I always looked upon the Frank Sinatra’s of the world and the rest of the Rat Pack kind of guys with envy. This time it is not because of their talent and their oodles of cash, chicks, and class, but more so because of the places they drink.You would never have found them hanging out in an Irish pub singing Bon Jovi on the Karaoke machine and screaming BAD MEDICINE into their pints of poorly poured Guinness. No they were always in a bar, not empty, but secluded, and they weren’t sitting on generic IKEA Couches or stools, but on leather chesterfield couches, with waitresses that know what you want, and Barmen that could tear you apart with one hand, but know how to stir a good Martini.