Something here seems very, very wrong

Scenes FROM A COLLEGE visit:

First stop, the older daughter’s apartment, which is remarkably clean, given that a college student resides here.

“Where do you really live?” I ask.

“Right here,” she says.

Fat chance. There is no booze in the fridge. There is no tacky, beery film to the linoleum. Not even a week-old pizza carton in the kitchen trash. Is this the daughter we raised?

In our occasional visits to college, I have begun to sense that there are really two colleges here, the one the parents see and the college they pull out as soon as our visit ends.

“OK, cut,” some stage manager screams when the Honda Odyssey disappears down the freeway. “Bring back the fire dancers and the kegs.”

I have no evidence. Not yet. Just the creepy feeling that all is not what it seems. And that the tuition check I write every three months goes directly to Smirnoff.

We STOP AT THE JOB fair just outside the campus library, with dozens of little white tents and a lot of freebies to attract recruits -- yogurt and fresh fruit, what passes for breakfast these days.

“Do you have a resume?” one recruiter asks.

“Not really,” a student answers.

Way to go, champ. Trust me, there should be no rush to get out there in the real world. Think of it as 40 years of 8 o’clock classes. Think of it as 40 years of finals.

The truly observant student has seen Mom or Dad after a long day at the office. Or, worse, at the end of a cross-country business trip to meet the new management team.

The savvy student realizes that if you do well in the real world, you’ll rise within your company until it is sold, at which point you’ll have to grovel for your old job and bad-mouth the former bosses. Truth will be discouraged. Pension funds will vanish. Retiree medical will be a relic of your father’s era. This will all happen before you’re 30.

So duck those job recruitment fairs. Grab your backpack and come with us. To the unreal world: a San Diego mall.

“IN THE LEFT-TURN

lane, get in the far right,” the college girl advises.

“Huh?”

“As soon as you turn left, you’re going to want to turn right,” she explains.

That’s me in a nutshell. As soon as I do one thing, I want to do the opposite. After 20 years, my older daughter really knows me.

“Sometimes I use the valet,” she says as we pull into the giant mall.

OK, so she doesn’t know me after all. We pull into the parking garage and walk a mile and a half to the shops.

First stop: the clothing store for girls with no fannies.

“Here, Daddy, hold these,” the little girl says, piling several pairs of jeans into my arms.

“And these,” she says, handing me some filmy skirts. The skirts are like the cellophane off a box of Salems. They weigh less than an idle thought.

This store is actually called “Abercrombie Kids.” But technically, it should be called “The Clothing Store for Girls With Too Much Money and No Rear Ends.”

Everything here is $30, except the stuff that is $40. The customers all look like Britney Spears. No, wait. Those are their moms. The daughters look like pencils with ears.

“Over here, Dad,” the little girl says.

Next, she takes me to a busy shop called “Build-a-Bear,” which lets you take an empty bear carcass, stuff it and accessorize it. The store is packed. Apparently, assembling your own teddy bear is pretty appealing to a lot of people.

“See, Dad, you can even print up a birth certificate,” the little girl says, pointing to a row of computers.

Into this world, the college students will soon march, full of energy and their own bright ideas. What new things will shopping malls offer in the year 2030? Six-hundred-dollar jeans and sofas built from scratch?

Take your wildest guess.

Back AT THE APARTMENT, we are still looking for clues to what really goes on down here when we are gone. While I watch the Padres on TV, the new puppy gnaws on a book. That’s odd. A book on a college kid’s coffee table?

“Fifty of the Finest Drinking Games,” the cover says. The puppy chews lustily at the book as if tasting some butter-rum fingerprint. Two weeks in college and already he’s developing a taste for the hard stuff.

“Give me that,” I say.

“No,” he says.

“Yes,” I insist.

I flip through the book. Here finally, in purple type, the evidence we’ve sought.

“One person starts by saying ‘fuzzy duck,’ and play passes to the left.”

Or, in another chapter:

“Touch the nose of the person on your left with your right hand, saying ‘nosy, nosy.’ This may be followed by cheeks, foreheads, etc.”

No, it may not. I refuse to subsidize such hedonism at an institution of higher learning. Not with tuition going up. Not with this job market.

Besides, if anyone needs a drinking game, it’s her mother and me, married 20-odd years, each one odder than the last.

Trust me. I’ll return the book in the fall.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.