I am a daydreamer. Unrepently so. The bastard child of Walter Mitty and Hunter Thompson. Often my flights of fancy take my into the characters of the TV shows that I watch…
But the character I find myself most wishing to be is Hank Moody from Californication.
For the unwashed among you who have never seen it, Hank is a writer who doesn’t write…much. He favors black t-shirts and jeans, drives a older (yet inarguably cool) car with one operating headlight, has addiction issues (cigarettes, booze, women), a roller coaster relationship with his SO and offspring.
I sooo want to be him, in my day dreams at least.
For the few regular readers of this delightful virtual tome, you’ve come to realize that this blog is part fiction, part “fact-ion” and part confessional. Today’s offering would fall into that last part.
And writing is something I think about multiple times every. single. day.
But the Muse, fickle wench that she is, is apparently taking an extended holiday in Aruba, frolicking in the surf with Richard Branson and only occasionally stopping to turn, laugh at me and flip me the bird.
And that is one of the curses of we word-loving folk. Passionate desire to write and only drips from the faucet.
But here I sit at the keyboard, still enjoying the last whiff of my most recent American Spirit cigarette, seeing the empties from last night in the recycle bin, and black t-shirt firmly in place.
Later, I will throw the two monkeys that I am half-responsible for creating into my ’99 Cadillac (with one working headlight) to drop them off at school for another day of edumacation (after a night of tears and raised voices among the entire family unit) and suddenly I realize that
my god, I AM Hank Moody.
And you know what, it ain’t that great.