Friday Night Underground

Friday night, 1989.

I would have been wearing skin tight, ripped at the knee jeans, slouched socks, ratty old Reebok sneakers and a black tee shirt, likely with Metallica or Alice Cooper on the front. On my fingers were three silver rings. A skull, a Harley Davidson eagle and marijuana bud. Around my neck was a thick silver chain that held a small peace symbol in the middle.

My curly hair would be teased; my black eyeliner would be caked on thick. I'd have a pack of Dunhill cigarettes sticking out of the pocket of my faded blue jean jacket, and I would be carrying my black leather purse, complete with fringes and a silver bullet. Inside would be my lighter, my eyeliner and some cash. Dig down deep to the bottom and you’d likely find my hash pipe, some rolling papers and evidence of weed that had spilled from a baggie or two.

I'd be at a party in someone's basement, hanging out with my friends. Long haired guys with leather jackets, girls with big teased hair, wearing black spandex pants and tee shirts cut just below their chest. Posters of Jim Morrison and Sebastian Bach were on the walls, a black flag with our favourite bud proudly displayed, covering the window.

Guns and Roses or Motley Crüe would be blaring from the cassette player, at levels almost too loud to allow us to talk. Every once and awhile a song we all loved would come on, stopping the conversation as we all sang along.

We’d be drinking Canadian Club and Coke from plastic cups, or some Molson product right from the bottle. You’d always make sure you took a close look at your bottle before you took a sip, for fear that someone might have used it for an ashtray while you weren’t looking.

Someone would light a joint, whether it was weed or hash, and it would be passed around for everyone to share. If there was lots to be had we’d have bottle tokes, one or two of us brewing, the rest of us enjoying taking the bottle to our lips, inhaling the smooth smoke deep in our lungs.

As the night progressed we’d all be getting more than a little stoned, much more than a little drunk. Some people would be getting quiet, lying on the floor, finding a corner to sit in. Others would be getting rowdy, the girls dancing around the room, hoping to get some boys attention. The guys getting aggressive, play fighting and talking really loud, hoping the girls would think they were cool.

Inevitably, someone would throw up, someone else would cry, and some couple would get into a screaming match in the hallway. There would be the one guy who wanted to drive home, despite being too drunk, and a big drama would ensue. Sometimes the party would spill out into the street, but that would never last too long before a neighbour would complain, or a cruiser would happen by, warning us to take it back inside.

I met some awesome people at these parties. Jen, whose basement was a favourite hangout, Christine and Chantal, both of whom I adore to this day. There was Dave and Andrew, who I had my share of adventures with, and Scott and Cleatus, the guys who hung out under the stairs.

Sometimes the parties would break up around 1am, sometimes you'd find yourself waking up with the sun coming in the room, having passed out on the floor. And no matter what, despite the headache and the sore lungs, you'd always leave with some great memories.

I am sure there are many of us who look back on those nights fondly, at least the parts we can remember. It was the best part of being 17.