Throughout the roughly 20 years that I’ve ran wild and looked pretty on the streets of New Orleans, I have accumulated a great deal of stuff. The previously pristine floors of my Biever dorm room became obscured within hours of moving in what I refer to as my “treasures.”
Feet away from the few text books lined on my bookshelf sit three coffee makers, two telephones, piles of outdated periodicals, several clothes that look as if they were once part of Rick James’ wardrobe and countless utensils and dishes on loan from restaurants around the city.
Among these knickknacks sits my ultimate treasure, a deceptively ordinary-looking object with powers beyond your wildest imagination – a nametag. “BYRON, Food Service Supervisor, Saint Louis Zoo.”
I consider attaching it to my shirt and then decide against it. Byron wouldn’t be caught dead writing a column that has historically lauded Flavor Flav as a role model.
You see, through some Arabian Nights-esque magic, putting on this nametag turns me into Byron.
People rarely understand this, always commenting, “Wow , Justin, you’re really friendly, intelligent and classy today. What’s going on?” While they don’t comprehend that if this is merely Byron communicating through my body, I’m certain that my acquaintances and friends prefer Byron. And why shouldn’t they?
Byron first became the food service supervisor at the zoo after watching Dr. Sanjay Gupta’s CNN special report on America’s disturbing eating habits. He wanted to ensure that visitors to one of the country’s premier zoos were adequately fed.
He doesn’t live from paycheck to paycheck. He works hard, and when he’s done doing that, he volunteers with orphans in Nicaragua, rebuilds the Louisiana wetlands and relaxes on the beaches of Thailand.
I, on the other hand, would prefer to have a friend who currently owes Capital One $100 in overage charges, has never been to Nicaragua, who couldn’t give a flip about the wetlands and relaxes on his front lawn with a bottle of Australian Gold and a sprinkler.
Byron prefers dignified parties held in parts of town that aren’t named Chalmette, a place where people clasp their scotches and bourbons as they dance the waltz or the foxtrot.
I’d prefer a friend from Chalmette who drinks bottom shelf liquor and does “the stripper” – the only dance he knows.
But Byron and Justin could never co-exist, primarily because the types of people who adore him despise me. They see me as one of those people on the Maury Show but with a slightly larger vocabulary and considerably better teeth.
Just what is so wrong with the Justins of the world? As society further condemns running wild and looking pretty, I pose this to America’s Byrons: When your household appliances break, as they’re bound to, guess which Chalmation has an additional four or five that he won’t loan to you?
