Today's teens don't waste their lives like teens of yesteryear. They do it with panache and a sense of style. All they need is for an appreciative society to provide them with the proper facilities. That's where Sit And Spin comes in. They offer industrious young people a quartet of healthful (yet fun!) activities -- eating; laundering; using the lavatory; sleeping during the daytime -- that the "adult" world so often takes for granted in the course of its corporate mind-control rituals. All under one roof. I suppose one could call it the key to Sit 'n Spin's surprising popularity should that occur.
I arrived sharply at seven. I slipped out of the limousine, gave Rolf a jaunty tip of the backwards cap and breezed into Sit and Spin with an air of cool been-there. Interesting. Eatery, matching restrooms, public laundromat. Any number of spacious flat surfaces. Add a few emergency medical technicians and a Gameboy and a teen could virtually make a home here until he and his chums are picked up and thrown back into the street. Alright then. All well and good. I had more than enough material to stitch together a bang-up article. I could leave now.
But ... no. I couldn't really leave, could I? I found I was held back, by the unmistakable feeling, strong and bittersweet, of Rolf's hand on my shoulder.
Hmm. A moment of uncertainty? Well, no, actually. It seemed I still had much to learn.
You know, at first blush it would seem that the enterprising youngsters of Sit and Spin have made for themselves a self-contained, fully-interactive life-style environment complete with sights, smells and feelings, and the journalist in me couldn't wait to jump right in and gingerly expose my senses to them. Yes ... brightness and motion enough to attract the glance of the eye. Noise ... noise not found in nature ... music? Yes, and the teen in me really responded, and as my head started a-bobbin' I could really start to feel my cares and woes.
I took a step forward, mingling effortlessly. Say ... was that a WTO protester or a mime in the corner? Such persons are incapable of commanding my notice, of course, so to this day I am at a loss to explain that unpleasantness. And I initially thought I detected offensive art looming from every wall, but no, it was not art at all in my opinion thankfully, and I found it charming and even radical. I also found I did not notice any lewd behavior on the part of the young patrons around me simply by averting my eyes. Yes, I could see I was really starting to mingle. Neat times.
Rolf was peering at me from the shadows; I moved to the front counter. A clutch of charming Dickensian street skateboarder-dudes were hunkered down there over the self-service condiment bar, wolfing down complimentary cream, salt and the like. I veered around them and spoke to the apron-clad young attendant behind the counter. "Pot doesn't cause paranoia, dude ... the government just wants you to think it does," I said, reading from the prepared card. And I lifted my spectacles so he could see the wild rage in my eyes.
"Welcome to Sit & Spin. May I take your order?"
It was going well. I extemporized. "I am a teen writing a free-lance article. Now you will instruct me further."
His eyes popped open to about the halfway point. "Eat some food and wash some clothes."
As I'd feared. With an expert's dispassionate eye I gave the menu-board a cursory once-over. "As a teen, which of these 'foods' would I favor?"
If Botticelli had eschewed oils in favor of the medium of pimples he could not have rendered a more beatific smile. "Fresh steamed tomato, dude."
And suddenly there it was: sweet, sun-ripened ruby orb, piping hot. I flipped the lad a crumpled fivespot and retired to a corner booth to carefully consider my treat. And I remember musing ... oh please I do not want to eat this oh please please please god help me please help me I do not want to eat this. And when I bit into the tumescent red fruit it burst like a harmless bomb all over me. No wonder I hadn't wanted to eat it.
I strode boldly back to the counter, and as I did I happened to glance upward at the menu-board I had ignored earlier. Hmm. Whole tomato injected with fresh steam. Cherries jubilee served via medicinal patch. Zesty, fibrillating borscht. Juice-flavored dye served in a tall, cracked glass. Burgundy-soaked popcorn kernels flambé. Snuff steeped in marinara sauce. Raspberry purée -- with cinnamon and a whisper of dill -- spoon-fed to you by a bleeding waiter. Very clever, Sit 'n Spin. Untidy foods, all. You come in to eat, mess yourself, launder, return to your meal, and the cycle continues. And as I stood there staring at the young man across the counter I wanted to shout: You don't understand! I am somebody! I work for Mr. George Clark! I do his taxes, for god's sake! But he would've laughed. Imagine, George Clark hiring a teen to do his taxes.
The streak of pulpy red material down my chin and plaid cardigan made me look like I'd recently received a handsome nostril piercing, so it was with an air of inconspicuous ease that I proceeded to the laundry area. Washers and dryers, the scent of soiled leatherwear, a score of scantily-clad teens and their long-suffering moms manning the machines. I sought out an unattended machine, removed its contents, and steeled myself for the experiment at hand.
Now, it has long been my custom to keep a Robert Fulghum Economy-Pak at my workstation. Four slim volumes of wit and wisdom always nearby for those times when I need a little inspiration and am just too tired to read. That afternoon, I had taken the books and, in accordance with Mr. Clark's directives, soiled them for three hours in a gallon of brine. Let's see Sit and Spin tackle this household mess, he had chuckled.
Now, gingerly into the bowels of a great industrial washer I laid the stinking masterworks -- tomes which together comprise the greatest single body of toilet reading in all the pantheon of American literature -- plus, devilishly, the article Fulghum wrote for Penthouse. I then added my cardigan and two brand new pairs of tube socks as a control group. To top it off, a thick sugar-coating of Ultra-Power Tide for Men.
Two grueling hours later, I checked the results.
Freshness? Mmm. Smelled fresh, albeit like fresh steamed tomato.
And the texture? No. No texture. None whatsoever. Even the Bounce tissue had more. Odd.
I moved on. Now as to crispiness. Yes, quite crispy. Under no circumstances would one desire crispiness in a freshly-laundered item. I felt a wave of disgust pass through me.
Last came the readability test. Kindergarten, I found, had hardened into a solid mass. All right, understandable. But a problem. I turned it this way and that way only to be rewarded with, well, nothing. No pithy observations. Nothing even close to cleverness. I slowly shook my head and grimly admitted: this is completely unreadable.
The pages of Fire had co-mingled with those of Maybe, causing their respective anecdotes to become incomprehensible. Surely they are still wise, I thought. But, try as I might, I could not make them seem wise. What the devil was happening here?
It got worse: Uh-oh had disappeared altogether, detectable only as a fine oily mist in the air. Imagine. Two dollars to properly launder a book, then you add the cost of the book, since you will have to replace it. Damn it! What sort of fool does Fulghum take me for?
But then there was the plaid cardigan. Hesitantly, I lifted it from the machine and held it to my face. Soft, warm and fuzzy. Clean as a whistle. Unintentionally funny. Limited in its functions but fully pliable.
My god ... just like life itself. And I wept silently.
Moments of uncertainty, Fulghum? Of course ... for you, maybe. But strip away the glitter and the fancy packaging, and we find there is less substance to you than there is in a clean article of clothing. One thing's for sure: if it weren't for your nonsensical blathering, I'd be home with my family right now. Fulghum? You are not wise, sir. You are an ass.

In the cool mists of a crisp October morn, or in the clear light of a sunny, sunny day. In the knowing eyes of an old woman ... or in a child's simple smile. It's true what they say: angst is where you find it.
Especially when, with a little help, we find it in each other.
Reminds me of a little experience I had just a week ago. I had received word that my close personal friend George Clark needed to see me immediately. Naturally, I was happy to drop what I was doing to go help an old chum in dire straits. You see, I'm a Catholic priest; I've dedicated my life to helping others. And I long ago learned that -- not all the time, but sometimes -- the best help you can provide for a friend -- the most worthwhile help -- is simply being there for him, and listening.
I walked into his office. "Hello, Mr. Clark. I --"
"Sit down, Flynn. Good to see you. This evening you will pay a visit to a young-person's activities center called The Vogue. Piercing, S&M, expressive dance."
Folks who don't know George like I do don't realize he really has the warmest gaze, and I could see it now in the reflection of his laptop screen. "I --"
"Teens are in pain there, Flynn. Suffering." He stroked his chin and spoke quietly. "I want you to help them."
I nodded: of course. I've dedicated my life to helping others, after all, and ...
"Don't start fiddling with the idea that you're going to be helping them suffer simply for the sheer damn joy of it. You're a professional. These kids just don't know what they're doing. They're young and they lack direction and sometimes they act like they are completely out of control."
Say, hold on a second ... help them suffer? My word! Quite a nifty little turnabout, this. Well. I decided to play Devil's Advocate. Something I do on occasion. Makes for a livelier debate. "I --"
"Oh, come on, Flynn. THINK." He turned and laid a steely gaze on the vase to my left. "What exactly is it you do for me here at the firm?"
What do I ... do? Here I had to smile. You see, I don't really have a ... "Job Title," per se. I like to think of myself simply as a ... humble, hopeful soul, ministering to that oft-capricious congregation called Employee Morale. "I --"
"Your official job title here is Clergyman In Charge of Employee Terminations. You keep morale down at a manageable level for me. Flynn? You cause human suffering every day. This'll be a cake-walk for you." He read from my assignment summary. "Let's see. Write a trenchant, mean-spirited article ... flawless typography ... ridicule others ..." He grunted. "This is interesting. Says you are to present yourself as a teen, and that furthermore you are to continue operating as a teen until the article has been analyzed and approved." Here he chuckled.
It was good to see George laughing again! See what I mean about the power of "listening"? And I shared that laugh with him, for it was a fanciful thought indeed. Me, a teen? Hello! Not that I object to teenagers; not at all. I like them! It's just that, when I was a youngster, I never went in for the "fads", like cigarette smoking, disrespectful clothing, or ...
Mr. Clark: "Says here you never had sex or used drugs when you were a teen. But of course you've never done those things as an adult either. So you won't even have to pretend. Now go fire Buckman. And do it as a teen. I'll watch on the monitor."
And here I just had to look at him and nod my head. George Clark. Bold; a man of words. Who leads -- quietly and with grace -- by commonsense directive. Generous to a fault with his treasure-trove of facts; his imagination is as vast as his conscience is clear. He knows what he wants and what others want and how best to inform them. He cares.
Sometimes I think he is the most Christian man I know.

Maybe it's because I'm a priest, I don't know. But sometimes I find myself thinking about the life and teachings of our Lord Jesus Christ. And how, at the end -- when things started to go rather badly for him, and he didn't seem to have a friend in the world -- how completely ... I don't know. How completely embarrassed he must have been. Up on that cross and all. Everybody watching.
Well, I have had occasion to sit through many an Open Mike night at local teen venues over the years. And it pleases me to no end to note that the age-old principles -- as first set forth by Him -- of therapeutic self-humiliation are alive and well here in Seattle. And now comes The Vogue to take it one step beyond. Every evening around midnight, a ragtag army of overaged teens descends upon this Belltown Disco to explore -- in a safe, nurturing environment -- the rainbow of public miseries that define the modern teen's active lifestyle.
I know what you're thinking. But it's time that society faced facts. You can preach at us teens 'til you're blue in the face. You can warn us and threaten us and even try to make us feel bad. But it's not the 80's anymore, people. Times have changed. It's the 90's. Kids today -- let's face it -- are going to get together and suffer. You might as well help us do it in a safe and responsible manner. The Vogue offers instruction, tools and counseling in such teen miseries as: contagion; welfare reform; covetousness of the flesh and also wounding and marking of the flesh; some of the hottest local bands; rimming, fisting, felching & hitting; spirited conversations about computers and the local music scene; and the brochure also mentions that when the gas bill gets paid in the summer of '98 they'll be able to offer bad diet again.
And of course there's also embarrassment -- as mentioned above -- because the general public is invited to come view the proceedings. Then, when they discover it's merely self-inflicted suffering, they leave, bored. Mr. Clark says that's when the real suffering (being ignored by adults) begins, though he never gets to see that since of course he's already left. A maddening conundrum in the classic mold, I gather.
I visited The Vogue last Sunday at midnight. I approached on foot; even at a considerable distance, I could hear, echoing across the starless air, the sounds -- a high, swirling wail, sighs and lamentations and horrible pronouncements, accents of anger, words of suffering, and voices shrill and faint -- of a hot disco party in full swing. I was welcomed at the door by a burly bouncer; she carded me, at my insistence, examined me for indications of vermin and disease (her idea), stamped the back of my wrist with the word FAGGOT and warmly bade me enter.
I repaired posthaste to a lavatory to wash, comb, and tuck myself back in, but when I came back and looked out onto the dance floor I just had to grin ... you know that old saying, don't worry about whether your fly is unzipped if no one else is wearing pants? Many of the youngsters weren't wearing pants. The standard of attire was so radical and artistic the room seemed like a biological grab-bag. I saw some transvestites (I think they were?!) not wearing pants. There were men dressed up like lesbians; rascally gender-neutrals wearing gosh-knows-what; some of the kids were dressed up like "rock-and-rollers," complete with tattoo, costume jewelry and band smell; I saw vegetarians wearing leather; there were a number of people dressed normally who, if you watched them, you could tell were not normal. Exciting, outgoing attire. I noted approvingly the sodomites dressed in nun's habits to allay God's wrath. "Dress Code: Informal!" I said to no one in particular, and I melted inconspicuously into a seemingly unorganized group of boogeyers.
Ecclesiastical scholars have long observed how Dante, when he wrote his poem about Hell, went on at length about how awful it was but conspicuously avoided talking about how a lot of them were having fun, too. But let me remind you that there's a darker side to it. I am aware that politics is a part of being young and exuberant. In the 60's, kids fought an unpopular war and changed the world; today's youngsters gouge holes in their skin. Right on. But really, now. What with all the piercings, tattoos, hypodermic drug use and surgeries gone bad going on around me, there were enough open wounds at this Belltown funspot to poison a Blood Bank. Please, people, a little consideration.
Another interest of today's teenfolk is sado-masochistic sex scenes. At The Vogue these are provided in a special room in the back, to which I hastened, finding sado-masochism being enjoyed. For example: there was "Barbara" (real name), a Queen Anne resident (not real, interestingly) dressed up like a temptress, and Trevor, who was dressed up like, I don't know, I guess a pony, with bridle, halter and birthday suit, in fact, a bad pony, because Barbara was spanking him across the bottom with a leather riding crop. Ouch! And with each blow Trevor screamed like a banshee and reddened with embarrassment all across his bloody backside. And it struck me how very true it was, the old saying about how being a teen means waging a constant war with your better judgement, because I found I could barely keep myself from administering CPR or at the very least covering myself with a tarp or something. But instead I just watched.
After things had settled down a bit I approached the woman. "Barbara? Love your work. Listen, I was reading the collected works of Robert Fulghum last night. It's ... it's for a book report. And -- this is such a coincidence -- he's got this one book, Everything You Need To Know You Learned In Kindergarten. I'm sure he doesn't mean that literally, but it's a cute idea. And he's listed those things for the reader, all ten, in case you can't remember back that far. And -- I couldn't help but be reminded of this -- and there it is, right there at number one. You know. Don't Hit."
Well, no one's comfortable when you put them on the spot like that. And Barbara had that expression on her face that people use when they haven't heard you because, well, maybe what you had to say was not quite what they wanted to hear. Sigh. Perhaps it's wrong of me, but ... I felt sorry for her. Imagine. Whip a fellow for a while, then bathe his wounds in lye. That's no way to catch a man.
Time continued to pass in the way that it can; eventually, exhausted, I found myself sitting quietly off to one side with my thoughts. Oh, the swirl of lights and noise and confusion. A lot had happened. And as I breathed deeply I found myself gently in the embrace of bittersweet remembrance, reflecting on the events of the quarter-hour just transpired. I had seen new things ... and it had really blown my mind. A lost soul moving wildly for want of medicine, while just beside him a smug fop sported a diaper he did not need. I had seen a professional songsmith hurl himself from the stage, risking serious injury, only to receive -- as if by the forfending of Heaven -- a decorative piercing instead. Thuggery, avarice, sloth, biliousness and a lack of sensitivity in my waitperson. Caps worn every which way but right. And the colors! The room had been as a moving mosaic -- in memory almost like a liquid cathedral window -- of chafes, scrapes, blisters, bolluses, lesions, cankers, and enough herpes sores to cover a small pizza. So many new experiences. A jeweled ring of hand-hewn pewter had, as if beckoning, by a glint caught my eye from its cushion of empurpled glans, while its gaunt bearer, poised as an aerialist upon the brink, dappled the alabaster urinal cake with a stream of the purest crimson. I actually saw that. None of this is mentioned in Scripture. Wasn't sure how to feel.
I am aware that there are those amongst you who -- with the best of intentions -- wonder, in these vibrant times replete with so many offerings good and true, why anyone would choose to be a teen, but let me remind you: we did not choose anything. We were born this way. And I began to weep. I wept not because I was frightened and alone but because of what I perceived to be the spirit, the prevailing mood, of this place. I could feel it, a tangible thing. It was not merely "suffering." It was not simply "angst." It was much, much more than that.
It was joy. That's right. Pure, unbridled ... joy!
Now that's just plain wrong. Sick. Wrong. I felt like vomiting. I suppose I should have vomited. But they probably would've thought I was vomiting out of joy. I had much work to do.
I marched outside to my van and rummaged in it for a time. Then I returned defiantly to The Vogue, with a manila envelope and with comedian John Keister of TV's "Almost Live," who Mr. Clark had positioned in the van for me.
Keister and I strode in with an air of purposefulness; immediately the youngsters began to crowd around him excitedly and pretend not to recognize him. I said, "Not him, my friends. I am the one who will suffer." I handed the envelope to Keister; it contained a monologue especially prepared for these proceedings by Clark Services. I then removed my blood-soaked tunic and clerical collar and, exposing my bared back to the man, declared: "Read."
Keister opened the envelope, then hesitated. I glared at him. "I could have you fired," I hissed. "Read!"
Keister: "The auto-safety device called The Club has a new celebrity spokesperson. It's Tonya Harding!"
What?!! "UNHHH!" I recoiled for a moment, but stood fast. My mind raced. Maybe I shouldn't be such a good listener right now, I told myself. But no: that's the coward's way. "Again!" I gasped.
Keister: "Local police today finally captured Big-foot, and were surprised to find it was actually Elvis in a gorilla suit!"
The teens howled unknowingly. Me: "Mmmrph!" Elvis? Good God! "Rude hit," chortled one lost youth. My skin burned, toiling against the burden of a sudden fever, and my glands began to swell. I could sense Keister gesticulating spastically in the way that he does, and I forced myself to look. "Mmmrph!!"
Keister: "Health officials trying to determine the source of a strange smell in the water north of Magnolia have found the culprit. Turns out it's Ballard."
B-Ballard? Surely not! "You must be joking!" I said through clenched teeth. Imagine it for yourselves: using a perfectly harmless Seattle neighborhood as the butt-point of your badinage. You wouldn't do that. It would be madness ... a pearl of blood trickled from my left nostril; through the dull roar in my ears I could hear the winsome peals of teen laughter. Baffling. Were they laughing at me, to make me feel bad? That would tie in with the whole theme of suffering. But no. They were laughing at the jokes ... because they believed them to be amusing ones. And this laughter I recognized as a desperate cry for help.
Me: "You poor young fools. Don't you get it? It's not funny!" Not funny? It was way beyond merely not funny. But how could I explain that to them? I could only try to show them. True suffering is not something you're born with. It has to be learned. "Read on!"
Keister: "Because he has had oral sex there so often, President Clinton has decided to rename the Oval Office the Oral Office."
Man! That was bad comedy. BAD! A duller pain now, but deeper, befitting the finer nuances of that stinker. And ... I started crying again, right in front of everybody. Great.
And now Keister began to hit his stride, working his young audience into a shrill, animalistic frenzy of comedy pleasure. And as the pain bore down on the depths of my vigour and I lost all sensation in my extremities, I took note of a surprising clarity to my thinking, a translucence, if you will. You know, teens have a reputation for hating their lives, and of course the lives of others. Usually we're just teasing. But right now I was really feeling it. Hate. And I didn't like it. Against this hate I forcefully aligned my Christian obligations and my love of my fellow man ... even -- dare I say it? -- my love of my fellow teens. I was doing this for them, after all.
Collapse was imminent; Keister's comedy stylings were now as a distant murmur to my depleted senses. And ... my thoughts turned to our Lord Jesus Christ. I could see Him there, upon the cross, bleeding, during His crucifixion. And as I felt myself begin to slip the coils of consciousness, an epiphanous moment: into my mind came luminous words, thoughts which I knew that He, too, might well have been thinking as the darkness closed in:

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