For the purposes of this post, I need to start with something I experienced at ComplexCon Las Vegas this past November. It was probably the most memorable interaction of the entire weekend (for me). Not because anything big happened, but because nothing did.
There are really only four characters in this story, with me as the observer. I won’t name any of them, because the names might expose people that don’t want to be exposed. But it’s also not super important. So.
Person 1 is one of my best friends. He’s an actual tastemaker in sneakers. Not loud, not chasing attention, not particularly out there. If you know him, you know him. If you don’t, you probably still wear (or want to wear) shoes that he’s designed without actually realizing it.
Person 2 is a B-list real-world celebrity who has somehow become an A-list sneakerlebrity. You’ve seen him. You’ve seen people orbiting him. He knows exactly what kind of attention he gets in sneaker spaces.
Person 3 is also a B-list or even C-list celebrity. I had never heard of him before this moment.
Person 1 and I are walking together through the convention center, just hanging out and taking it all in. About forty feet ahead of us, I notice Person 2. He’s surrounded by people, absolutely basking in it. Glowing. Thriving. I clock it, think nothing of it, and keep walking.
A moment later, Person 3 approaches us. Apparently he and Person 1 go way back. They fall right into conversation, the kind that doesn’t need warming up. Straight to the point. I’m standing a few feet off, mostly observing.
That’s when I notice that Person 2 notices this interaction.
He looks up, sees Person 3, and immediately feels the need to insert himself. He walks over with a few stragglers in tow and interrupts mid-conversation. With exaggerated politeness and obvious false humility, he says to Person 3: “Hey man, I’m really sorry to do this, but I need you for a minute.”
Person 3 looks him dead in the eyes, says nothing, and turns right back to his conversation with Person 1.
They finish talking. Calmly. Fully. Until the conversation reaches a natural stopping point. Person 2 just stands there, awkwardly, waiting. I could tell how uncomfortable it was for him in that moment and the groupies that were standing around him pretending not to notice. And judging by how often I’ve seen him chasing the same kind of attention on social media since, whatever lesson was there didn’t stick.
I doubt anyone but me even remembers this interaction. As a matter of fact - I brought it up to Person 1 the other day and he had no recollection of it. But I remembered it. I will always remember it. And one day, on my death bed, I may just reveal who Persons 1, 2, and 3 actually are (or if you really want to know, just DM me on IG and I’ll probably tell you assuming you’re not the opps).
Rewind about eight years.
I’m at a local consignment store to talk with the owner about fifty-plus pairs of shoes I have on consignment. I hate coming into this store because it almost always feels like a waste of time. The owner is easily distracted. He loves conversation. He loves stories. He thinks I’m there for the relationship. I’m there for my money.
We get partway into the process when a customer walks in. And I put “customer” in quotes because, over time, I’ve learned that customers at this shop aren’t really people who buy things. They’re people the owner distracts himself with. People who want to be seen talking.
In my experience, this is quite common in consignment shops.
Within seconds, the conversation veers completely off course.
One guy starts a story that ends with, “Yeah, you know that dude, his handle is @xyz, he’s got like 50k followers.” Before that sentence can even settle, another guy jumps in: “Nah, but do you know this other dude, his handle is @abc, he’s got like 53k followers.”
And that’s it. That’s the rhythm. Handle. Follower count. One up. Handle. Follower count. One up…Mr. Me Too in the flesh. And EVERYONE is Mr. Me Too.
This goes on for a good thirty minutes. No shoes are discussed. Only handles and follower counts. No money changes hands. Everyone is just trading proximity points, one-upping each other with increasingly meaningless credentials. I’m standing there quietly losing my mind, watching a room full of grown men participate in a silent agreement that this is how value somehow gets established.
Everyone knows the guy isn’t going to buy anything. Nobody notices I’m even in the store because I have no interest in this type of conversation. And nobody breaks the rhythm until another “customer” walks in. Shoot me.
Fast forward.
The other day I’m scrolling social media and I see a clip of a famous rapper at a sneaker event. He’s somehow convinced a guy to sell him a pair of shoes for an embarrassingly low price. The rapper starts with a lowball at about a third of market, then asks the seller to knock another hundred off the top.
In exchange, he offers “a million dollars worth of promo.”
The seller looks almost embarrassed (or is it prideful?) into the camera and agrees.
The seller looks to be about my age.
I cringe. Not because it’s surprising, but because it’s so clean. So efficient. Celebrity proximity converting directly into real money leaving someone else’s pocket. And the craziest part is that it’s framed as generosity. As opportunity.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen it, and it won’t be the last.
Then there’s another clip. An internet famous jeweler. At a sneaker event. Being interviewed. Explaining, once again, how he personally started yet another trend through his proximity to yet another celebrity. Same cadence. Same confidence. Same assumption that everyone watching is nodding along.
I hate it. I genuinely hate it here.
But that’s when it finally hit me: I don’t think this kind of half-rate sneakerlebrity adulation exists in any other hobby…so what is it about sneaker culture, specifically, that makes people fall over themselves to prove their worth through their proximity to sneakerlebrities?
When did we stop caring about the people that did the thing for the person wearing the thing? Or even the person designing the thing?
I don’t actually think this is about the sneakers. This is about the commerce wrapped up in it. SneakerCon isn’t paying these dudes to talk about sneakers - they’re paying these dudes to give the impression they’re conducting commerce. But it’s all a sham. We all know these sneakerlebrities that show up at sneaker conventions are being paid to be there, and they’re likely given a budget, because the chance that someone can actually be in proximity of these sneakerlebrities will bring more customers through the door.
If it weren’t, the videos would be about the shoes. About design. About history. About why something mattered, or how it worked, or where it came from. Fandom has curiosity baked into it. It asks questions. It slows down.
But what we keep seeing is different. It’s not fandom. It’s…the power of celebrity.
It feels like insecurity dressed up as enthusiasm. Or money dressed up as credibility.
Because…I don’t know. Maybe…when you don’t trust your own taste, you borrow someone else’s. When you don’t know how to explain why you like something, a sneakerlebrity can validate it for you. And when you’re not sure where you stand in a culture, you look for shortcuts that make your position reliant on others.
Celebrity does all of that work for you.
It removes the burden of being an actual fan. You don’t need to understand the shoe if someone ‘important’ wore it…or…someone ‘important’ wants it. You don’t need to have a point of view if you can point to your proximity. You don’t need confidence if you can borrow validation.
That’s why the conversations I keep overhearing don’t sound like curiosity. They sound like a pissing contest: Handles. Followers. Sightings. DMs. “I met.” “I know.” “I was there.”
It’s not about the object. It’s about the record that “I was there.”
And once you see it that way, a lot of the cringe starts to make sense. The lowball offers framed as opportunities. The grown men lingering at booths hoping to be noticed. I’ve been there. The crowds and camera crews following every other person. BUT WHICH ONE IS THE ACTUAL CELEBRITY? The endless name-dropping in stores where nobody is actually buying anything.
What of this is about the love of sneakers? It feels like it’s more about proximity.
Sneaker culture didn’t create this impulse, but it turned out to be a perfect mirror for it. Because sneakers sit at the intersection of money, status, nostalgia, and visibility. They’re expensive enough to signal access, common enough to be relatable, and public enough to be seen.
Which makes them an ideal stand-in for identity when someone doesn’t quite know how to articulate their own. You can’t do that with other collectibles (this is where you prove me wrong with a picture of Logan Paul wearing a million-dollar Pokemon card around his neck)
I don’t think most people are trying to be impressive. I think they’re trying to be safe. Trying to belong. Trying not to be dismissed. Trying not to feel like the odd one out in a room that keeps changing the rules.
But insecurity is loud. And fandom, real fandom, is enthusiastic, but also quiet.
It doesn’t need witnesses. That’s why some of the most respected collectors in the space don’t even participate in social media.
I keep thinking of Bobbito Garcia looking for someone to tell him what was cool. I keep thinking of myself thinking that I need some sort of outside validation for what it is that I personally am attracted to. It’s wild. As personal as sneakers are - to me - it makes me wonder…where would sneakers be without social media?
Maybe we’ll tackle that topic another week…or…maybe we’ll take the long way around.