Byron is more than the bass player extraordinaire in the Regulars. He has a clairvoyant streak wide as his ancestral homestate of Texas. Bring him your problems, questions, or anxieties and let him wash them away with his homegrown wisdom. Watch for his replies, updated often!
SEND BYRON A QUERY HERE
 DEAR BYRON:
I have a problem that I hope you can resolve. I'm currently living in
New York. I'm from Pittsburgh, but my roommate's from Texas. All he
ever talks about is his State of boot-wearing, John Rocker-loving, NRA
card-carrying red-necks. It's always, "Well, in Texas we don't do them
there things like that," or "Back in the best State in the Union we's
got a name for people like that." Now I consider myself to be pretty
open-minded and tolerant, but this guy is driving me crazy. What can I
do?
PITTSBURGHER IN A PICKLE
DEAR PITTSBURGHER,
You are experiencing a reaction common among non-Texans. It's called an
inferiority complex. Don't feel bad - hell, if everyone were lucky enough to
be born in the Great State of T-E-X-A-S, it might as well be Indiana or some
other God-awful place. Now, don't get me wrong, I think it's important to
have colonies, and the 49 colonies of Texas do their job admirably; they pay
their taxes, elect their little "government representatives" and the whole bit, and I'm not
suggesting we change a thing... Now where was I? Oh, yeah, your roommate.
My advice is to agree with whatever he says. You might learn something.
DEAR BYRON:
Here's my problem. I've finally moved to Austin after 14 years in New
York City and it is clearly a far superior experience. Unfortunately
all my friends still live back East, and I never get to see them
anymore, much less play gigs with them. I think they should all move
down here with me and live on charro beans and migas. They insist on
staying in New York and playing at the Rodeo Bar. Any advice?
C.F. STEAKS
DEAR SEÑOR STEAKS,
We park our cars in the same garage, Senor Steaks. I, too have migrated to New York City from the Garden of (Good) Eatin' and I know how you must feel. There comes a time in a man's life when he has to decide whether to stay in his paradise or to wander out among the heathens in order to change their misguided ways. Obviously, I have chosen the latter. My advice to you is to saddle up your iMac, log on to expedia.com, and rope a few round-trip tickets for your friends back east to visit the land of charro beans pronto. Giddee-up!
DEAR BYRON:
Who cuts your hair? How can i get a similar looking do?
JEALOUS IN GERMANTOWN
DEAR JEALOUS,
You're not alone. they say 'the hair makes the man' - well, actually, they usually say 'the clothes make the man', but if the man's got no clothes, he'd better have some hair or he's gonna freeze his tuckus off. Anyway, there are several ways you can get a similar 'do' to mine - well, actually, i don't want to give that kind of info out on the web, or there'll be millions of little 14-year-old byron-look-alike hackers running around throwing the international business world into chaos! I guess my best advice is to ask your girlfriend to cut it and hope for the best. Good luck.
DEAR BYRON:
What's the inspiration for "Dear Byron?"
WONDERING IN WACO
DEAR WONDERING,
I guess it's just my little way of giving something back to those less fortunate. Kind of like the way Justice Scalia gave the presidency to poor, underprivilegized George W. Bush. All Haile!
DEAR BYRON:
What's that little ridge between your nose and your upper lip called?
THE ASKER IN ALASKA
DEAR ASKER,
That little ridge is known as a "beekeeper." I believe the origin of this
term came roundabout 1872, when a very intoxicated general Robert E. Lee
approached a local tavern mistress, pointed to this part of his anatomy and
slurred out the soon-to-become-immortal phrase, "Gimme a big fat schloppy
kish on mah beekeeper whydontcha, honey?" General Lee then proceeded to pass out cold on the floor, only to awake several days later with a terrible pain in
the "kangaroo catcher."
DEAR BYRON:
I have a problem. My grades are in the toilet, my parents are always yelling at me, and I have to start applying to colleges soon. Help! How can I get my life back in order?
PROBLEMATIC IN PONTIAC
DEAR PROBLEMATIC,
I've got this buzzing sound in my ear. I thought at first that it might be a mosquito, but now I've identified it as the tiny violins that started playing as soon as you started whining about all your problems. For God's sake, Problematic, pull it together. I've got a cousin in Texas that has eight kids, two mortgages, and collects more pink slips than Victoria's Secret. But do you hear HIM whining? Guess it just goes to show you that blood will out. Thank God I'm a Texan.
DEAR BYRON:
My wife and I have a little disagreement that I'm hoping you can clear up. She insists that the first settlers in the Americas were the Incans, while I'm certain that it was the Mayans. Which one of us is right?
DEADLOCKED IN DAYTONA BEACH
DEAR DEADLOCKED,
You know, they say that we'll never correct our mistakes if we don't learn our history. At least, that's what I hear. As someone who rarely makes mistakes, I can only say that I'm glad that I learned my history to prevent the kind of misguided stuff you're giving me here. The first settlers in the Americas were John and LoriLee Patterson, who first parked their doublewide near Longdrop Falls in the future great state of Texas roundabout 1488. Of course, the trailer had to be pulled by wild bison, but ever-resourceful, Old Man Patterson roped a whole team of 'em in the better part of a morning, and he and the wife were sipping cocktails on the porch by sundown.
DEAR BYRON:
I have a little problem that I'm hoping you can help with. My husband claims that my feet have an "odeur pas gentile." Now, usually the fact that he's speaking french to me would be a turn-on, but when I pulled out my high-school french dictionary to look up this loving testament, I was less than pleased. I say if someone loves you, that person should love everything about you. My husband doesn't agree. What do you think?
CHOLERIC IN COLORADO SPRINGS
DEAR CHOLERIC,
Everything worthwhile takes some getting used to. Do you remember the first time you tried brie? Smelled like dirty laundry, didn't it? And how about reading Shakespeare? All the thees, thous, and whatsits made for a quick snooze back in high school, but now you walk around quoting "King Lear" while fixing dinner, I'll bet. What your husband needs is a gentle introduction to the delights of your bi-pedal perfume. Try wringing wet dirty socks into his coffee in the morning, then maybe subtly "misplace" your running shoes in his underwear drawer. If done correctly, he'll be hiding the foot powder in no time.
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