By contrast, Pottersville offers a rich variety of nightlife and entertainment. There is something for every taste and every budget. Pool and billiards sharpen hand-eye coordination. Dime-a-dance joints promote bonhomie. Prize fights and strip clubs provide weary citizens with much-needed catharsis. And a pawnshop makes it possible for those temporarily short on funds to participate in the full range of the community's activities.

And, of course, there are the town's many fine taverns. Alas, we will never know what delights are hidden behind the door of the Indian Club or the Bamboo Room, the Midnight Club or the Blue Moon. But we do have firsthand knowledge of one hostelry -- Nick's, formerly Martini's, the first place into which George and Clarence stumble and from which they are rapidly ejected. And if Nick's is any indication, a night out in Pottersville is not one to forget.

The first thing we see in Nick's is a black piano player, stomping out some righteous honky tonk. A Lauren Bacall-type babe at a crowded table catches the eye. Tough-looking men in fedoras and worldly-wise broads in low-cut dresses are bellied up to the bar. In a word, it's a happening place -- until George and the egregious Clarence come in.

It is not my brief to defend the subsequent actions of Nick, the owner and bartender. No one can deny that his behavior is choleric and menacing, or that it contains disturbing elements of homophobia and disrespect for Christianity. Yet a fair-minded look at the scene reveals that Clarence's provocations were, in fact, intolerable.

Let us review the scene. Nick, who is clearly very busy, asks the two men what they want. George orders a double bourbon. Clarence dreamily says, as if to himself, "I was just thinking ... it's been so long..."

Nick is understandably impatient. "Look, mister, I'm standing here waiting for you to make up your mind," he says.

But this only spurs Clarence on to an even more prolonged and irritating fit of thinking to himself out loud. "That's a good man," he says. "I was just thinking of a flaming rum punch -- no, it's not cold enough, not nearly cold enough...I've got it -- mulled wine! Heavy on the cinnamon and light on the cloves. Off with you, my lad, and be lively."

Many bartenders, after being subjected to this insufferably patronizing sermon -- "Off with you, my lad, and be lively"? "That's a good man"? -- on top of being ordered to make an insultingly impractical drink, would simply reach behind the bar and bring down a baseball bat upon the head of the offending customer. To his credit, Nick does not. Instead, he delivers a speech that, while perhaps not as gracious as it could have been, is a model of frankness and concision. "We serve hard drinks for men who want to get drunk fast," he tells Clarence, "and we don't need any 'characters' hanging around to give the joint 'atmosphere.'"

Any bartender can attest that the prominent posting of these words in every bar in America would immeasurably improve the drinking experience of millions.

The denouement, which ends with Clarence and George being physically thrown out of the bar into the snow, is regrettable, but at this point almost inevitable. The die is cast when Nick hears George furtively ask Clarence if he has any money and any place to spend the night -- questions that would give rise to suspicions in the minds of men who have seen less of the world than our host. By the time Clarence begins claiming that "every time you hear a bell ring an angel gets his wings" and asserting that he is hundreds of years old, Nick's actions are virtually preordained. Firmly, yet politely, he asks the two men to leave -- even offering them a choice of the door or the window. Yes, calling them "pixies" is uncalled for -- but we must remember that this was an earlier, less enlightened era.

There is one last objection that can be leveled against Pottersville -- its name. Yes, "Pottersville" does reek of Donald Trump-like vulgarity -- but is that such a bad thing? Being named after a ruthless captain of industry casts a long, Ayn Randian shadow over a city, giving tacit permission to its inhabitants to pursue their pleasures in the enveloping moral darkness. If there was a town named Caligula City in the late Roman Empire, it probably slammed.

I have made, I believe, a definitive case that Pottersville has gotten a bad rap and that Bedford Falls is grossly overrated. But if there are any who are still unconvinced, I would just like to remind them of one little detail: in the real world, Potter won.

We all live in Pottersville now. Bedford Falls is gone. The plucky little Savings and Loan closed down years ago, just like in George's nightmare. Cleaned up, his evil eyebrows removed, armed with a good PR firm, Mr. Potter goes merrily about his business, "consolidating" the George Baileys of the world. To cling to dreams of a bucolic America where the little guy defeats the forces of Big Business and the policeman and the taxi driver and the druggist and the banker all sing Auld Lang Syne together is just to ask for heartbreak and confusion when you turn off the TV and open your front door.

So don't fight it. It's a Pottersville world! Welcome jitterbuggers! Get me -- (ka-ching!) -- I'm giving out wings!

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