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Sheena is a punk rocker
Sheena is a punk rocker
Sheena is a punk rocker now.

Some nights, there's nothing I can do to stay sane but to cruise really slow through eastside residential streets on my bike singing songs that remind me of nothing at all. The Ramone's 'Sheena is a punk rocker now' is pefect for such an occasion. I've never been attracted to a punk rock girl for longer than the time it took to swap spit, and I've never felt sentimental about the ones I have known ever so briefly.

This isn't so much a stereotype as my personal experience. As far as I know, they're a safe haven from emotional involvement, which I could certainly use right now (and I use the term "use" very loosely.)

A girl I swore I would not talk to for a long time called me tonight. Well, I made the mistake of calling her first in the afternoon, but only to say hello. She called me back four or five times, making sure to push every single one of my buttons that she knew how to push, giving me a small sense of connection to her that quickly faded into disgust. It was too hot to sit around being angry with somebody, so I went for a ride.

Coasting past a bar, I saw a few girls on bikes park and lock up. I decided to do the same. They went into the bar across the street, but I was already headed to the bar on my side. I didn't change course, because this was a night for wandering, not for persuing.

A girl sporting tatoo sleaves and a punk-rock hairstyle of blonde, red, and black walked in right ahead of me. She sat at the bar. I sat at the bar. I made conversation. "Those are some nice tatoos. Can I have a cigarette. Hot fucking night." She seemed to make it a point not to be any more or less talkative than I was, and I made it a point not to be any more talkative than I cared to be, but it was a friendly conversation nonetheless. She got her food, a to go order. She asked for my name, gave me hers in return, and said nice to meet you.

Before she left, a thought crossed my mind that I might have asked her what the big hurry is, that she could sit at the bar, eat her sandwhich, and I would buy her a drink. It seemed to be the type of thing that people do in such a situation, I don't know why. I must have seen it in a movie or something, so the thought crossed my mind to go ahead and act it out, but the thing that stopped me was that I had no interest in acting out that scene. Sure, I would have liked to fuck her, but I had no interest in trying.

I moved on, coasting, this time with a slight breeze that dropped the temperature to the lowest it had been all night, yet still within the spectrum of shorts and teeshirt weather. I wasn't going home, I decided, so instead I found my way to the Vern, where I ran into an old friend I was accustomed to consuming excessive amounts of drink with. He was sitting with a girl from his school and quickly asked me to join them. I could tell just by looking at him that by no means was he trying to get with her, and being as I was in this state of on the prowl, yet not, I decided to check her out. She had three lip piercings and an uninteresting tatoo. When she talked, she didn't seem to be thinking, and when she was thinking, she didn't talk, which was almost never. My intial reaction to her was that I could not be attracted to a girl with more than three lip piercings. I just could not imagine that making out, or oral sex would be anything but complicated under these sircumstances.

After a couple of pitchers, I almost changed my mind, but then she started falling all over me in the most unappealing fashion, and I decided that there was nothing to do but stand her up and point her toward home.

I walked with my friend awhile, and without bringing up many specifics, we complained about the stupid things that people do to get laid. There are these dumb games built upon deception, and if you don't play, you don't get any. Being honest only works after the fact. Single girls go for assholes and jerks, and if you don't want to be that, tough luck, you're not going to get laid. We arrived at his place and decided to watch a French film where the good bad guys loose, the bad bad guys loose, and the good guys don't win. Cruising home, I could tell it was approaching 6 a.m. by the folks walking to work with their nametags and coffee mugs. I paid them no attention, singing songs that reminded me of nothing in particular.