Foster Kamer
November 13, 2009
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.

