Tour of Homos: Omaha Mining Company

The Omaha Mining Company has simultaneously the most crass and amazing name for a gay bar in the history of faggotry. The expected classiness was immediately apparent when I had to tear my eyes away from the porn that played on about four televisions all over the room just to order my drink. The bartender was wearing a shirt that asked me to "Say Hello to [his] not so little friend" with an arrow pointing to what I can only imagine was the rug burn on his knees. My vodka tonic came in a mason jar with a neon green straw. About 12 hours later I realized that they were probably going for some old-timey miner theme by having those. ... or maybe I'm over thinking the 200 for $15 purchase.

My friend asked why my vodka tonic looked blue -- a valid question. Turns out it was because the Omaha Mining Company has black lights for their overhead lights. At first, that may seem like it would up the skank factor but really, I found it to make quite a brazen "No Monkey-Punky" statement. I feel I must mention that the black light did not reveal anything that would concern ABC News. Which is probably because the only thing those four guys on the television were doing was innocently showering together.

What did up the skank factor was Mr. Cool who strolled into the bar at 12:15am wearing shades. Perhaps if this were one of Omaha's six months of perpetual light then sunglasses at night would be logical. Yet even then it would not be acceptable to continue wearing sunglasses in a dimly lit bar (remember, no overhead lights) as Mr. Cool did. After getting his drink, he proceeded onto the painfully empty dance floor, blatantly disregarded the sign declaring there was no drinking in that part of the bar. He then shimmy-rigged with the only man who was anywhere close to his level of coolness: his reflection in the mirrored walls.

And oh, the music he boogied to! Never before had I seen such a disconnect between the music and a bar's patronage. To every single song the exact same techno beat was layered on top. How do I know it was the exact same beat? Because no matter what was playing -- be it Hooked on a Feeling, Let's Dance, or the Pussycat Dolls (yes, that was honestly the playlist) -- the rainbow string decoration on the ceiling fan, or fan flair, was swinging in time so perfectly I feel as though it was taunting Mr. Cool. So who does the Omaha Mining Company think enjoys this constant barrage of a single beat? Various men all over the age of 40, several of them drinking alone. Save the two out of place preppies in maybe their late-20's, the average age was 52. Maybe that's why the dance floor was so empty. Or why on a Friday night there were only 19 people there, including me and my friends. Or why the decorations included giant Zima ads, an oversized stuffed Tweety Bird, and a big ol' Winnie the Pooh. Wait, no, I'm sorry. That last one is just because it's a terrible bar.



[Incidentally, Nebraska has an earlier last call than Georgia. 1am versus 2am. I, honestly, did not think I would come across a place with tighter drinking laws than Georgia.]