Autumn Hedonia

I’ve been watching Californication . Scanning every internet media streaming provider for a companion through a bout of the flu, or my new series long diversion from doing the dishes. After Younger . After The Legend of Korra . I never intended to keep watching. But there is something incredibly compelling, nay magnetic, about David Duchovny’s all-smoking all-drinking sex-addicted husk of a man, Hank Moody. He stumbles through his life like a drunk through a plate glass window, grasping and cynical, blunt and lackadaisical, and always with a witty comeback. Desperately drowning in a life of leisure that would make other men replete with glee, yet it somehow makes him feel even emptier inside, and further from his muse. Maybe the show is a hollow parade of tits and arse and a glorification of the softcore drug addict – maybe that’s the point. But I saw myself in Hank, my failings and my aspirations. The irreverent, tortured, luxuriant piece of shit who needs to exercise