I know why the caged bird DOESN'T sing (cause she missed her flight)

I turned twenty-two last week. It seems a pretty harmless age: drinking in Canada is old news: voting is, well, who votes anymore anyways; drinking in the States is one year done, etc.

For my birthday I received nice clothes, money, books; all very nice things and I appreciate them very much. The shirts are beautiful. The money works well in the consumer market. The books are readable. My mother even offered a carton of cigarettes (a brand of my choosing) as a present, to hasten my demise. I declined that offer.

One gift that I did not expect in the least was a ticket to listen to Maya Angelou speak at the Orpheum, with Dee Daniels, Vancouver jazz vocalist, as the opening act. For the first few seconds, looking at the ticket, cuing up my mind's encyclopedic entry for "Angelou, Maya" and coming up with a reference to The Simpsons and the vague notion that she wrote Hallmark greeting cards, I wasn't quite sure that I knew what to say. So I said "Thanks... This will be good for me."

As the week progressed towards the day of the show, I felt a sense of contentment burgeoning. I was gravid with an expected life change: a relic of twentieth century literature was going to speak to ME. The wisdom that would imbued upon me would be vast and in turn I was destined to show others, my friends, the light that Dr. Angelou had found.

Twenty-odd miles and four dollars for parking later, Monday evening, I arrive at the Orpheum to find this note tape to the doors: "Dr. Maya Angelou's event is canceled due to inclement weather. . . "

So now I am back home, same as ever just with less money, remembering that it's not others who are to change us; her deep booming voice (I assume it is similar to James Earle Jones' stentorian howl), her racial background, her flowing dresses and cylindrical headdresses, all these things would have impressed me to some degree.