Oregon Tavern Age: Coos at Noon

Friday noon. Coos Bay OTA country.

A logging show played on the screens. Some kid logger dropped a 300-400-year-old cedar in Alaska or British Columbia that can’t possibly be milled. All for the show. That tree was older than the United States of America. Its stump will outlast this nation by 300 years.

An OTA reminisced about his wild days bartending in the 70s and mixing a concoction called The Lighthouse—vodka, another liquor I didn’t catch, and topped with 151 rum and burned off for effect. One of his customers drank 14 in one night and almost died. The bartender drank ten Lighthouses that night and came down with a case of alcohol poising.

The female OTA bartender reminisced about the customer she kicked out because he reeked of piss. Body odor she would tolerate, not piss.

An OTA woman ordered a double Captain Morgan’s.

Kevin drank his coffee doused with Rolling Rock.

I was thinking about the Thanksgiving Dinner I planned on cooking. My first turkey ever! And cooked in a burn barrel with a recipe I learned from a homeless man in Oregon City. The plan was to make a few platters of leftovers and feed the homeless in my neighborhood. It wouldn’t be much, but better than nothing. It would also bring me joy.

If I fucked up the turkey, the crows would feast on the front yard.

Kevin accidentally walked into the walk-in freezer looking for the restroom. Christ he was sauced but pretty good at feigning sobriety.

An obvious parallel to the state of American political life.