and Will ­Ferrell comedies.

The wider world may deem him a devil, or “Joffrey Bieber,” as he’s called on the internet, and when he last went on Saturday Night Live, several cast members reportedly considered him the world’s brattiest guest—and they know from bratty guests—but the enchantment of the Belieber fan base remains relatively intact.

Signed to Island Def Jam, he has 52 million Twitter followers, more than anyone except Katy Perry, perhaps pop’s earliest adopter of social media.

The soundtrack to the kids’ movie Frozen is so far the No. Pharrell ­Williams’s “Happy,” popularized by the movie Despicable Me 2, will likely be the top single of 2014.

“Problem,” a peppy single from Ariana Grande, a 21-year-old star coming off a Nickelodeon show, is looking like the song of the summer.

Bieber is an essential player, and beneficiary, of the low-culture fixation of the moment: whether child stars, those ­entitled, overpaid—yet also tragic and pitiful—figures can make it across the wobbly bridge to adulthood without falling in the choppy waters below.

This is a kinky national ritual, our current form of pop-culture sadism.

The boy passionately described the strengths of Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Bentleys, Porsches, and Range Rovers.

As I sat there with the little Bieber, the question of what he would become loomed large in my mind. I didn’t think that Bieber would fly close to his idol, Michael Jackson, whom he brought up often—I breathed a sigh of relief that the boy would never have to decide whether to sleep over at Neverland—but imagined him as a pale version of Justin Timberlake, a peach-fuzzed post-R&B white boy who set out upon the world to de-nastify Bobby Brown for the Ohio crowd at a time when major male pop stars could be counted on one hand. Braun and the entourage agreed with my assessment, naturally, but the grimaces, the neurotic energy, and cries of “Justin is totally normal” with which they greeted this line of questioning showed their hand.

“It’s just not as hard as everyone thinks,” Braun said. There goes Bieber, adopting and then abandoning a pet monkey, pissing in a janitor’s mop bucket and yelling “Fuck Bill Clinton,” the pilots in his private plane hurriedly strapping on oxygen masks as he lights joint after joint in the cabin, far above the clouds.

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