re: Screenrant (also, 'Why Californication should have ended at 3')

This year’s rendition of acclaimed television series Californication has colossally fucked with the show’s credibility. As a standard, C-cation focused largely on loss, self-loathing and the self-inscribed tenets of Bukowski’s life philosophy, elements which are delinquent from the outset of Season 4. For a show about a writer, the writers of Showtime’s Californication are seriously lacking in production.

Why we liked Hank:

Although we had consistent access to Hank’s dreams, thoughts and the encircling satellite influences upon his actions, Hank remained as enigmatic to us as he was to the rest of the Californicated world. One thing we knew, given two paths in a yellow wood, Hank generally trailblazed his own (which usually led him further and further into self-abuse and depression).

In my favorite appraisal of Hank’s character, (I believe this was in an episode of season one, [one of the Crazy Little Thing flashbacks]) Karen accuses Hank of being “The biggest cliché of all.” Her accusation resounds with the appeal of Hank: his hatred of the cliché (best demonstrated with his nonstop mockery of the author of The Artist Within). The rejection of the cliché represents the charisma of Hank Moody, his dedication to his wayward principles and his unflagging allegiance to his friends, his craft and his women (or woman).

Season 4 has commenced with a paradigm shift into the cliché. I suspect the writers, at least at a subconscious level, are somewhat cognizant of this derailment. This suspicion confirms itself in the premiere, when the stoned director of Hank’s in-the-works film brazenly gaffs that he is “a fan of gratuitous nudity.” Thus far, the T’'n’A' appeal is the calling card for S. 4, with little thought to content and dialogue. I can’t help but wonder if the writer’s expected a resounding “Hell Yeah!” from the supposed unseen, beer-swilling audiences that people the core C-cation fan base to the director’s admission. The writers of Californication, finding their creative element depleted, have embraced the Entourage model, debasing audience intelligence and maintaining ratings through fast cars, big tits and gratuitous amounts of casual fuck and suck. The subterficial Californication-ite watches the show with little thought to the prevailing nudity within the show. Nudity is incredibly ubiquitous within our American bacteria culture. With enough perseverance and perversion I could probably locate nude photos and potentially videos of every well-endowed woman within my one mile radius. The more intelligent viewers (which I believe to be a large sample of the show's demographic) do not tune in Sunday nights to see someone famous fuck woman or envision what it would be like to fuck fame, we’re watching Hank’s interaction with his world and wincing when his noble intentions are constantly skewered by his id. That conflict is representative of the battle we all face, the superego vs. the id, and makes us sympathize with Hank, and how Sisyphean his efforts have become as a result of the burdens he places on himself: a human set to self-destruct.

In Season 4 Hank’s id dominates his character. Forget the incredible intelligence of Hank or his Grail-esque quest for household harmony with Karen and Becca and welcome unnecessary fucking and Rob Lowe. Forget the avante garde writing and in-your-face jabs at religion, Scientology, the plastic nature of LA and contemporary art/music, say hello season 9 of Entourage.

Sadly, I’ll still place myself in front of my Advertising Box Sunday night because I’m intrigued by Hank’s character and his quagmire. But how many episodes until I become disillusioned? When a television show fails to deliver to its core constituency and decides to petition the semi-invested through the vehicle of 19-year-old DD and tried and failed crudisms, when do we become burned out on Hank Moody? As aforementioned, the true irony and entertainment thus far in S. 4 revolves around Hank’s new-found writing talent, and the diminishing writing talent on the show. Are they intentionally negatively correlated?

7,000,000 stray cats were drowned in the typing of this post.

-Mozart

Keepin' it Hyperreal

I feel like a heroin addict. Scratch that, I feel like a neuroin addict, living life in psychoactivity and minimal hours of sleep (prepared to give birth to bald humans with precognitive abilities and a penchant for soaking in water and body suits). I am delirium epitomized.

When you’re on the brink of a certifiable insomnia, vivid life is threatening, street noise is accentuated to bullhorn levels and the days blend with the nights like a shoddily concocted Cinco de Mayorita. To say that I’m not exactly at the peak of health and mental capacity is hypereuphemistic. To say that I’m burning the stick of dynamite at both ends, isn’t. My life, the perpetual powder keg.

Waah, Waah. Don’t let my bitching excuse the illiterate ramblings that follow . . . NOW.

Whenever I go out in Seattle, LA, Spokane, or Manzanita, OR, I fell a slight reticence tugging on the hanging threads of my drinking garb. I’ve always associated the reticence with parsimony or indolence, but I’ve rationalized it as a more philosophical question in order to make my miserly/unmotivated ass appeal to a higher concept.

I worry that forced socialization will result in the oft-referred to separation of us as humans and our origins. If I leave the confines of my home to eat and drink at a locale where the social forces are more physically present (tangible) than the home front, am I acting a role or am I truly genuine? Public decorum demands a transaction of conversational goods (no dead air, no white space) that depend on my or some other bloke’s quick-witted or intelligent capacity. If we are ordered to do something by social constructs and we perform our roles accordingly, are our actions authentic?

The simple answer of “yes” doesn’t quite suffice. Sometime it does. Such as, is Dragan Stevic a Serbian icon? Yes? Did he drunkenly murder a blood-lusting, killer shark? Yes. Yes is an affirmation of his awesomeness and his actions, but yes does not affirm whether our actions in the public sphere are authentic.

At the heart of my dilemma is postmodern theory. Post-modernists use the term hyperreality, a theory made popular by po-mo advocates such as Jean Baudrillard, to describe the interrelationship of people and their surroundings. Hyperreality is a series of lectures unto itself, but a brief and crude summation of the theory is that we are separated from the origin of an object’s meaning, and that symbol’s denotation has branched into so many different permutations that is has become alienated from its origins. We interact with what we perceive to be an object’s essence, but instead we interact with an ephemeral simulacrum of the object. Think Neo speaking of the shop with the “really good noodles.” He reveled over noodles that were, unbeknownst to him, devoid of substance and meaning (Slide [sic] note: When Morpheus says welcome to the “desert of the real,” it’s a direct homage to Baudrillard and his theory of hyperreality . . .); that’s roughly the central tenet of the hyperreal.

In application, that is, when applying postmodern theory; Baudrillard; and the hypperreal to my dilemma of public decorum and interaction, I find it difficult to reconcile my actions as authentic. Especially when Baudrillard, a theorist who induces a bit of nerdy turgidity in this mope, spent his days speaking to the inauthenticity of the world we live in (Baudrillard speaking about himself: "What I am, I don't know. I am the simulacrum of myself."). Still, I cling to hope in my humanity, that my life serves something greater than the struggle to truly understand myself and ultimately failing (for a time I held this belief firmly, and medicated the ensuing and inevitable sorrow with copious amounts of drinking, sexing and reading — which is all types of unsatisfying). In my time as a postmodern wanderer, I came upon one solution to Baudrillard’s theorem, one he rejects outright, but I cling to stoically. It is my Obi-Wan Kenobi, my only hope.

We have the freedom to choose (good God, don’t even get me started on how awfully trite that sounds. I grew up having to go to church and go prayer-hands-deep into theology, so I know the freedom of choice argument is archaic. No estabas preoccupado, I’ll alter this old tune a bit). Not everyone takes this freedom. I have plenty of automatonic friends who are walking TV sets, blaring whatever nonsense NBC has spoon-fed them on their swass-soaked couches. The TV set tide is akin to the Facebook faceless who communicate solely through the fucked-up emoticons and textual linguistics. They’ve given up their choice and let the voided symbols speak for them. Conversely, some people do express the freedom of choice, and they are infinitely more interesting for it (your Alan Moores, your Conan O’briens, any person that honestly epitomizes eccentricity [an easy way to uncover an eccentric: diagnose them with insanity. If they receive this as a compliment, you found someone who understands the freedom of choice]). What matters is that your choice falls on the side of spontaneity.

Welcoming the unexpected circumvents the issue of the hyperreality and inauthentic action. It denies the gulf of the hypperreality; an original moment of self is as close as you can be to reality. It doesn’t bridge the gap — the gap isn’t there. As for authenticity, when you encounter the nouveau carte blanche, how can your actions not possess authenticity? In that split-second before your course of action is designated, there is no time to refer to The Office or dwell upon Baudrillad’s interpretation for the moment. It’s just unencumbered action. And that is the most authentic act one can wish for, one devoid of performance.

Postmodernists don’t keep it real, they keep it hyperreal.

-Mozart

Sexual Frustration: Thanks Bros!

Why is it that every woman I meet has been tainted by the men that preceded me? I’m cognizant of the fact that severed relationships are not without their lingering imprints, the vestigial reminders of love or lust long past, but the sexual ramifications of any girl that possesses some sort of relationship history are staggering. Long relationships in the past are indicative of an awkward sexual future.

This must be rectified. Immediately. Not only am I attempting to appeal to mankind on the behalf of women (something I’m not properly equipped to do), I’m also calling out the dudes and douches to cease and desist with the sexual manipulation. You are ruining my dalliances, and I’m hyperpositive you’re affecting the sexcapades of other men (those of the more liberal bent) who don’t wish their woman to act as a cock sheath or solely work the mish.

In my early years, there was a time when I assumed women are naturally conservative in their sexual nature. It took one older woman and the countless conversations I’ve held over coffee, cocktails or her exposed breasts to convince me otherwise. Female sexual conservatism spawns from the sexually repressed gent that dominated the majority of their sexsphere. It’s sadly Pavlovian in nature, meeting these girls who believe that handjobs are preferable to the heavenly blowjob (the fact that blowjob is in my M. Word’s dictionary and handjob is not is a sure indicator that handjob’s blow . . . HA!) or their vocal and physical participation is unnecessary in the bedroom. And it all stems from what “HE” enjoyed, how “HE” dictated sex.

Let me explain something to those dudes/douches that are ruining sex for everyone else. EVERYONE ELSE. Sex isn’t dancing. We don’t have to lead or dictate. It’s a mutual act that works best when the art of reciprocation is brought into the fray. You’re not working on a car, or re-enacting your favorite Peter North scene where he tries to jam his angry inch through the cervix of some unconvincingly moany broad. Employ the Golden Rule in the bedroom. That is the situation for which the GR is most aptly suited. Also, innovent. Be open to the new (Disclaimer: I am not advocating male pooper use or tag teaming. Tag teaming is undeniably homosexual [Yes, homo] and I, for one, like to leave my colon out of play), as long as it’s not too outrageous. Creativity is to be encouraged.

Of great humor to me is how much Christianity has affected the sexual landscape. Christian girls, especially those of the Catholic bent, are arguably the best lays. It’s as if they are making up for all of the countless hours wasted in church doldrums by seizing the fucking day every minute they are churchless. From what I hear, the pious Christian bros are serious sexual failures, suffering from over-indoctrination that limits their spirit of sexual panache and adventure (they’re one of the main demographics I believe are perpetuating the ruination of sex as we know it. Feel free to remind them of this at the next tent revival you attend or public viewing of “Jesus Camp”).

In the micro-level, a priest I lived next door to instructed me in my second favorite theology class (and for those that know my FSM ass, that’s an impressive feat), would always demand that we “live in the now” (he was obsessive with these ’80s carpe diem, DIY tracts). Although many of his other instructions ran the gamete from vaguely nauseating (attaching personality types to colors) to borderline insanity (he was OCD about ensuring that his entire class had eaten breakfast, to the extent that he would send the more derelict class members to the Gonzaga cafeteria to load up on free breakfast goods), the “live in the now” lecture was the median of the continuum, and resonated with me in the bedroom. The idea is the mind should always be present in the bedroom, where mind-presence is imperative, no matter how many vodka Red Bulls you and your co-pilot have thrown back. Maintaining presence of mind invites creativity, which is usually a boudoir plus.

Although there are volumes more I wish to wield to castigate and excoriate the dudes/douches that have ruined sex for women by performing conservatively, I’ll take the high road and impart my sexual code, which possesses strong biblical basis for a staunchly non-biblical gent. Reciprocation is the key (the GR) and living in the now is crucial. Use your imagination and forget the porn.

Actual quotes from woman I have slept with, verbatim:

“My ex- didn’t like blowjobs, so I kinda believed guys thought blowjobs were gross.”

“I don’t know any other positions; the last guy I hooked up with only used missionary.”

This last one I don’t feel like quoting, because it stemmed from someone I have a great deal of respect and the gravity of her situation seems too exploitative to quote; so I’ll generalize: there have been women I have slept with where sex was considered threatening because their ex-‘s used sexual coercion on them (see: rape).

Fuck that guy.

-Mozart