Coney Island Tavern

Oregon Tavern Age: Trumpian Hallmark Movie

NSP Meditations, Oregon Tavern Age ,

It was 9:50 in the December morning. I was in Oregon City OTA country waiting for a fish market to open so I could purchase their legendary crab cakes. Nothing like killing time in OTA country during the holiday season!

A Hallmark Christmas movie called Snow Bride played quietly on TV. I sat at a table, sipped a can of craft malt liquor, and thought about writing a letter.

An OTA geezer sat at the bar and drank a Crown Royal on the rocks as he lectured a dreadlocked female OTA bartender. Yes, there is such a real person in OTA country.

The geezer was lecturing her about liberals, Hunter Biden, Pelosi, AOC, blah, blah, blah. He knew it all and it was all the Democrats fault.

Oregon was a Blue state, he acknowledged that, and hated that fact.

Everything out of the geezer’s moth was a demonstrable lie, bullshit manufactured by Fox News talking points.

Prior to Donald Trump, this geezer would have been talking about how fucked up he’d got the night before decorating the tree and how he’d shit himself in the bathtub and accidentally cooked up dog food for supper. Not anymore.

Cue “Taps” here for the death of OTA storytelling.

An OTA man entered the joint and ordered a well whiskey and a Rainier. He took a seat at the bar.

He and the geezer then launched into a happy reminiscence about the classic Rainier TV ads from the 70s, when Rainier was actually brewed in the Pacific Northwest by union men and women.

Shit! They weren’t talking about Biden or Democrats!

Then they began a running commentary on the improbability of the Hallmark movie’s plot.

A hot babe had crashed her sedan into a snow bank. She was on her way to meet her milquetoast fiance. For some reason she was wearing only shorts and tank top despite the freezing weather. She was going to die of hypothermia and it was almost Christmas and a Christmas Day wedding at some rustic lodge was planned. Fortunately, she remembered her wedding dress was in the back seat so she slipped it on to avoid dying.

A hunky rescuer who was not her fiance arrived and…well…you know the rest.

The men noticed the woman’s sedan had California plates. They start mocking dumb Californians! They were really giving it to them and it had nothing to do with Gavin Newsom, high taxes and super wokeness. It was just good old fashioned Oregon Tavern Age hate for anything Californian!

Oh Merry Christmas to me! What tidings of comfort and joy!

Oregon Tavern Age: Pre Christmas

NSP Meditations, Oregon Tavern Age , ,

It was ten in the morning on the first Monday in November. Rain fell hard. My car was in the shop for routine service. I had time to kill so why not kill it an OTA joint in Oregon City? The cinderblock Coney Island Tavern was the perfect place.

I sat at a table and drank an IPA and wrote a love letter in longhand to someone I blew it with years ago. She absolutely loves OTA joints and shares my sadness that OTA country is on the verge of extinction. Luckily, Oregon City remains a holdout. But for how long?

A game show played on television.

Three old timers but not OTA old timers sat at the bar. One drank a double vodka on the rocks. Another drank whiskey, neat. The last man drank a cheap beer.

They were talking and sipping their drinks. Sometimes the female OTA bartender interjected a comment.

First the conversation was about cars and a miracle octogenarian mechanic they knew. The son-of-a-bitch could fix anything. Proof was the 1978 Ford marooned in blackberries for three decades. He installed a new carburetor, juiced it with some special homemade concoction, and the damn thing started up and he made $500! He had plenty of other vehicles stashed in the blackberries that he could repair and sell. He’d invite a few neighbors to check out the blackberry car lot and then wheel and deal.

They segued into domestic chores. One man said he’d just put up his fake Christmas tree a few days before Halloween. It had built-in lights and was a real beauty. His buddy said he just left his tree up all year. Why not? It made him feel good.

They lamented the absence of the smell of a real tree, but they plugged in pine scent machines and that was fine.

I wrote and wrote and listened to the men. All of them needed to light up their brush piles. One had to pick up a bale of hay. Another was thinking about going elk hunting.

The bartender switched the game show over to Fox News. The lunatic talking heads were blathering about the red Republican wave they expected on Tuesday.

As soon as that noise pollution commenced, the three men finished their drinks and left one at a time. They might have been Fox News diehards but even they didn’t want to listen to that shit in a bar.

Neither did I. I wrapped up the letter, drained the IPA, and walked into rain.