I’ve been going to Motown Mondays at the Legionnaire pretty religiously lately, and I have to admit that I have it down to a science. I like Motown Mondays because it’s on a Monday night, which means that the weekend amateur hour crowd is scant. Instead, all the hardcore alcoholics, partiers and industry people show up to cut up the dance floor and take shots. And it gets packed. With a pretty diverse crowd, too. And by diverse, I mean, there are hella hood dudes who show up and the white women who want to fuck them.
Me and my friends – we hold down the pretty side of the bar. We usually find a corner of the bar to occupy. We sit there, we camp out, we go back and forth to the bathroom to take pictures. We hold court at the bar while we wait for the long line of men to come up to us and pay their respects. I’m beginning to think that we need to design a better system for the ever revolving door of men who come up to us to say hi. Mostly because, in my mind, there’s a system of buying drinks for us that should work out like this: if you’re coming up to say hi, and we’ve slept together before, then you should offer to buy us top shelf drinks, like Hennessy. If we haven’t slept together before, but there’s a possibility that it will happen, I’ll take something more middle of the road, like a margarita or a tequila soda. For those that don’t stand a chance, I’ll be merciful and take a Fernet shot, because Fernet is $5 a pop at Legionnaire, and that’s the cheapest thing I’m willing to put in my body at this point in my life.
This is just standard sexual taxation, and while I know that some men balk at the culture of alcoholic entitlement that I propagate, my only response to that is: really? You can’t spend $10 on me? You’re trying to hit it and $10 is just too much for you to handle? Who are you, the king of scrub ville? Buying me a $10 drink is going to put you in the poor house? If that’s the case, get the fuck out of my face and go across the street to Taco Bell where you belong. Buying drinks is just a day one common courtesy that speaks nothing to the current power dynamic of patriarchy but rather is a reflection of one’s good manners and upbringing. You’re not getting fleeced for a drink. Get it together, guys. Two ounces of Hennessy is not a diamond ring, please relax.
Now, I know that people always wonder: with this system of sexual taxation, who do I wind up fucking at the end of the night? The answer: whichever I want. Whichever one strikes my fantasy. Whatever I’m in the mood for. But, between collecting these free drinks and darting around like the princess of nothing in particular, there’s another element of the evening that must be considered: free drugs.
While free drinks are easy to come by, free drugs takes a bit more finesse. It’s common knowledge that Motown Monday is the best place to get coked out of your skull on a Monday night, and the upstairs gender neutral bathroom provides perfectly sealed off, private mini rooms where you and three of your junkiest friends can huddle around a buffet of quivering key bumps. Finding the free drugs isn’t hard if you’re the type of person who likes to ride dick, mostly because the mutual understanding of this Monday night drug party is that we’re all in this together. The pretty girls, the drug dealers, the – oh wait, no, that’s what it is. Pretty people and drug dealers. We look out for each other.
And that’s the thing about Motown Mondays at Legionnaire – there are plenty of ratchet nights at a variety of bars all over Oakland, but it’s the uniqueness of the hardcore alcoholic Monday night crowd, the irony of the music, the free flowing drugs and the ease with which we can find and ingest them that makes Motown Monday unlike any other night in Oakland. As Motown Monday becomes increasingly ratchet, we’ll see how long this culture of drug induced no fucks given lasts before it implodes on itself or gets exploited by gentrifiers looking to have an ‘authentic’ Oakland experience.