I like to think that this blog was launched over a beer and waffle fries at Wogies. In fact, the story of my adult life couldn’t be told without Wogies Cheesesteaks on Greenwich Ave and Charles St in the West Village.

Grab a beer.

In the Fall of 2004, myself, Phil, Brian, and John were Freshman at NYU. Before we knew that we were considered the scourge of the Village, we gallivanted about the city as if they owned it (see: why NYU kids are hated). In our down-time we opined over Yuengling and cheesesteaks and settled into the booths at the joint that seemed like it had been there forever (only recently finding out that it was as green as we were). We ordered take-out and played MarioKart 64 on a 13-inch screen and argued over such topics as Macro-economics and whether or not Blink-182 was REALLY breaking up. Jim visited from his school in the Wint’ry North and drank from the pint glass of Metropolitan scholarship while we warned his friends not to buy pot from the guys in the park. They were probably cops.

We always said that we would open a bar that combined the awesomeness-in-general of Wogies and the attributes of a half-dozen other bars that let us drink there in the middle of a Tuesday. Then we graduated and got jobs. John went Californeye-way to continue his egg-headery. The rest stayed in Manhattan, moving in with our parents and commuting to work; just close enough to be tolerable, just far enough to be miserable.

We sat at the sidewalk tables, basking in the sun on Summer Fridays, knocking back multitudinous beers while grease ran down our wrists, pondering our lives and what was becoming of them.

I shook the winter snow off my summer Vans and nodded to whichever of us got there first on Winter Fridays. A Yuengling was placed in front of us without asking for it. Like beleaguered old men we complained about our jobs and the talents that were being wasted.

We sat in this bar, a bar like so many others but different in its way, and made plans. We told stories. Stories that, like so many stories of our generation, start with, “So Phil came over with a bottle of Soju…” We ate our cheesesteaks and drank our beer. We made proclamations and launched vendettas. We did homework, read books, watched sports and drank beer. We sampled the menu, brought coworkers; we shared the joy of Wogies, of our Moveable Feast.

Aright, Doom. One-stop-shopping for Bar, Restaurant, and Music Reviews. Some current events. Long-form Tweeting. You’ll get a whole bunch of Ranting and, in all likelihood, a great post-game recap on Mondays.

Please enjoy.


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