Editor’s note: This piece is being republished as part of The Drive AltDaily Drive. It was originally published September 23, 2009.

Text messaging is horrible technology for us drunken romantics.

I’m not telling you anything new here; we all know the dangers of drunk-dialing, but there’s a new and unique type of remorse associated with the drunken text. With a phone call you’re going to find yourself regretting it the next morning and wondering what you left on the voicemail. But you’re only wondering and your own pride won’t let your imagination convince you it was that bad.

That’s not the case with a text.

A little feature on your phone called the “outbox” allows you the very real and very cringe-inducing experience of actually reading the pathetic mistake you made the night before. Which is exactly what I did.

I miss you.

You've got to deal with the delicious and the dour at Cogan's. (Photo from voteprime on Flickr)

That’s all I sent her, but those three words are much more desperate than they deserve to be. To my credit, the grammar was good and I took the extra 1.2 seconds to spell out “you” rather than go with the lazy “U.” But immaculate grammar can’t change the undeniable truth of what a stupid idea that little message really was.

As shameful as this slip of the fingers was, I’m not beating myself up over this one. As a matter of fact, I blame Cogan’s.

Cogan’s was never supposed to be a part of my ego-driven quest for a new me/new Norfolk. Actually, I hate Cogan’s. Yeah, I said it.  I’m completely and indiscriminately hating on a highly regarded local watering hole. In fairness, I’m hating on my little quest too, but let’s address Cogan’s first. Sure, Cogans has good prices on beer and their pizza has some fans, but Cogan’s also seems to be staffed by an elite team of pretentious hipsters rivaled in douchebaggery only by their regular clientele. Plus, it’s always asses and elbows in that place. Can a man get some breathing room?

Okay, before I run off on this anti-Cogan’s diatribe, let’s take me take a moment to address what is supposedly the underlying theme of this column. I started this experiment to confront a town full of ghosts and memories associated with a girl. I started this with the best intentions and I’d still like you to join me as we reinvent this place, but we need to be clear on something: I’m over her. I know, that was fast, but that’s only because I realized she was fleeting. A mere distraction on my road to redemption, if you will. But don’t worry, I’m still going to share my heartbreak for your amusement, but I’m going to finally come to terms with what/who really has me pining.

Let’s call her The Girl. It’s quite fitting, really, as she’s the very girl that I followed to Virginia so many years ago. A girl who still breaks my heart on a daily basis in a very real and intense way. Out of respect for her privacy, I’ll need to be vague with the details – lets just use the eyes again (a literary cliché can’t hurt). I suppose “eyes too green to be brown, too deep to be green and too beautiful to be hazel” is cumbersome so from here on, actually, we’ll just call her “sun-eyed girl.” (Writers got to be specific.) Okay, everyone on board? Let’s get this train rolling.

If Cogan's had this sign it would be empty every night.

Now, I’m far from a Cogan’s’ regular, and I sincerely try to avoid it, yet I can never find a way to resist the siren song that is a call from George Booker. Despite thinking that Cogan’s is “teeming with inverted pretension,” Booker has a propensity to lure me there as if his very voice is catnip and I’m Mr. Whiskers. Anyway, I inevitably find myself crammed into Cogan’s to mingle with the tragically hip. At least on our most recent visit we were able to get a table, which saved us from the indignity of the bar.

The bartenders at Cogan’s don’t just overlook those who aren’t regulars, they actively ignore the rabble. On a previous table-free visit there the bartender continuously looked me dead in the eyes before passing me over for someone in skinnier jeans. He may as well have just reached over the bar to remove my balls so that he could squeeze them into the next guy’s scene-approved trousers. Thanks, asshole, for making me feel like less of a man when all I wanted was a beer. Oh, and listen carefully, dear readers: Be prepared to get the gas face should you dare to order anything other than Pabst at that place.

But on our more recent visit we had a table and while our waiter wasn’t capable of smiling he was able the keep the pitchers full. I was getting pretty claustrophobic, but the conversation was good when it wasn’t being drowned out by brash punk rock at an obscene volume (every third song).  They must have spiked my beer with Haterade because I was not having a good time. I did enjoy watching our very own Jesse Scaccia’s attempt to order two slices of pizza, though.
Jesse:  Can I get two slices of pizza?
Waiter: So you just want one slice?
Jesse: No. Two.
Waiter: Well, one slice is two slices here.
Jesse: Then I guess I want one slice.
Waiter: So you don’t want two slices?
Jesse:  What do I say to get two slices on a plate?  That’s what I want.

Who’s on first comedy aside, beer makes me pee so I got in line for the bathroom plastered with fliers for shows that have never been in Cogan’s vicinity and waited. And waited.

That’s when I saw the Megatouch.

Two people we can VERY safely assume are saner than Jerome and his ex playing Megatouch.

I’m going to assume that the type of person reading a column by me has been to enough bars to be familiar with a Megatouch.  Just in case I’m wrong, a Megatouch is touch-screen computer with games on it strategically placed in bars for people who need something to do with the hand that is not holding a drink. My sun-eyed girl loves Megatouch. Her game is Photohunt, but she prefers the nude girl version to the family-friendly one. I used to love watching her play Photohunt. I’d joke about the Jennie Garth doppelganger (anyone who’s played this knows exactly which model I’m talking about) and giggle at the intense look on my sun-eyed girl’s freckled face right before she lit up and she started tapping the differences between the two photos.  “It’s always the flowers,” she’d tell me proudly. Sometimes it was the nipples. Occasionally I’d spot something and tap the screen. Usually when it was the nipples. “Good job, baby!” she’s gush and kiss me as if my one find saved the Megatouch universe more so than the hundreds she’d spotted. She always made me feel like the only person in the room. I suppose I could’ve played Megatouch without her, but I’m not very good and I’d hate to waste the dollars. Besides, it’s sort of “our thing.”

All of this is to say I think I have good reason to blame Cogan’s for my ill-fated drunk text. It was business as usual there which means I left feeling invisible, insignificant and emasculated. But Megatouch reminded me that I didn’t always have these insecurities. Once upon a time I had someone who made me feel like the most important person on the planet. But I blew it and I don’t have her anymore. All I have is a stomach ache from drinking shitty-ass Pabst and a text message in my outbox.

I miss you.

More in the New Adventures of Old Jerome series:

Reinventing Norfolk: The Beginning of the Getting-Over-Her Process: Velvet

Reinventing Norfolk: T West

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