As the tune plays, I chat with one of Homer's closest friends, the saloonkeeper, Moe Szyslak. "Hi, my name's Moe," he says, "or, as the ladies like to refer to me, 'Hey, you in the bushes.'?" I ask Moe why there is virtually no one in the bar I've heard so much about, a place that was once so popular that people would push or wedge their way in, nesting between the elbows and backsides of men drinking three-deep at the bar. Aerosmith even played a gig here. But tonight, to paraphrase a line from that great Frank Sinatra song, there's no one in the place except Homer, Lenny, Carl, Moe, and me - and also a guy named Barney who may or may not have passed out. Moe ­explains that the lack of patrons is not an adequate reflection of the vibrancy of Springfield's nightlife ­- although he doesn't say that in quite so many words. "People today are healthier and drinking less," Moe says. "You know, if it weren't for the junior high school next door, no one would even use the cigarette machine."

After a while, I ask Moe if there is something wrong with Homer. Maybe Homer Simpson has a cold, like the aforementioned Sinatra did in that famous 1966 Esquire story. That's not it, I'm told. Homer isn't sick. He's not sad. He's just happily daydreaming about food. Indeed, as I make my way over to him, I'm almost certain that I can hear Homer mumbling either "Mmm, maca-ma-damia nuts" or "Mmm, pie pants." Possibly both.

Whichever it is, Homer actually doesn't seem thrilled that I have interrupted his mental buffet. But when I buy him a Duff, he agrees to talk about himself and what he thinks makes Springfield so spectacular.