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.