I had a roommate in college for whom the term "higher education" pretty much described the way he went off to class. "You're going to wind up flunking out and living in your parents' basement," I often warned him. I was wrong, though — his parents didn't have a basement.

What I've long since concluded is that college comes along at the wrong time in life. Why, I often wonder, did my parents spend so much money to pay for me to go to college when I was in my 20s and already knew everything? I should be in college now, when I'm not only painfully aware of how much I don't know, but I'm also disinclined to drink anything that makes me think I'm a good dancer.

My son is at school right now, and I like to drop in on him from time to time to see where my debt is going. He lives with two other boys I call Mutt and Jeff, and it is Jeff who opens the door when I knock.

"Mr. Cameron! Hello, we just now found out you were coming," Jeff greets, "but that's OK because our place is always this clean."

"Yes," Mutt responds, leaping to his feet from where he was reading a textbook, "when we're not studying, we're cleaning, that's us."

My son comes out of his room, closing the door tightly behind him. "Wow, I thought I had like another 15 minutes," he mutters.

"Good to see you too, son," I say.

"Would you like some orange juice or water, Mr. Cameron?" Jeff asks anxiously.

"That's all we have because it's all we drink," Mutt adds.

"I'm good for now," I tell them and go to sit down.

"Not there!" my son blurts. "That chair can't move, or the plugs drop out of the wall."

"OK," I say, moving to the couch.

"The couch is sort of still wet, something got spilled on it last week," Jeff tells me.

"And we were cleaning it, cleaning it again, that's all we do," Mutt agrees.

"Clean and study," my son corrects.

"Of course. Study. Study," Mutt and Jeff chorus, Stepford-like.

I learn a lot about my son's college life over the next few hours. The only working TV is in Mutt's bedroom, but our enjoyment of the game is hampered by the fact that he's hooked up all things electrical to "The Clapper," so every time there is an exciting development, we applaud, and the thing shuts off.

A tour of the tiny place ("that's the coat closet, don't look in there, that's Jeff's room, don't look in there, that's the other bathroom, don't look in there") leads to the kitchen, where the refrigerator door is held in place by rope on one side and duct-tape hinges on the other. They proudly demonstrate how they can open it with only two people, one to manipulate the ropes while the other holds the thing up to prevent too much stress on the duct tape. Inside there is nothing but a single bottle of orange juice, unopened. I applaud their ingenuity, and Mutt's TV pops on.

The front door bursts open, and a young man enters. "Dude, there is like going to be a party tonight at the Sigma Chi house ..." he trails off when he sees my son's stricken look, then glances at me, eyes widening. "... A party we should not go to, because they might have, uh..."

"Intoxicants," my son suggests.

"And women," Jeff adds.

"Not that we'd be interested in the sort of women who'd hang out with, um," the new boy fumbles for the right word, "intelligents?"

"Intoxicants," Jeff corrects.

"Right. No time for that sort of nonsense, this is college, " my son says mournfully.

"So how long will you be staying with us, Mr. Cameron?"

"Just a couple of weeks," I say. Their eyes bulge, and I slap my son on the shoulder. "Actually, just a day trip, this time." Jeff is so relieved he sits down on the wet couch.

Driving home, I decide that I was wrong: I should not be in college now.

I'm just not that fond of studying and cleaning.

To write Bruce Cameron, visit his Website at www.wbrucecameron.com. To find out more about Bruce Cameron and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.

COPYRIGHT 2008 CREATORS SYNDICATE INC.

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