Buff Boy Collin thinks his dimples and botox'ed face can get him out of any sort of trouble he might find himself in. Whether it's a speeding ticket or "accidentally" not paying for a chocolate bar at the store and having an employee stop him as he heads for the door (maybe that's for another gossip column), Collin feels he's untouchable. (And knowing his dating life, he mostly touches himself. Am I already getting sidetracked before I even start this story? Focus.)
A few years back, Collin, being the dedicated music aficionado he is, had desperately wanted to see a certain chart-topping, genre-bending, ear-blasting band. The problem, as is so often the case with truly stellar acts, was that their Los Angeles dates had sold out faster than free bagels on a Monday morning. Fret not, Collin reasoned, for the internet is a vast and wondrous place! He scoured, he clicked, he possibly offered free nudes to current ticket holders willing to give up their seats, he might have even chanted a little, until — eureka! — he found tickets for the very last stop on the tour. The catch? It was in Toronto.
Now, for most of us, this would be a simple "shrug and move on" moment. But not for Collin. Oh no. The man was committed. We’re talking over a thousand dollars committed. Flights, hotel, the coveted concert ticket itself – before even factoring in the inevitable Uber rides and the sustenance required to keep a dedicated fan going. It was an investment, a pilgrimage, a last-ditch effort to witness musical majesty. What could possibly go wrong?
Everything, apparently. Everything could go wrong.
The fateful morning dawned, an ungodly hour of pre-dawn gloom, as Collin, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (or at least, Buff Boy-caffeinated), arrived at LAX.
His plan was meticulously crafted: two direct flights were available, perfectly timed to get him to Toronto, clear customs, check into his hotel, grab a celebratory poutine, and then sprint to the arena just as the opening act (that nobody ever cares about) tuned their guitars. He was early, he was prepared, he was… promptly told his flight was cancelled.
"Weather," the check-in agent announced with the practiced nonchalance of someone who delivers bad news for a living -- and almost with a feeling of joy, have you ever noticed that?
Collin blinked. "Weather?" he echoed, his voice rising a full octave. "But… there's no bad weather in Toronto." It was a "system," she explained, a vast, nebulous, concert-destroying "weather system" over much of the United States.
The check-in area was a tableau of human despair. Passengers, their faces contorted in various stages of rage and disbelief, circled the beleaguered airline staff like vultures. Every single one of them, Collin noted, was doing what any rational, increasingly irate traveler would do: demanding to be rebooked, raising their voices, gesturing wildly with their boarding passes. But Collin knew a later flight was useless. Miss the concert, and what was the point of flying all the way to a foreign country just to turn around and come home a few hours later? It truly made no sense.
And this is where Collin’s genius (or his moral flexibility, depending on your perspective) truly shone. Instead of joining the chorus of angry shouts, instead of becoming another viral sensation for losing his cool with a customer service agent, Collin decided to pivot.
He was, apparently, standing in exactly the wrong spot when the agent next called for a passenger. (He was in the line for non-cancelled passengers who were actually boarding planes that morning.) So, with the agility of a practiced improvisational actor, he feigned confusion. He shuffled forward, wide-eyed, playing dumb, as if he’d just stumbled into the airport from a fever dream.
He presented his passport, a prop in his impending performance, though he already knew the flight was grounded. Then, the transformation began. His face, usually a canvas of mild pleasantness, contorted into a mask of abject sorrow. He lowered his gaze, his shoulders slumped, and when he spoke, his voice was a mere whisper, choked with what sounded suspiciously like… pain.
“I… I really have to get to Toronto,” he stammered, forcing a tremor into his voice that would make even Meryl Streep nod in approval. He sniffed dramatically. “It’s… it’s kind of an emergency.”
Then, the man pulled out the big guns.
The waterworks.
Actual, genuine, glistening tears welled in his eyes and began to track slow, tragic paths down his cheeks.
“It’s my mom’s funeral,” he choked out, his voice practically disintegrating into a whimper. “I just have to get there this afternoon.” He then, for added effect, looked up with an expression of such pitiful apology, as if his very emotions were an inconvenience. “There’s… there’s nothing that can be done?” he inquired, his voice dripping with an innocent desperation that could melt glaciers.
The agent, bless her weary soul, kept hammering away at her keyboard, probably immune to most emotional outbursts. But this? This was different. A funeral. A mom’s funeral. She paused, her fingers hovering over the keys, and looked up at Collin, her brow furrowed.
“What time is the funeral?” she asked, her voice surprisingly firm.
Collin, caught off-guard, fumbled. Funerals aren't usually 8 p.m. affairs, the time his concert was scheduled to start. His brain, a whirlwind of desperation and deceit, scrambled for a plausible answer.
“Uh… four o’clock,” he blurted out, then quickly elaborated, “The family… we’re having it a little later because of my… my commute.” He gestured vaguely, implying a long, arduous journey, perhaps from the depths of Mordor.
The agent glanced at the clock – not quite 6 a.m. Her fingers, which had seemed so sluggish before, now flew across the keyboard like a caffeinated hummingbird. She snapped her head up. “Your original boarding pass,” she commanded, her tone suddenly authoritative. Collin handed it over. She then bolted, yes, bolted, towards a back office.
A few tense minutes later, she jogged back, a look of grim determination on her face. “Your passport,” she demanded. Collin, hope surging through him, handed it over. She bolted back into the office.
The suspense was palpable. Was this it? Had Collin’s audacious fib been exposed? Was he about to be escorted out by airport security for emotional manipulation and potential international fraud?
No!
A few moments later, she emerged triumphant, a faint smile gracing her lips.
“There’s a flight to Vancouver right now,” she announced, her voice brisk, “and then a connection to Toronto right after it lands.”
Turns out, Collin’s agent was a logistical genius. While the “weather system” was indeed blanketing much of the U.S., she had found a loophole, a bypass, a northern detour straight up to Canada, completely avoiding the atmospheric nastiness.
She then, in a move that still astounds those who hear the tale, literally ran with Collin through the terminal, weaving through the sleepy crowds, and pulled him to the very front of the line at security. At LAX, that’s not just a time-saver; that’s an act of pure, unadulterated heroism.
Collin, ever the performer, thanked her profusely, even going so far as to give her a full-blown, grateful hug as he was waved through to the front of the security queue.
His next surprise? Onboard the Vancouver flight, he was ushered into a seat. A first-class seat. He was greeted with champagne, like a conquering hero, and then enjoyed a complimentary gourmet breakfast, all while winging his way towards Canada. The Vancouver-Toronto leg wasn't quite as luxurious, but it was still a comfortable ride, a nice perk for his "travel inconvenience."
Now, here’s the kicker, the cherry on top of this scandalous sundae: during his layover in Canada, Collin, presumably feeling a little triumphant, a little guilty, or perhaps just a little high on champagne and first-class treatment, called his mom. Yes, his actual mom -- you know, the dead one being honored at 4 p.m. And told her exactly what he had done to get to the concert.
Needless to say, Mom wasn't happy. We hear there was a rather robust conversation about honesty, integrity and the sanctity of fictional funerals. But Collin, ever the pragmatist, shrugged it off. Who cared? He was in first class, he’d had free champagne, a gourmet breakfast and he was still going to enjoy the concert.
So there you have it, folks. The legend of Collin, the Concert Connoisseur, and his cross-border caper.
It just goes to show you, sometimes, when faced with adversity and a sold-out concert, a little dash of Hollywood-level acting, a strategic tear or two, and a well-placed (if entirely fabricated) funeral can get you surprisingly far. And perhaps, just perhaps, it’s a more effective strategy than freaking out on customer service agents. (Though, disclaimer: your humble gossip columnist does not endorse the widespread adoption of this particular negotiation tactic.)
But, I've gotta hand it to him. Fucking brilliant.