Raise and Win With A Pair of Jacks

There are a lot of things about people you can tell just by looking at them. You might look at my bushy, uncombed hair and tell that I am lazy. Indeed, after towel drying my hair, I don't give it a second thought.

On the other hand, there are certain things about people that can't be told from appearance alone. Who would have guessed that O.J. Simpson was insane? In a similar way, people find it hard to believe I am an identical twin.

"There are two of you walking around?" is a common response. Jokingly, I hope. But it is true, my brother and I have identical DNA. There might only be seven minutes between our births, but our personalities are worlds apart.

Providing that bit of information brings about a plethora of questions, so I figured I would address some of these misconceptions.

No, we don't finish each others' sentences, and we didn't go to each others' classes when we were in grade school. We simply strived to be different.

When my brother and I look back on our childhood photos, we sometimes can't tell the difference between the two of us, which provided a reason for why we decided to grow so far apart from each other.

Before my twin and I went to college, we made everything a contest. When we were younger, we would wrestle - more like beat the crap out of each other - just to see who wouldn't have to sit in the back seat of the van.

Because of this long-standing competition, we grew to dislike, maybe even hate each other. Our relationship was as healthy as a custody meeting with a divorced couple - awkward at best.

We intentionally didn't do the same things, for the sake of being different. My mother would blame herself, but it isn't her fault.

It is just natural for two people who are genetically similar to try and be as different as they can. It allows us to form our own identities, which we did.

I stayed in California for college, and he got the good-neighbor discount on his tuition from University of Nevada, Reno. He wanted to drive a big truck, while I am satisfied with almost scraping the ground in my sports car. He chose to major in business, while I chose to live a life of poverty with journalism.

He likes his waffles on the crispy side, while I enjoy them closer to fluffy. His favorite car at the moment is the astonishing Bugatti Veyron, while I think the best in the world is the 806-horsepower Koenigsegg CCX.

He bought a yuppie Mac, but I have a powerful PC.

He roots for the Wolf Pack, while I cheer for the Spartans.

We have our differences, and we always will. But when it comes down to it, trying to become different people made the both of us grow closer. And in the same way we ended up liking some of the same things, from trying to be different.

Our tastes in music are somewhat identical. We both have brunette girlfriends - and no, they are not twins. And even though we don't cheer for the same college football team, we managed to be in the same conference. He has the bragging rights this year.

Even though we probably wouldn't admit it, we don't mind the other being around, dare I say enjoying the other's company. So relax, Mom, we turned out all right.

As for the question of who is the evil twin, we haven't reached a conclusion. But he does have a T-shirt that I accept as his confession.

Column for December 9, 2008. It is my material. © 2008

Journey to the Center of a Woman's Purse

It is a week away from the beginning of finals and I can't think of a better time to stop complaining about the work I have to do. But I can't - I am the self-proclaimed king of procrastination.

The trouble is some people see the things that I do as a waste of time … like sitting on the toilet. I read somewhere (probably on the can) that over a lifetime, the average man "wastes" 394 days sitting on the throne. I think that most men would agree that those 56 weeks is a time to be cherished.

On the other hand, the eternity spent waiting for a lady to find something in her oversize handbag is not. While most women carry one, it confuses me beyond comprehension as to why.

The time spent looking for things that have fallen down below the amassed clutter is a true waste of time.

If I suspect that a friend of mine keeps her cell phone in a purse, I will just write an e-mail. I fear that 40 minutes of a Bon Jovi ringtone while she rummages around for her phone would end up with a few pissed-off people or a smoldering cowskin clutch - talk about a "Blaze of Glory."

I can't figure out why ladies need more than one purse and why most have 20. I was once told that it had something to do with the seasons, so I guess that means there are 16 more that I don't know about.

It is also said that a pocketbook can make or break an outfit. I happen to think that no piece of tanned cowhide will help the worst of fashion faux pas. But what do I know? I am just a man.

I am not familiar with the contents of these cumbersome carryalls, so over the weekend, while my sister wasn't looking, I took a peek inside her bag.

Floating on top of the ocean of hodgepodge was the mighty iPhone and some members of the makeup family. But as I dove under the epipelagic zone, I encountered a pair of large sunglasses and a school of used chewing gum wrappers. I was tempted to explore deeper into the abyss but retreated, fearful of losing a limb or being sprayed by an estranged pepper spray canister.

Had I ventured deeper, I may have come across currency from a country that doesn't exist anymore or a prescription for a medical ailment that cleared up years ago.

I know things tend to get lost in bags of females, so I keep waiting to read interesting headlines in junk-news tabloids.

"Paris Hilton finds bones of past pet Chihuahua in Prada purse." Or "Secret al-Qaida hideout found in Laura Bush's handbag."

I can hear the ladies screaming right now, "We just want to be prepared!"

Well, that is all fine and good, but do you need cough medicine for kids you haven't had yet, or eyeglasses for astigmatism you haven't been diagnosed with? Just ask a man.

I don't leave my house without my phone, wallet or key ring, all of which can fit inside the pockets of my jeans. The great part is that I still have an open pocket to hold a rolled up copy of a newspaper. That comes in handy when I am spending quality time on the commode.

Column for December 2, 2008. It is my material. © 2008