Californication

Hank Moody has the life I could fantasize about having, but know I would be miserable in if it were my reality. I think. (Forgive me for my pause and assessment. Yep, it's official: forgive me Father, for I have sinned...)

His constant boozing and womanizing with model-types and cougars is exciting. Forgive me as I try to dive far too deep into the psyche of a f*cking TV show. But let's be real: amidst the hangovers and the debauchery and the threesomes, there's certainly something depressing about Hank and his life and his career and his living of the American Frat Boy Dream. Ok, so I write that and find myself second-guessing my own analysis. Drinking top shelf at swanky bars and stacks of gorgeous women who present themselves in the most desirable of ways and positions and negligee – it's compelling stuff. Sure, he has that troubled soul and a family and a soft side that he so desperately wants to embrace, the happy life with his stunning wife and rebel daughter, but he can't find it in himself to change his teenage ways. Yeah, there's that conundrum. Yada, yada, yada.

It's a f*cked up and thrilling series all in one. It's a portrayal of Los Angeles as it could be, when it's not perpetually over-capacity and smoggy and pretentious. It's the LA 99 percent of us could never be a part of unless we're studio heads, best-selling pop-culture novelists or the real life version of the "Entourage" crew.

As a writer and lover of women, Californication captures my attention, imagination, and guilt. I couldn't and wouldn't live that life, but I can surely watch and wonder. The fifth season needs to begin. Yesterday.