The strangest thing about Johnson Wen getting tossed from Lady Gaga’s Brisbane concert this week? That security actually recognized him before the show started. That tiny shred of awareness makes this incident progress from predictable punchline to genuine wake up call in the story of Australia’s favorite fame chaser nicknamed Pyjama Man.

I was at Katy Perry’s Sydney show when Wen pulled his first major stunt earlier this year, though I didn’t realize it at the time. During California Gurls, some blur of pastel fabric vaulted over barricades near the stage before being rugby tackled by four guards. The crowd cheered, Perry kept singing, and security swept the human cannonball away like it was part of the choreography. We all assumed it was some preplanned bit between an attention hungry concert goer and an artist who understands spectacle. The fact that this was becoming Wen’s signature move clicked only when he repeated the trick at Usain Bolt’s Olympic final.

Before we go further, let’s dissect the nickname because it matters. The moniker Pyjama Man stuck not because Wen wears actual sleepwear during these stunts he favors athleisure onesies but because it softens his intent. It sounds quirky and harmless, like some Canberra dad’s X Factor audition. When Michael Bublé croons Santa Baby, that’s pajama energy. When a grown adult charges A list celebrities like a deranged bull at Pamplona, that’s not cute sleepytime rebellion. That’s terrifying.

Our collective refusal to take these breaches seriously until someone gets hurt reveals entertainment’s dangerous blind spot. We think about celebrity stalkers in extremes. Either they’re Mark David Chapman types who end up in true crime documentaries, or they’re overenthusiastic fans shoplifting Taylor Swift’s used napkins on eBay. The middle ground where Wen operates has become increasingly normalized, from streakers at sports games to tabloid thirsty fame seekers crashing red carpets. We treat these as victimless crimes because stars have security, right? Until they don’t.

Remember how fast Sabrina Carpenter’s whole vibe shifted when an audience member jumped onstage during her Coachella set? One second she’s belting Feather, the next she’s backing away like a startled deer while security piles on a guy who absolutely smells like Axe body spray and entitlement. That visceral fear in her eyes haunted me for weeks because it revealed the illusion of safety. We never think a performer as guarded as Ariana Grande could be reached by randos until some blur in black pjs materializes beside her during a movie premiere.

This brings us to Singapore’s Wicked premiere, where Wen turned what should have been a magical night into a Fyre Festival level security fail. Watching footage of Cynthia Erivo shield Grande like a human barricade while glitter rained down everywhere was so chaotic it felt surreal. Nobody waves their arms saying “I’m mentally unstable!” louder than interrupting a multimillion dollar movie promo to violently hug Glinda the Good Witch. But here’s where the hypocrisy stings worse than Ozian flying monkeys: We clapped when Erivo intervened, yet didn’t question how Wen got past multiple checkpoints in the first place.

That’s the hidden rub in all these incidents. Promoters and venues keep treating each breach as isolated rather than recognizing patterns. Wen’s Olympic dash didn’t get him arrested. His Perry prison break earned a night in lockup at best. Singapore actually jailed him nine days before deportation, and we assumed that would curb his antics. But less than three weeks later, there he was on Instagram crowing about being “booed by early fans” at Gaga’s show. When consequences become content, punishment fuels the beast.

Let me get personal for a hot second. Between my old job covering music festivals and my current gig reviewing film premieres, I’ve been rushed by exactly four crowd crashers. One woman at Sundance mistook me for Timothée Chalamet, which was hilarious. Two were teens testing barricade flimsiness, easily contained. But the fourth was a middle aged man screaming about demons while charging Simu Liu. It took six very buff security guys to restrain him, during which his elbow connected with my rib cage. The ache lasted weeks, but worse was watching Liu’s press smile freeze into something hollow while publicists shooed journalists away. These violations cost beyond repairs.

Pyjama Man’s antics prey on two flawed assumptions. First, that celebrities forfeit personal boundaries by choosing fame, which is victim blame nonsense nobody applies to other professions, meaning I don’t get to lick Gordon Ramsay’s spatula because he cooked on TV. Second, that publicity stunts are harmless fun. But here’s the dirty secret of copycat behavior: Every fan who watches Wen get eighty thousand new Instagram followers after jumping barricades thinks maybe they could do it smoother. Faster. More viral. Only instead of charging Hugh Jackman, they’ll tackle some impressionable opening act artist who can’t afford a security detail.

The simplest solution would involve actual industry accountability. Nobody needs a pair of Beats headphones stolen from Beyoncé’s rider. Concert protocols should treat known disrupters like Wen the same way airlines treat drunk passengers flag them before they board and refuse service. That Suncorp Stadium security recognized him pre show proves this is possible without draconian measures. Create a shared database of offenders convicted of event breaches, train staff to spot them, and stop monetizing their chaos by granting media interviews.

Until then, we’ll keep seeing this dangerous dance. A disrupter does something reckless for attention. Brands DMed him collaborations if my sources are right, Wen already got merch offers. Street style photographers request pap shots. The cycle restarts until someone gets hospitalized. Remember when Justin Bieber fought that clubgoer who yanked his hat off from behind? Or how Princess Beatrice needed stitches after a fan leaped onto her balcony? We’re millimeters from worse at all times.

Cynics might argue these incidents fuel celebrity mythology. Madonna getting tackled during her Rebel Heart Tour became a “warrior queen” narrative. Rita Ora incorporated a stage rusher into her choreography. But Grande’s quiet horror in Singapore footage confirmed what artists rarely admit: That split second when a stranger breaks through isn’t exciting. It’s primal terror replaced by performative calm when the cameras keep rolling. The aftertaste of violation lingers for months, adjusting how stars interact with crowds, trust their teams, or do simple things like walk to their car.

Pyjama Man’s tour of disruption will continue while his antics earn more attention than his silence. Maybe he’ll try Vladislava Galagan next, the Ukranian gymnast who went viral for her competitive focus? Perhaps he’ll brazen his way into Stephen Colbert’s writers room. But eventually, either venues will stop enabling him or tragedy will force change.

Here’s my plea to fellow entertainment lovers: Stop cheering the chaos. Boo louder than those Brisbane fans when security drags disrupters out. Demand venues upgrade their protections. And for god’s sake, stop buying merch from randos who treat human beings like viral marketing props. The line between fandom and frenzy shouldn’t be crossed in pajamas or otherwise.