Timberlake is not a kiss-ass. Selling more than 13 million records has earned him a lot of rope, and he knows that. He relishes battles with his label, Jive, about single-release choices (“SexyBack” was his call. The label, he says, was “scared shitless”), dictates tour demands (no more than four shows a week), and claims he generally doesn’t give a shit what anyone else thinks.

“I tried so hard to be an R&B artist [on his first solo album, Justified] and it was the pop album of the year, and I was like, ‘Fuck. That’s the last thing I wanted,’” Timberlake says, taking a swig from another can of cream soda. “But I was like, ‘So everyone considers me a pop artist? Well, fuck it. I’m going to do whatever I want to do.’”

But moonwalking the line between manchild and hipster mascot is tough. On one hand, Timberlake beams when he recalls a recent article in the New York Times about punk fans who unexpectedly love him. On the other, he says he resents feeling like he owes indie rockers an apology for his candy-pop past.

And if you liked Peanut Butter and Jelly Day, you might be pleased to know that Justin's tour rider specifies strawberry jelly, not grape. Though of course, at his recent show in Ohio, that mandate was ignored. Oh, the humanity!