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.