GQ 2006

Justin  Timberlake picks me up in his black Porsche 911 convertible,  in front of the Chateau Marmont. “Don’t worry,” he says.  “We’re not doing the Chateau Marmont celebrity  interview. You know, ‘We’re at the Chateau! And Bobby De Niro  walked in! And he ordered salad!’ ”

No, he’s taking me to a little joint  on Highland Avenue called Ammo that he likes because it’s  “cool” and he can go there without getting noticed and we can  sit outside and smoke. (Even though Justin doesn’t smoke, you  kind of get the feeling he’d like to.)

“Didja eat lunch?” he asks. “Good.  Neither did I. Fucking starving.”

He peels out of the Chateau…and  almost runs over Mos Def, who is walking up the driveway.

“Yo, bro!” says Justin. “What’s up?”

“I’m mixing a record out here, bro,”  says Mos Def.

“I can’t wait to hear it!” says  Justin.

“It’s good, it’s good.”

“All right, man.”

“Take care, bro.”

Nice wheels, I tell him, as he  accelerates rather abruptly out onto Sunset Boulevard.

“Yeah, well, it’s better than my extra-small penis car.” And that would be…? “My Ferrari,”  he says, adding that he also has a Bimmer, which he lent to  his parents for the week. Oh, and a Jeep and a Dodge pickup  “with a winch” on it. A winch? “Wow, you really are  from New York,” says Justin. “A winch is a device that you  attach to the front of the, uh, truck, and you can tow people  out if they get stuck.”

I see.

“I’m into cars. You know, boys and  their toys.”

He tears down Sunset, almost clipping  another (lesser) vehicle. “You know when I’m an asshole?” he  says. “In traffic. I get road rage so badly. I’m on my  best behavior today. But I get road rage like you wouldn’t  believe!”

After some L.A. parking drama, Justin  finds a spot near Ammo, steps out of the car…and a fan  materializes on the sidewalk. (So much for not getting  noticed.) “You’re my favorite!” squeals the young  woman, who just happens to have Justin’s face on a button on  her denim jacket.

“You’re my favorite, too,” says  Justin.

The woman practically faints.

We sit at an  outdoor table, and Justin orders the turkey meat loaf. Midway  through lunch, Ben Stiller walks in, stops to say hi.

“Hey, dude,” Justin says. “How’s the  missus?”

“Cool,” says Stiller. “We got, like,  the baby. A 10-month-old. Life is good.”

“Awesome, man!” says Justin.

L.A. can be so scintillating.

Now a horn is honking. There’s a fan  sitting in a car just off the curb who, having spotted Justin,  is beeping and waving frantically, trying to get his  attention. Justin waves back. “I feel thankful.” he says.  “There are parts of my celebrity that are really cool. Like that. That might have made her day, you know? And by the  way, don’t get me wrong—it has nothing to do with me.  It’s just like she saw somebody that she saw on television.  She knows not one thing about me.”

After the meat loaf, we return to the  Porsche, only to find that the fan, the one we encountered  earlier, is still there. And now she has a camera.

“Hi,” says Justin. “I’ll bet you  wanna take a picture with that camera.”

“Ohmygod,” she says. “I’m, like, your  biggest fan!” She pauses and frowns. “Even though you guys  haven’t put out an album in, like, forever.”

Justin smiles tensely. She is talking  about ’NSync, Justin’s erstwhile Boy Band, the one he’d just  as soon forget.

“I even got ’NSync on my license  plate,” she adds.

(How adorable, I whisper. “Please  don’t remind me,” whispers Justin.)

“All right,” he says to the fan. She  can take a picture. He lifts her camera out of her trembling  paws and hands it to me. “Don’t mess this one up,” he tells  me.

“Thank you soooo, soooo much,” she  says.

“You’re quite welcome, sweetheart.”

He hops back into his Porsche.

“Okay,” he says. “That’s the part  that slightly freaks me out.”