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Othello smothered Desdemona. She hadn't slept with Cassio. Someone named a ship after her. It sunk on the Columbia Bar in 1857. Someone named an Astoria tavern after the shipwreck. That was a long time ago. It's still open for business on Marine Drive on the north end of town. It's a helluva' tavern, a gritty neighborhood tavern where the wool-clad regulars pound mostly Bud Light, but real beer flows too. Yes, an excellent tavern. Why? Best exterior neon on the Oregon Coast. Porthole windows. Split level. Spacious. Friendly patrons. Four pool tables. Two (!) shuffleboard tables. A frontline soldier in the futile and Bill of Rights-busting War on Drugs. (No cell phone use allowed.) A reputed trap door that Shanghaied drunks into a homo-erotic career at sea. A second story that used to be a whorehouse, hence the "Dirty D" nickname. And wood, wood, wood everywhere. There's enough thick wood in here to build an impregnable fort in hostile Sioux territory. There's so much wood that the steep-slope, clearcut-loving lackeys from the Oregon Department of Forestry must get positively 2x4 stiff in the joint. Don't forget the dialogue either: "I've been walking around with my fly open for a week and I'm just waiting." Sir, I suspect you will wait--at least until President Bush gains a brain or his wife really fathoms Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment (her favorite book). Luckily, there's plenty of cheap beer and wine to baby-sit you. Unfortunately, as the Bard once accurately wrote, alcohol "doth impede the performance," (or something like that) which was later better echoed by the Dead Kennedys in, "Too Drunk toÍ" Well you know. So take it easy Old Timer. Be prepared. Yeah, Desdemona didn't cheat. A good woman. Oblivious husband. A deluded man. Walk two blocks south of Dirty D's and enter Annie's, and you'll witness a few good gorgeous women and a lot of ugly deluded men. Annie's makes into the Let it Pour Hall of Fame because of two simple distinctions: First, it's the only nude dance joint on the Oregon Coast. It also happens to be a tavern. A nude dance tavern? On the Oregon Coast? Such a place does exist Sweet Virginia and it should be checked out if only for worshipping the unprecedented smearing maneuver on a wall mirror that one dancer executes with such dizzying carnality that Henry Miller must be writing sentences from his grave. Distinction number two: Annie's is the thriving antithesis of everything that former Special Prude Ken Starr believes in. Thank God the Oregon Supreme Court ruled nude dancing as protected free speech back in 1987. It's under renewed assault, as is everything good and just about Oregon these days. But for now the show is playing and the ladies are "doing it to death" as James Brown once grunted. No cover. Who cares about the beer selection? Food? The only action I observed in the kitchen was the very cool bartender Sasha changing her top. For sure, the delusions run rampant in Annie's--for the paunchy men that is. They think that when the dancers talk to them after a set it actually means something. That when the women laugh it's because what's been said is funny. It's a show gentleman. It didnÝt stop when they stopped hugging the pole and covered up. It's about a transaction. The talent is practiced at the arts of deception and contortion and your beer stained hands tremble in their presence. Buying the house a round that cost $30.52 isn't that impressive. Spending your money for a private dance in a stall in the back room is not a legitimate Rocks Off. That you don't get this is why women should be running the world. One last note. Made good eye contact with a dancer. Didn't catch the name. She seemed different. She was quiet and alone. Complimented her writhing on my way out. She seemed intrigued. Fake? Was I duped? Dancer, if you read this, let me know through (not, a porn site specializing in the discharge of bodily fluids). We can do coffee and pie. I sense you dig philosophy. We'll discuss Kant and critique pure lust.
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