Admit it: You've always figured your grandparents lived in lackluster times. No cash machines, too many white gloves, and what-- mono sound, at best? But every once in a while, you find a place like Little Jack's, where the cocktails are cheap as hell and good as heaven, the steaks flop over the sides of the plates, the room is decorated like a movie set and makes your date look like an utter fox (ask for the Viscount Room). And you look around and a chill creeps down your spine: Who exactly signed us all up for carpal-tunnel-cable-modem-Britney-Aguilera?