Driving out to a place called the Inglewood Lounge at 11 p.m. on a Sunday made me feel a bit uncomfortable. Maybe it was the term “lounge” that threw me off or maybe it was just that the thought of going to a bar on Sunday night in my old age seemed kind of creepy. Something about it just felt weird. As we pulled into the parking lot, my son turned to me with a big smile and said, “Dad, you’re going to love this.” I just stared at him skeptically as we exited the car and made our way to the front door. It only took me a minute to realize…