by David N. Krough

After a year of fighting in terrible wars and living through a personal, tumultuous hell, I decided that it was time to take a new route this fall. Freak the kids out, go batty-ass nuts and balls-out crazy.

The thoughts started swirling in my head as I was gliding my pickup into one of those roadside charity car washes for some local cheerleading squad. “Oh dear, I'm afraid you girls are getting all soapy and wet!”

Seriously though, I usually don't go for the underage set since that unfortunate incident with the beer, Trojans and Tiparillos at the Plaid Pantry. I'm not going back to jail.

Secondly, most of those kids can't even get into the strip clubs with me.

Nevertheless, I have decided to follow in the footsteps of some the greats: Rodney Dangerfield, Adam Sandler in “Billy Madison,” that chick in “Just One Of the Boys” and Jon Cryer in “Hiding Out.”

It is a scheme so sinister in nature, so devious, depraved and vile, that if I am caught, BarFly staff and readers are advised to disavow any knowledge of my existence.

I have re-enrolled my aged self in high school. As a senior, of course.

I think my little plan is foolproof. Enough of getting carded for smokes, R-rated flicks and booze. Hell, if I must be cursed with such fetching and youthful charm at my advanced age, then there's got to be some way to exploit it.

It was easy enough faking the birth certificate to register. A deranged middle-aged friend of mine agreed to let me use his home as my address and play the part of my Uncle Jimbo. I'm a troubled kid, you see, and my parents thought it best if I moved out of the house for a few terms, transfer schools and hang out with a better crowd.

And I'm not going to try and pull any scholarship scams like that 32-year-old woman who got popped up in Vancouver. No way, baby. I'm going full-bore teen-angst. I'll work a fast food joint at night. I'm poor, trashy and full of bad ideas. A one-way ticket to NOWHERE!

Uncle Jimbo is going to take me on a back-to-school shopping spree at Hot Topic.

Soon, at an anonymous public high school on Portland's east side, I will be strolling the halls of remedial academia with my mantra playing itself over and over in my head: If I knew then what I know now.

Think of it. All of those insurmountable dilemmas and dramas of puberty one faces for the very first time, sex, drugs, authority. Now I'm armed with ten times the life experience and failure!

So, what's cool with the kids these days? Or should I say, tha kidz? Eminem? Britney? Shakira? Too hard to figure out. These trends don't follow any quantified, logical pattern.

Ah, here we go. According to an article in last month's Oregonian, punk rock is making a comeback! Perfect! And the new Rolling Stone, along with MTV News, declares that “Rock Is Back!” Garage rock will save us all! This should be easy considering I've been wearing pretty much the same outfit for the past 15 years anyway; the Chuck Taylors, ripped, rolled-up Levi's and black T-shirts. Just put a Tony Hawk skateboard under my arm. I'll probably need to pick up some more Manic Panic, though.

For once I'll fit right in! My timing is just like downtown, sistah!

I will move effortlessly amongst them. The bitter old cur swarming about the litter of pups — undetected and undercover.

The mysterious stranger in the black leather jacket with a checkered past. Rumors will fly. I will be too foreign and threatening to attract any attention from the jocks and do-gooders. And the chicks will whisper and giggle as I pass them in the halls. My “JD” to their “Heather.”

We'll conspire in study hall for the big rock 'n' roll weekend. Luckily, Uncle Jimbo travels. A lot. And I have the key to his liquor cabinet. Oh, the things we'll do. The long talks on the phone about absolutely nothing — what to wear, who to date and who smells bad. The detention, the pranks, the sleepovers! Wah wah wah!

So if you don't see me around the scene for awhile, you'll know why. I'll be plunged deep into my parallel adolescent dimension, doing this research as a service to the public and for personal catharsis. I'll lash together a garage band with some fellow rejects, and we'll call ourselves The Teen Imposters. Watch for us at the talent show.