"Encyclopedias of rock, rap--I see them all the time at the bookstore. Like, when you look at the 'I's and you get to the 'In's and you see 'Incubus,' just to see our name included in there would be so cool."

Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope. . . on a boat.

It's been since six months a certain Village Voice cover story, about a certain widely maligned, fundamentally ludicrous horrorcore duo and their earnestly intentioned family of facepainted, hatchet-swinging outcast fans was foisted into the world. Since then, a lot has changed for Insane Clown Posse. For one, the wicked clowns have been welcomed back to New York City after many years of being shut out. (Even Violent J, the duo's Costello, can't seem to remember how many it's been.) For two, Bamboozle organizers invited ICP to perform at the Festival this year, this coming weekend, on the same day as Lil' Wayne, Mötley Crüe, and Bruno Mars (?). Also, since last September, ICP has been profiled extensively everywhere from Wired to the Guardian to the pages of our West Coast foils LA Weekly. Even friend-of-SOTC Sean Fennessey connected the dots between the Juggalos and Tyler the Creator, in the Pitchfork piece that got anyone to care about Odd Future in the first place.

Violent J is very, very grateful that anyone outside the band's Psychopathic Records circle still knows ICP exists, as he told us over the phone. So grateful that the band decided, at the very last minute, to celebrate the band's Manhattan return with a Juggalo Midnight Cruise leaving early this Saturday morning. Tickets are here. Fingers crossed this isn't the Juggalo Titanic.

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Katy Perry used "E.T." as the perfect opportunity to dress up in flowy-costumes and to float through space, before falling in love with a nice robot boy before they walk off into the sunset. There're kaleidoscope-effects, Kanye West, and cuts to National Geographic-style clips of animals going at it, which reminds us that Katy's world is not ours. (After all, Arthur?) It's all so out there.

But it feels like we've seen this before. For just about as long as they've been making videos, musicians have been taking the superstar thing far too literally. Can you guess which scenes the following videos are from?

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photo by Abby Manock

Bonnaroo and body odor go together like Irish men and Jameson, which is why so many of the from-the-mud testimonials focus on the showering aspect of the three-day hackey-sacks-and-hulahoops showdown--or lack thereof. Apparently there are only two primary on-site option for scrubbing yourself clean: 1) Paying $7 for an actual shower; 2) Standing half-naked under a "mushroom fountain" for free, which basically makes this one spot on the grounds, ah, an olfactory oasis. Why anyone here, but not there, might care? New York artist Maya Hayuk, who's work tends to show up in places like Cinders Gallery and Secret Project Robot, is the one responsible for the fungi fountain's trippy psychedelics.

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Photo by Marco Anelli

9 min. Marina Abramović: The Artist Is Present

The most engrossing Flickr Photostream since the official White House account started posting pics of Obama fist-pumping the world is MOMA's portrait collection of everyone who's sat across from Marina Abramović. Taken by photographer Marco Anelli as each person was with the artist, the individual images are a fascinating range of enrapt expressions, nonplussed faces, even tears--the latter so captivating they inspired their own spin-off "Marina Abramović Made Me Cry" Tumblr. Co-sign the Daily Beast's suggestion that you can lose hours clicking through this: there's Isabella Rossellini, Dexter sister/Michael C. Hall's real-life partner Jennifer Carpenter, far-flung news correspondent Christiane Amanpour, Sharon Stone, Princess Diaries's Hector Elizondo (but no Lady Gaga)--and three minutes turns into thirty.

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The interior of the hardest door in New York. All photos by Jeff Neumann.

Today, the New York Post finally fully blows the lid off the long percolating Mike's Apartment story--touted in secrecy by Gawker, its location outed shortly afterwards, and the subject of many rumors since. Now: Meet Mike Herman, 32 years old, from Rumson, New Jersey. "He favors ripped jeans and a T instead of the leather, metal and fur worn by many night-life bigwigs. If you were a young single lady, he is the kind of guy you would bring home to meet the parents," writes the Post, but then again, we already sort of knew that. How? "What Mike didn't expect," reported Grub Street in a similar feature earlier this week, referring to the original Gawker post, "was for a commenter to discover a GPS watermark in Gawker's photo of his pickle cabinet -- which led to the Village Voice blogging the location of the apartment." And what happened then? "There were people asking if they can get in," Mike told Grub Street, "people asking people that know me if they could be brought; people buzzing my buzzer; people poking around about me in the restaurant downstairs." Our fault. So we reached out, and were invited to come around on Tuesday to make amends.

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Our host, in his element

Look, when you get an email with that offer, you say yes. It's just a fact. And thus do I find myself on a bus yesterday evening with 20-odd publicists, journalists (OK!, In Style, Vibe, Entertainment Weekly, etc.), and TV/radio people, a merciful lack of ironical "LOL Michael Bolton" condescension polluting the air. There are people on this bus who are not his publicists who can tell you about his fairly recent records (including Bolton Swings Sinatra and A Swingin' Christmas); they express genuine curiosity re: his new one, One World One Love, which is out in May and features songs written with both Ne-Yo and Lady Gaga. It's playing in the bus right now, in fact, but later tonight Mike will blast it for us in his own personal home studio. But not before he piles us into his living room and plies us with Grey Goose cocktails, scallops, giant wheels of cheese, and actually quite engrossing small talk.

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