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location:newport

Moby Dick. The great dark American novel. A great Led Zeppelin tune. A dependable lounge in Newport worth dropping in for a belt or bracer depending on your obsession. Right now my only obsession is watching the physician unassisted suicide of Oregon. So in the Moby Dick recently, for strictly medicating purposes, I ordered up a double whiskey and a beer chaser. Located on the west side of 101 not far from the Yaquina Bay Bridge, the Moby Dick is a restaurant too that specializes in seafood--vast quantities of seafood. Here's just a teaser: two-pound buckets of steamer clams or crawfish, deep fried frog legs, coconut fried shrimp, and Captain Ahab's seafood platter. Whatever you decide to order, you're going to need something to wash it down with and Moby Dick can set you right up. For Chrissakes though, don't order something called Puckers or Hot Damn, two ridiculous and contrived spirits that should only be consumed by junior high kids who steal it from their parents' liquor cabinet. And by no means order the $1 Jello shots, an immature Reagan era fraternity/sorority custom that is an embarrassment to American culture. Stick to the fundaments in investing and imbibing. Moby Dick has a solid selection of alcoholic beverages and a couple diamonds in the rough: Old Grand Dad and a rare edition of Captain Morgan's Rum rightfully displayed on a pedestal. One question I did have with regard to selecting an appropriate drink to accompany a certain food order--what color of box wine goes best with deep fried frog legs? Upon entering Moby Dick's lounge you pass a fish tank. To the left is a pool room with two tables in immaculate condition. To the far right is the stage where bands routinely dish out meat and potatoes Rock and Roll and patrons act out an unrehearsed version of a public psychotherapy session--also known as karaoke. To the near right is a long bar that upon my most recent visit was occupied by six reasonably attractive women. I had to do a doubletake because seeing six reasonably attractive women in a Let it Pour establishment on a weekday afternoon in the winter is nothing short of an impossibility on the order of reversing one of Newton's physical laws. But they were there, drinking hard, gossiping loud, and welcoming everybody who came in. About the only downer I picked up from their banter was the story told by one that concerned a contested Social Security disability claim. She feared she might be denied and hinted that if things did go her way, she could be drinking professionally in Moby Dick for a living. It may not exactly be society's idea of a productively fulfilling a destiny but then again she could be in the Oregon Legislature and pushing for establishing something official called "Ronald Reagan Day." Moby Dick's interior is spacious, truly huge, with the highest ceilings of any bar I've been in on the Oregon Coast. The rest of the interior doesn't rate much except for one item of dÈcor on the wall behind the bar. It is a map of an island I didn't recognize. This surprised me because my geographical knowledge is very good and has won me many drinks. So I asked the bartender. He told me. Never heard of it. It's an island that saw combat in the Pacific Theater during WW II. Apparently, the father of Moby Dick's owner slugged it out there against the Japanese and lived to procreate. I love discovering these little unknowns in Oregon Coast bars. Just observe, listen, ask. The stories will come if you are interested in something more than yourself. And how refreshing it is to learn something while drinking alone in a lounge, where typically all you learn about is yourself.
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