Oregon Tavern Age: Bassmaster Classic

Sunday. Noon. OTA country, somewhat dismal OTA country. The Bassmaster Classic blared on a screen. Three redneck announcers talked all things catching bass in tournament conditions. The amount of high tech gear deployed to catch bass was incredible. I didn’t understand a word the announcers were saying. I didn’t even know there was a professional bass fishing league.

Two female OTA bartenders dozed behind the bar.

I drank a local IPA.

Two OTA men sat at a table near a window that overlooked a parking lot where several people lived out their battered vehicles. One of the men drank water, the other a beer.

Another person played video slots. They said nothing; they drank nothing.

There was a commercial break from the Classic. An advertisement for Disney-themed diapers came on. I couldn’t tell if it was for kids or adults.

I had absolutely nothing to do on a Sunday. Earlier, I had spent a pleasant morning with my Dad at his assisted living center. I read aloud to him some chapters of Ecclesiastes from the Old Testament. I’d never read them before but 30 seconds into the reading, I knew Bob Dylan had read this book of the Bible dozens if not hundreds of time. All the wordplay is right there, and the mysterious character of the Preacher. It was a thrilling read and Dad and discussed some of the passages.

The Bassmaster Classic was being held in Knoxville. The Tennessee River ran right through town. It looked pleasant.

I would never visit there. I will never step foot in the American South again.

It was time to go, maybe head out to watch the fishing boats on the Willamette River trying to land a fake hatchery salmon.