Oregon Tavern Age: Coos Country

A Saturday afternoon. OTA country in Coos Bay. Eighties Aerosmith rocked the joint. Men’s professional golf and a dirt bike race played on screens. A 200-year-old man worked the slots while drinking a bottle of Bud Light.

Christ! I had just beheld a can of Heidelberg resting on a table. Heidelberg still existed! Not really. The brand had been gobbled up decades ago by some international spirits conglomerate. The same sad thing happened to all the great cheap Pacific Northwest lagers brewed in the Pacific Northwest by union men and women.

I was killing time in an OTA joint before attending an open mic across the street. The music store in my neighborhood hosted the event twice a month. I brought something to read but there was no telling in advance whether there was any kind of literary scene. I would soon find out.

An OTA man a few tables discoursed on muff diving. His name was Ferguson. He drank a bloody mary.

Two OTA females complained at the bar about how their OTA men couldn’t get it up.

An OTA couple entered. He patted her ass and went to the can. She sat at the bar and ordered shots and beer back. An ass pat. True OTA love.

The open mic was minutes away. I looked above to the wall behind me: a snarling taxidermied coyote glaring my way.

Oh yeah, Coos country for damn sure.

An hour later I walked out of the open mic. The smell of mold tickled my nostrils. I had just heard the longest acoustic guitar version of “House of the Rising Sun” ever performed and a Helen Reddy cover. I heard a real pro on mandolin.

At long last, I was back home on the Oregon Coast, and in time, I will gig this open mic. It’s time.