Making It Perfectly Clear . . .

And now comes the complaint of a mistaken man. The telephone rings in the night. “I just loved your column on the death penalty,” coos the voice on the other end. This is an unintended mockery, for the column the caller admires so much was the work of someone else. It was the work of Jones, Bob Jones.

This is not the first time. Since I began writing this column in November, readers frequently have confused me with Jones. For balance, they also have confused Jones with me.

Let it be noted here and now that I am not Bob Jones, or Bobby Jones, or Robert A. Jones. I have never been Bob Jones, Bobby Jones or Robert A. Jones. Four times a week we share this spot, Jones and I, but unlike Evans and Novak, or Siskel and Ebert, or Bonnie and Clyde, we are not a two-headed team. Jones writes his stuff, I write mine--alternating egos.

My column runs on Tuesdays and Fridays and is called “On California.” Jones’ column, entitled “Coast Letter,” appears on Sundays and Wednesdays. Simple, no? It is amazing how often people confuse us. By now, we both flinch at any compliment, fearing once again it will turn out to be misdirected praise. Conversely, fielding public complaints about somebody else’s columns can be terrific sport. There is no need to defend, concede or apologize. You counsel the offended parties to go soak their heads in a toilet, and hang up.

The confusion stems partly from the fact that Jones wrote the “On California” column for three years. Late last year, his title was changed to “Coast Letter.” No one knows just what that means, except that Jones no longer is required to drive Highway 99. He stays home and writes what’s on his mind. At the same time, having completed a stretch in lower-middle management, I was bequeathed the “On California” column. Since only mothers read bylines, many people apparently missed the switch.

It also might be suggested that we encourage confusion by being too much alike--a couple of white males, too old for baseball careers, too young for early retirement, with similar backgrounds and similar views, bookends. Such attacks are ageist, racist, sexist and beneath the dignity of anyone who understands what it is to be a true Californian. Besides, they’re a little close for comfort.

The fact is we are different. I was born and raised in Fresno; Jones grew up in Memphis, Tenn. I live in a humble Pasadena bungalow; Jones mails his “Coast Letter” from Studio City, another would-be Westside swell who couldn’t afford the other side of the hill. I’m the guy who wants an old pickup; Jones is one happy yup in his Peugeot.

We also don’t agree on all the California issues. Jones, for example, has argued that farmers’ water should be given to cities; I’d rather eat tomatoes and rice than tract homes. Jones came out swinging recently in support of springtime; I haven’t formed an opinion yet on that one.

In truth, Jones is a friend and he writes like a dream, and for the first few months I was flattered by the confusion. He hated it, of course, and over time it began to wear on me as well. I worried that one day my wife would put down the newspaper, look deep into my eyes and gush, “Nice column . . . Bob.”

In nightmares, I see the face of Jones staring back at me in the bathroom mirror. Maitre d’s escort me to their best tables, only to chirp, “Have a nice meal, Mr. Jones.” I develop a Tennessee twang and throw around words like bushwa, whatever that means. I write columns calling for the repeal of Proposition 13 and the restoration of the Queen Mary. Horrible stuff.

The solutions seem easy. First, I’m not sure why we even need confusing column titles. Then again, maybe if I understood the subtleties in headings like “On California” and “Coast Letter” I would have advanced to upper-middle management. They could run our pictures--no, that’s not a good idea. They could move us to different spots on the page, or develop distinctive logos.

Perhaps you have a better solution. As long as it does not involve transferring me to Orange County, I recommend you call the editors and pitch it. Raise hell. Power to the readers. Don’t take no for an answer and all that. By the way, tell them Jones sent you, Bob Jones.