My So-Called Leto: 30 Seconds to Mars-Struck

I was not supposed to meet Jared Leto.

I wasn't supposed to be in that picture. I wasn't supposed to be charmed by him or his band, who I'd never listened to before this. I definitely hadn't intended on spending a day with the three of them in downtown New York, followed by paparazzi, rabid teenage fans, and a procession of managers, publicists, and stylists, for a feature to go in our November issue. And I definitely didn't set out to think -- or write -- any of the following things about Jared Leto, the actor, the rock star, the heartthrob, the celebrity. In my life, Jared Leto had existed in exactly the context I needed him to, and for whatever it's worth, I think it's safe to assume (or will be after this), vice versa. I was fine with it, and it didn't need to change.

But it did.

And it started, like so many stories, with a problem. And the problem was that my editors fucked me out of a day-trip to Philly.

Re-Route’d

It’s a feat to work at a magazine right now, period. But to work for one that’s not owned by a massive corporation, that’s surviving, and whose overlords have faith in our editorial team to give us as much creative freedom as we have is, to be modest, nothing short of awesome. We get paid on time, too. And I don’t take it for granted, or at least I try not to. It’s not like I deserve or necessarily need to go to Philly—or anywhere—on BlackBook’s dime. And I still knew how lucky I was when, in a pitch meeting for our November issue, we decided on a few stories, among them, one of the ones I’d tossed out there: an itinerary for a hip-hop band from Philadelphia. Let’s call them The Routes. They’re pretty great, and I was pretty excited about pitching them and having it received so well.

BlackBook’s “itinerary” feature is a simple back-of-book item for the magazine. Get a subject, get a city, have shiny people show us their favorite places. Get pictures, quotes, an intro, edit, four passes, done. Hung’s Paul Iacono did one in September, while rapper Rye Rye’s Baltimore itinerary in August, and Patrick Wolf’s London was June-July. They’re easy, eye-catching, practically write themselves. You can even get on the phone with the subject and make it obnoxiously easy, but you typically get better stuff when you do it live, and by that, I mean you get to leave the office. For readers, writers, and whoever’s rising fame is being capitalized on, you can’t get much further into the brainless-pleasurable territory of the Celebrity Feature Matrix than that, and you don’t need to worry about there being a scene. Hell, even for Gossip Girl’s Penn Badgley, they sat around and ate burgers at Shack Shack. I didn’t even know LonelyBoy was there until I went for lunch and bumped into the piece’s writer, assistant editor Cayte Grieve. It was a low-profile affair. Again: easy.

Walking out of that edit meeting, it was already planned out in my head. I’d take the bus to Philly, hang out with this incredible, legendary hip-hop band for the day in a city I know nothing about, talk to these guys whose work I’ve admired for years, to people who have a proven record in regards to saying interesting things about the one thing they do in life—make music that hasn’t always been incredibly popular, but that’s always been very, very well regarded—take the bus back, and there: I’ve got an awesome feature and a daytrip to Philly. Ridiculous. Awesome.

So imagine my surprise when, walking back to the office that night to pick up stuff I’d left behind for post-work drinks around the corner, I ran into assistant editor Ben Barna, and we starting talking work. I told him how psyched I was for Philly. He laughed. What? “Oh, yeah, I don’t think you’re gonna be doing that anymore. They didn’t tell you?” Huh? Whatthefuckdoyoumean, “tell me”? Who are “they”? “We booked Jared Leto.” Jared ... Leto? “Crazy, right? Night!” Ben padded off into the night towards Union Square, and I stood on the corner of 19th and Broadway laughing. Because he had to be kidding, right? My disbelief was this: (a) I don’t know any media people without some sense of mischief, and Ben’s no exception, so, naturally, this was a joke, because (b) Jared Leto, that Jared Leto? My So-Called Life teen heartthrob Jordan Catalno, Jared Leto? Sure: Requiem for a Dream, Fight Club, Girl, Interrupted, American Psycho. And he’s got a band who I think are pretty famous, and he’s a celebrity as far as I understood. He’s in tabloids, right? But is he still acting? Which movies? He did play Mark David Chapman in that movie with Lindsay Lohan, and it got shit reviews (never saw it). Also, the last Jared Leto tabloid item I remember is him maybe dating Lindsay Lohan and that time he tried to kick Elijah Wood’s ass at some obscure MTV awards show. Who wants to jump Elijah Wood? Gollum? And doesn’t his band wear guyliner? Guyliner! No offense to Leto’s band, but does anybody at BlackBook listen to them? Just because the guy’s famous doesn’t mean he’s not “off-brand.” Finally, (c) we just got out of that fucking meeting four hours ago! FOUR! No. No way. They’ve gotta be joking.

There’s a line in cheerleading’s epic moment of cinema, Bring It On, when one of the antagonists brilliantly opines, “This is not a democracy, this is a cheerocracy.” Well, this is an editocracy, and it had functionally subverted me. I actually had to hide smiling at how utterly impressed I was with the cutting efficiency of the process when, in the great tradition of editorial bullpens, I threw a passive, underhanded tantrum, generally directed towards features editor Willa Paskin and senior editor Nick Haramis the next morning. Reenactment:

Me: So, wait, you guys just decided this when?
Willa: When we booked him.
Me: Which was?
Willa: Last night.
Me: [Laughing] Nice! Jared Leto! Jordan Catalano, Jared Leto? Ha. Well, does he have a movie coming out?
Nick: Kinda. It was at a film festival ... Mr. Nobody?
Me: [Laughing harder] No, wait, so, what, this is for Jared Leto’s band? They have a record coming out?
Nick: Yeah, they’re really popular.
Me: Oh yeah? You like ‘em?
[Beat]
Me: Wait, you guys aren’t joking about this? Well, you know, uh, The Routes ... Jared Leto’s band ... The Routes ... [Makes “scales” with hands]
Willa: It’s done, Foster. You came up with that idea five minutes before the meeting! Like you were that attached to it. Whatever.
Me: [Pause] And? [Indignant] I was! [Pissed.] This is bullshit!
Willa: Next time, buddy!
Me: This is bullshit.

Two days went by, and while I’d call it “keeping an open dialogue,” my editors would probably say I “bitched about it relentlessly.” Which wouldn’t be entirely inaccurate. On the third day, I feel BlackBook content czar Chris Mohney (my boss) and Nick Haramis standing behind me. “So!” Nick smiles. “Jared Leto!” Yeah, what about him?, I grumble. Something was up. Especially because Mohney was grinning, too. The kind of grin from your boss that implies forthcoming editorial sadism. “You’ve got so much to say about him,” Mohney laughs. “So how ‘bout you take the itinerary? It’ll be great.” There are two things I can do in this situation: one involves sticking to my “guns” and a meaningless opinion, keeping my “dignity” by passing on the assignment. The other involves a byline or two, a day out of the office, and a chance for me to show Mohney, Nick, and Willa that I can talk shit, call their bluff, keep my cool, and hit a line drive or two with this thing. Not only that, but I’ll still think it’s bullshit when we’re through. Jared Leto’s Jared Leto. I’m a pro. This is a cake-walk. A total win-win situation for me.

Hell yeah, I’ll take it. This is gonna be awesome. Right. Famous last words, before your “cool” is lost, and your cutting-edge profiling of line-drives become pop-fly after pop-fly. The next Wednesday, at around 11am, 30 Seconds to Mars, and their infamous singer, Jared Leto, had arrived.