Let’s get one thing clear from the get-go: This place is a Road House, and I use that term in a most complimentary way. The Old Man is like the Kathmandu Market of pubs – lots of variety, something for everyone, and always a screaming deal to be had, including great $2 cans every day. Olympia, Keystone Light, even Old Milwaukee – which regularly blows the doors off high priced American lagers in blind taste tests. (I’m talking to you, every brand out there with a 7-figure marketing campaign) Pulling into The Old Man on a Wednesday at 8pm, there are more than 50 cars in the lot, forcing me to park way out on the gravel. I’m thinking it must be booked for a private party or something. Nope – it’s just Wednesday. Groups of dudes finishing up BBQ (no table service here – just walk yourself up to the window and go for Pulled Pork with Kansas City Sweet, side of Hot Links), a zesty bodybuilder chick playing pool, people gearing up for some volleyball in the big back yard. Every type of hat is worn in this place – from cowboy to baseball and everything in between – including tuque (that’s a Bob and Doug McKenzie reference – just to see what it does to our Google search metrics). The Old Man is a classic old joint amidst the sea of strip-center hell that 120th Avenue has become. Yes, there might be a rusty El Camino in the parking lot, and Grand Funk Railroad may be cranking when you walk in. But that’s the point. This is America, and you embrace it with all your heart. Your Barman JJ Abbey grew up a wrist rocket shot away in West Lake, went to Northglenn High, and is an affable, fun-loving wiseguy. If he’s busy counseling the shagadelic cougar at the end of the bar, Kristy will get you what you need with style and grace. Enjoy the initials and messages carved into the paneling, check out the vintage photos of some classic Old Men, and if you ask real nice you might even get your own beer coozy to store in JJ’s beer coozy room. Just try to find this positive vibe and color in any of the cookie-cutter joints down the way. Bet you an Old Mil that you can’t. No nearby megabar – even one with a supposedly cool rooftop patio – can touch The Old Man. $2 beers and thick green grass under your flip flops – tell me there’s a Pub Heaven, and I’ll tell you it probably looks like this.