I�m sitting in the cesspool surrounded by runaways and drug dealers. These places irritate me. Always have. Drop-in centers. What an undeserved waste of government cash. Nothing more than a feeding ground for ignorance and oppression disguised as purpose, posing as service.

I used to run a little facility for street kids about 10 or 12 years ago on Sixteenth Street and Washington Boulevard in the Capitol Hill district of Seattle, WA. It was a neat little place, a two-story house. We had five bedrooms, two washrooms, and a great front room (which was actually in the back), a large, well-lit, not-creepy basement and a kitchen Martha Stewart would have been glad to do coke and talk slow on camera in. Anyhow, I had stumbled across this house with my buddy Mark on a late night mission to get dope on 17th and Washington. This red brick building screamed goldmine. We broke in as any self-respecting squatter junkies would, after we got high. Inside we found full water and electricity. Light bulbs flashed.

A week after finding the building we talked to our bud Ryan. I was fifteen or so and Mark was fourteen. We went to Ryan cause he was seventeen and had been squatting for years. Ryan knew exactly what to do. We had been discussing plans and ideas for our own drop-in for a while. We moved into the house two weeks after finding it. We lived it out for a good month or so, and then we began moving people in off the streets.

We started with a ground rule: don�t tell the oogles, don�t tell the cops, don�t tell anybody uncool, and this space stays here for all of us. In case any squares who are not in on the lingo are reading, oogles were the lame kids � the runaways, posers, shelter rats, and the new kids. Oogles. If these kids found out they would pour in by the thousands and we would be screwed. Mark, Ryan, and I ran the show for the most part, but everybody lived there, pretty much. It was a neat little combination between a household and a resource center. There were no rules other than the obvious: don�t deal drugs; be mindful of the fact that we are running an illegal facility out of an illegally occupied building. It wasn�t like your typical drop-in. First off, you could drink inside, smoke whatever, shoot up, and eat all in one safe environment. Mark and I did Food Not Bombs and needle exchange regularly and ran the two from the house and the streets separately, and always had stock in the house of leftover food and clean outfits.

We had about five to six months of total success despite our growing addictions (Mark�s and mine). We decided it would be okay for us to start playing music. We knew we were safe, because we hung out in the front yard and porch all the time. We knew a few of the neighbors and all the rest knew we were there and supported us, or just didn�t care, or were too scared to do anything about it. We did it. We went ahead and asked the neighbors if they would allow us to hold a show to raise money to legitimize our stay. We neglected to mention the major inhibitor in our plan, which was the fact that we lied about the whole damned plan and the show was free. About 50-75 heads turned up for the show, mostly including friends, a few select neighbors, and a handful of college kids. The show went great. We made over $100 unexpectedly, met some cool new people, and got a few extra hands to help out with the house.

Shock began furling and disappointment rained heavier in the months following the show. We slipped into a draught the likes of which Puget Sound had never dreamt. Mark started to get a real bad dope habit around his fifteenth birthday; I had just turned sixteen and wasn�t doing so great, but he was up to 2 1/2 grams a day, which, for those who don�t know, is very dangerous at the age of fifteen when you are only 5�9�, 100 lbs., and a vegan. He started to get too ill to help out and it was bringing me down to the point where I was doing more and more, but only at night. Ryan out of boredom one night decided to do a little bit after being clean for a year. Oops. Strung out. It was okay though, man, we�re gonna kick soon man, really. It turned out later that two of our helpers were from Volunteers of America (VOA), an agency that claims to be non-profit, but brings in upwards of $250,000 a year. These two moved a couple of their VOA cronies in, who, after having worked at uptight incarcerating excuses for shelters, were thoroughly appalled at the way we ran things. They soon discovered our big secret � the only thing we�d spent money on in this house was the videos in the main room. They filed reports with a few of the honchos at VOA and within a week VOA had established a comfy business relationship with the oblivious owner of the house. VOA is a corrupt organization of lying, greedy, upper class white men, and it is my advice that anybody with a brain avoid them. This situation is true yet not unique. If you have a chance to visit Salt Lake City, Utah, which is no chance at all, talk to the kids there about the drop-in center.

I have a vicious hatred for lame-assed drop-in centers, about which I will certainly go on and on and on. All I can say is we lost out big due to this shit and it happens all the time. These organizations put on a front of helpfulness, but soon become painstaking pits of absolute terror for the poor saps who think they have no place to go and become a part of the system. So watch it.