Hold the presses, put down those lukewarm lattes and gather ‘round. There's another Buff Boy scandal brewing -- pun definitely intended.
Tanner is the offender this time -- almost legally! (The good thing is he's a ginger, so nobody would wanna be bunk mates with him in the slammer.) It happened in Montreal -- literally an international incident. Worst of all: it was while he was doing work for Club Buff!
We head to Canada for this story. Land of maple, beavers, poutine and, well, those are the only cliches we Americans know. Oh, and it's French. But this, dear Buff buddies, isn't about getting lost in translation.
It seems his recent jaunt to the charming city of Montreal, usually a source of thrilling tales of daring-do, took a rather... beepy turn.
Now, for those unfamiliar with the magnificent enigma (I first accidentally typed "enema" and considered leaving it but then thought, "Nah, better change it.") that is Tanner, let me paint a picture.
Our man is the Buff travel writer, yes, but not of the dainty, cultural-fête-attending variety. Oh no. Tanner thrives on adrenaline. He’s the type to casually mention he “climbed a rather steep rock face blindfolded before morning coffee” or that his “unwinding meditation involves tidal-bore rafting through the rapids.” His idea of a good time involves harnesses, helmets and a distinct lack of anything breakable.
Museums? Bless his cotton socks, the very word sends a tremor down his spine. He finds them, to put it mildly, "like a particularly quiet library but with more velvet ropes and considerably less Wi-Fi."
So, imagine the collective gasp over morning Buff coffee in Buff Loft when it was revealed that Tanner’s latest assignment, a whirlwind media tour of Montreal, included… a museum visit. A museum.
Our sources (a very reliable, albeit tiny, bird named “Hummingbird Harry” who often perches on an office plant) confirmed that the moment the itinerary landed in Tanner’s inbox, a noticeable pallor descended upon his usually ruddy, outdoorsy visage. Rumor has it, he actually muttered something about "preferring a root canal to a guided tour of old pottery."
His primary excitement for Montreal had revolved around conquering indoor rock-climbing walls, soaring through the forest on ziplines, and, naturally, catching a high-octane soccer game. A bastion of quiet contemplation and priceless artifacts was, frankly, an anomaly he was ill-equipped to handle.
And so, the stage was set for what can only be described as a masterpiece of unintentional slapstick... that involved security!
Tanner, ever the intrepid reporter, arrived at the Montreal museum for what was touted as an exclusive private tour. Now, here’s where the plot thickens faster than last week’s forgotten office coffee. (Usually Collin's mug.)
Tanner, bless his earnest but utterly unprepared heart, hadn't exactly prepped. No leisurely afternoon spent poring over art history texts, no quick Google search of "museum etiquette for bewildered adventurers." His strategy, we’re told, was pure Tanner: wing it. Consume all information thrown at him, ask questions as they arose, and then, presumably, write a report titled "Why I'd Rather Be Zip-Lining."
The private tour commenced, led by a PR representative from the museum – a true saint, if ever there was one. The museum, by the way, was closed. Yes, you read that right. No bustling crowds, no general public to witness the impending artistic carnage. Just Tanner, the PR rep and a building full of incredibly expensive, incredibly fragile and apparently, incredibly loud art.
Early indicators of Tanner’s unique approach to cultural immersion emerged almost immediately. While others might maintain a respectful distance, admiring from afar, Tanner, in his boundless enthusiasm for information, had a tendency to treat every exhibit like a particularly intriguing boulder he might need to scale.
Our sources report that it began subtly. A brief "beep" here, a quiet "bloop" there. The PR rep, ever the professional, would offer a gentle re-direction, perhaps subtly stepping in front of a particularly ancient vase while continuing her eloquent description of brushstrokes. Tanner, oblivious -- not noticing the beeps... ever -- would simply sidestep her, leaning in closer, his brow furrowed in intense journalistic scrutiny -- all the while not giving a shit about what he's looking at.
Then came the crescendo.
As the tour continued, the beeping escalated. Still, Tanner not connecting dots, recalled he remembered hearing it from time to time. It wasn't just a polite little warning anymore; it was a full-blown electronic symphony of alarm. BEEP-BEEP-BEEP! Squawk! BEEP-BEEP-BEEP
Tanner, still utterly engrossed in a painting that depicted, perhaps, a very old and stationary cow, would lean in, point a finger (and we mean point – not gesture, but a direct, accusatory, almost poking finger) and mutter, "So, the cow... what's its existential crisis here?" And with every pointed finger, every slight lean, every inch he gained on a priceless Renaissance masterpiece, the alarms would erupt like a startled flock of very expensive robotic Canadian geese. (French-Canadian geese?)
The PR representative, bless her patient soul, started adopting what our intel describes as "the interpretive dance of subtle intervention." She'd move with improbable speed, placing herself between Tanner and a potentially compromised artifact, all while maintaining a beatific smile and reciting historical facts at an increasingly rapid pace.
Her walkie-talkie, meanwhile, had begun to squawk with alarming frequency. It was a cacophony of urgent, rapid-fire French, which of course, meant absolutely nothing to our monolingual museum menace. He probably just thought it was part of the museum's atmospheric sound design.
Finally, during a particularly enthusiastic interrogation of a millennia-old sculpture, where Tanner was reportedly so close he could have counted its pores, the alarms reached a fever pitch. The walls themselves seemed to vibrate with indignant beeps. It was at this point, amidst the electronic wailing, that Tanner finally paused, turned to the PR rep, and, with the innocent curiosity of a child who just short-circuited a national grid, asked, "What is that beeping sound?"
The PR rep, a paragon of composure, took a slow, deep breath. "Ah," she replied, a faint tremor in her voice. "That, mon ami, is an alarm. It signals to security that someone might be… compromising a piece of art."
A lightbulb, dim but present, flickered in Tanner’s brain. "Compromising?" he repeated, a frown replacing his investigative intensity. "Like, breaking in?"
"Or," the PR rep continued, her gaze subtly shifting from Tanner’s suspiciously close proximity to a vase to the alarm on her walkie-talkie, "getting a little too friendly with the exhibits." She then, with the grace of a seasoned diplomat, explained that the constant squawking on her walkie-talkie wasn't a particularly chatty security guard discussing their lunch plans, but rather a frantic, bilingual dialogue between central security and floor personnel. They were, she explained, speaking in French. And they were, evidently, very concerned.
In fact, Tanner noticed security briskly entering one of the rooms and his tour guide sort of waved at them as if, so he thought, to say hi. Wrong. They were responding to a potential threat -- or so THEY thought.
They were clearly baffled. Security cameras throughout the building would have shown the small entourage moving through the hallowed halls, but the constant alarms must have convinced them that either the executive was in on the most audacious art heist in Montreal history, or the building was simply infested with very aggressive, very curious and alarm-triggering mice.
The irony was not lost on our sources: the museum was closed to the public, making the alarms even more jarring. Closed days are probably the most boring days for security since none of the cameras would be showing any motion at all -- except when that asshole American is visiting.
Security, imagining a sophisticated break-in, must have been tearing their hair out, only to find Tanner, pointing emphatically at an ancient tapestry, just trying to "get the story." Again, not just pointing, nearly an inch away from the piece.
The tour, thankfully, eventually concluded without any permanent damage to either the art or Tanner's reputation (though we still debate the latter). He emerged, blinking into the Montreal sunlight, perhaps a little wiser about the delicate dance of museum etiquette. We hear he filed his report, which, despite his misadventures, was surprisingly informative – likely because he had to get so intimately acquainted with the subject matter.
So, the next time you see Tanner, perhaps offer him a wide berth when he’s near anything labeled "fragile." And maybe, just maybe, suggest he stick to the ziplines. Because while our adventurous Tanner might scale mountains with ease, conquering a quiet museum proved to be his most challenging, and certainly most alarming adventure yet.