Happy birthday Mr. Potato Head, my brother -- not to imply they are one in the same. Their birthdays just fall somewhat near each other although as individuals they could probably be no more opposite. Mr. Potato Head is rotund, dense and sports a monocle whereas my brother is svelte, keen and invested in contact lenses.

Their ages are pretty far apart as well. Mr. Potato Head turned a big 5-0 this year. That’s half a century of kids poking stick figure legs into a spud. My younger brother is 28.

That alone threw me for a loop. My "kid" brother is 28. When I announced this at work, our 18-year-old intern gasped in horror. His jaw slacked to the office carpeting as he exclaimed "Does that make you feel old?"

"No," I said. "It makes me feel wizened, wonderful and gorgeously mature." I pretty much meant it, too. There is no way I would want to relive my youth -- even age 28.

Not that we grew up horrid, my brother and me. It’s just that I am primed to move onward and upward with my life. I also got to thinking how life might be differently for myself, my brother -- even Mr. Potato Head -- if we all grew up in New York City.

We might not know how to drive. In Michigan it’s imperative you know this. The nearest 7-11 is a mile away; the nearest bus stop, six. We learned, legally, too, neither stealing away in Dad’s minivan in the dead of night nor hoisting ourselves behind the wheel of a tractor at the age of five like cousin Eddie in Peoria.

We might not have been so polite. Not that we are such sappy sweet folk, anyway, but we generally do not push people or cut the line (except at Ted Nugent concerts).

We would like New York pizza. I cannot speak for my brother on this but I know he prefers Michigan Chinese food. This is due to his long-ago visit when we ended up with hair in our green tea, a menu only in Cantonese and entrees that resembled anemic worms. We should have been tipped off when we saw the restaurant was named "Fuk Dem Tourists." Michigan pizza is thick and piled with at least 14 toppings per slice. We don’t call them "slices" either -- they are called "pieces." The only pizza in New York that we recognized was from Dominoes which is consistently hideous in any region.

We would use the vernacular. "Soda" would have never been called "pop." We wouldn’t even know what "Faygo" was. We would know to ask for "cold cuts" on a "hero" at the "bodega" -- not "lunch meat" on a "submarine" at the "only store that stays open past 8 o’clock." I would not have mispronounced "Houston Street" or "New Utrecht Avenue."

We would be familiar with local customs, too. I would never have ordered ham on my cheese omelet at the Second Avenue Deli.

We may not know how to swim or ride a bike. It’s amazing how many people raised in New York don’t know how to do either, especially since New York is practically floating in the Atlantic. Growing up we had plenty of man-made swimming holes called beaches. Don’t forget Michigan’s motto is "The Great Lake State." I don’t know what to make of the bike thing. Perhaps people were not as fortunate as I was and didn’t have the purple, beat-up cycle from Bobby Kreger on which to practice.

We may not love our neighbors. Not that we loved our neighbors much, but at least they were far enough away that we could like them. On the other hand, we may have found that close proximity would have made us warmer and more open to the human race. And Wrigley’s spearmint gum grows on trees.