What Being a Jared Leto Superfan Taught Me About Life & Friendship
Lesson learned from a dude who used to wear mascara. True story.
Once upon a time I wore guy-liner at a concert (basically mascara for dudes).
When your parents inevitably ask, “If all your friends jumped off a bridge would you do it too?” the answer is always “No, mom, that’s stupid!” Unless, of course, your favorite band wears mascara. Then it’s okay to jump off that bridge and face plant straight into a Revlon ColorStay Eyeliner Pencil.
My parents will attest that whatever I found fascinating I imitated as a child. For a while, they had to keep my brother and I out of sewers once Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles crushed the ratings on TV. They also had to keep me from microwaving spiders to turn myself into Spiderman.
As I grew older, the heroes of my youth gave way to new heroes in the form of rock bands. When grunge was in, I tried to look like Kurt Cobain of Nirvana. But I ended up looking like one of the Hanson brothers of MMMbop fame instead, so I cut my hair and tried to look like Mark McGrath from Sugar Ray. That didn’t work either.
I think the reason people imitate rock stars has nothing to do with the men and women behind the microphone, but with the lyrics they produce that express the emotions and stories of your soul. It’s as if someone tapped into your psyche and put your thoughts to a beat. The lyrics capture the break-up you’ve endured. The fun times with friends. Loneliness. Isolation. Or belonging. And you think, “They get me. They understand me when no one else does.”
I guess that was the weird part about Thirty Seconds to Mars. The lyrics didn’t hit me in all the feels. It was the sound. In 2003, when I discovered their self-titled album (which most people don’t listen to, but I consider their magnum opus), I felt like I needed to book a rocket ship to Neptune and colonize the solar system. It was such an odd, ethereal sound I’d never heard. As a kid obsessed with sci-fi, the music got me hooked. It was a full year before I found out “that douche from My So-Called Life” was the lead singer. I didn’t care he was a celebrity, I loved the music and traveled around to shows with other people madly obsessed like me. We called ourselves “The Echelon,” which became the official name of their fan group. From there my descent into weirdness only got weirder.
“But Bro, I KNOW Jared Leto”
People derive validation and significance from those they deem having more clout than themselves. It’s part of why I have a problem with the whole self-love movement, because if you think you suck or you’re awesome, you end up in a cycle of self-loathing or narcissism. While you can tell a friend, “Cheer up, it’ll get better,” if they receive a phone call from their favorite actor or musician telling them the same thing, their self-esteem and self-worth will skyrocket because of this simple fact — someone with a perceived greater worth gave them validation.
That’s effectively what happened at a concert in my hometown.
During the summers home from college I would work construction and attend concerts. I also struggled with body image issues, and after work would go to the gym for two hours and dabble being a human petri dish for muscle supplements. So when you’re a large meathead in the mosh pit with his shirt off rocking out to Thirty Seconds to Mars, people leave you alone. When you walk up to Jared Leto and cut the signing line to bear hug him because he assumes you’ll eat him, he hugs you back.
In fairness, Jared was quite nice and even took time to talk with me. In my mind however, we had an instant connection because he commented on how fit I was. #GymBrosForever
In our circle of friends, we have a tendency to do this thing where we nod and accept our friend’s BS statements. Mine was that I “knew” Jared Leto. Sure I got a hug from him and we chatted, but as far as our level of intimacy and my knowledge of him, he was “that douche from My So-Called Life.” As far as Jared Leto knew, I was a meathead douche that cut his signing line. And a superfan. He was probably polite because he didn’t want to get mistaken for a protein bar.
Because of that one event, at future concerts when I’d see Jared, I’d act like we were old friends. “Hey man! I’m sure you see 8,000 people in signing lines every day, but you and me? BESTIES.”
I used to play the Jared Leto card like I was the coolest guy in the world, but my relationship with the band was about as skin deep as the cute barista at Starbucks I would sometimes talk to. Because I perceived a celebrity’s worth and talent as greater than my own, I saw it as a source of validation.
My pseudo infatuation was not to last, however.
Thirty Seconds to Mars skyrocketed to fame, and I became a hipster elitist. They sold out, and I abandoned my undying love for their music for more of the role of a nuanced critic. I faded from the fan group, but that stubborn need for validation and affirmation continued to haunt me.
Getting What You Want Won’t Give You What You Crave
The night I arrived on Vans Warped Tour (a traveling music festival) was one of the most surreal moments in my life. For most of my teenage and adult life, I would sing into a hairbrush and pretend I was a rockstar in the mirror (don’t lie, you’ve done it). I dreamt of meeting famous musicians and becoming besties with them. After all, Jared and I were homies at one point, right?
But suddenly my job demanded time in the concert festival arena with numerous bands I grew up listening to or was a personal fan of. Dreams became a reality almost overnight.
“DO NOT FANGIRL.” My boss, Jake, told me.
“Don’t fangirl. Right.” I acknowledged.
But I fangirled (Once. You’re welcome, New Found Glory).
Once I returned home from Warped Tour, my wife asked me, “So do you want to be a rockstar and tour now?”
The question made me pause and consider something. In life, we assume if we get the things we want, we’ll have worth, discover purpose, or live fulfilled. I’m sure there are thousands of people who would saw off their hand to tour with their favorite bands. At one point, I was that person.
But the men and women behind the music had their own issues. Touring proved to have numerous challenges. Perhaps the most important lesson learned was that friendship with a celebrity (or even vaguely knowing one) won’t be enough to feed the hole of affirmation, love, and validation you crave.
It’s a bizarre trend you can watch play itself out anywhere online. Adoring fans will beg to be noticed by their favorite author, movie star, musician, YouTube personality, or someone who tickles their fancy. The perception being that if this celebrity will notice me, then I’ll know I have worth. People believe simple acknowledgement alone will be enough to change how they view themselves.
If they’ll just notice me, then it’ll prove my worth to others.
If I was friends with them, then I’d believe I matter and I wouldn’t feel so worthless.
While we’d never say those statements out loud, we think them. The problem with those internal messages is they’re always conditional — If this happens, then I’ll be happy. But it never produces sustainable happiness.
The saddest part in our search for validation is this: we dismiss the people who love us for who we are. We negate their love and affirmation as less important than someone we don’t know. It’s as if we say, “Yeah yeah, my best friend loves me, but this temporary acknowledgement from a celebrity matters more than someone who’s been there through the difficult moments in my life.” We then have the gall to call those people our “friends” when deep down our thought processes prove we care little for their love and friendship.
So when my wife asked me, “Do you want to be a rockstar and tour now?” I threw my arms around her and said, “Hell no, baby. Where I want to be is right here… with you.”
The following year after Warped Tour a friend got me a pass to South by SouthWest. I attended the technology portion of the conference to learn new web design tips and tricks. While crossing the street in downtown Austin, Texas I smashed straight into a man wearing a black wool trench coat while looking down at my phone.
I apologized profusely, and once I got my bearings, gazed into the man’s eyes a little shocked. He, too, stared at me queerly for a minute then asked, “Have we met before?”
I grinned and told the man, “I don’t think so,” knowing full well we’d met. Then I kept walking.
The man I ran into was none other than Jared Leto.
When I arrived at the cafe I was headed to, I found my best friend waiting in a corner booth. When I recounted smashing into Jared Leto, he asked why I didn’t stop to talk and show up a little late. I told him this:
“Because he’s just a celebrity… but you’re my friend.”
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