Dear Hank Moody,
You’re just not present anymore. I mean, you’re technically there in each and every new episode of this final season but what in the name of all things Karen & Becca have they done with my brilliantly damaged literary wunderkind? Where is my sexy, drunk, bad-boy hero?
Not since Esai Morales strutted his hot, gangster ass down Chicago’s South Side as Paco Moreno have I crushed on a bad-boy so hard. (Troubled? Yes. Troubled + Hot? Hell yes!) My dad made me watch that movie as a lesson on which type of guy to avoid, but it backfired.
“He’s SO CUTE! Is he Puerto-Rican??” Really, NOT what Dad was going for…
I need an explanation – Did the writer think-tanks become 24/7 bong parties? Did none of them care to reinforce the staggering, alcoholic bravado of your character for his final season? Is there some internal competition going on in the writers’ room to see just how pathetically common they can make Hank Moody before the Series Finale and last-ever cast party-blowout?
Inspiration seems lost. One can only surmise that your writers handed their iPads over to a team of production assistants, interns and craft-service writer-wannabes. ‘Let’s just let anyone take a crack at it!’ is what Season 7 seems to be saying.
I’m sorry Hank but your cool, fiasco-driven appeal has been railroaded by the disease of conscience; an ever-depressing cliché of “internal dilemma” and “self-doubt”. They’ve sent your character, against its own morbidly enchanting nature, to formulaic Emotional Rehab. They ask you, Hank friggin’ Moody, to turn over a redundant, glaringly useless “new leaf” for the sake of your fatherly image.
What’s even worse – for the sake of relationship repair with Karen – the stubbornly ridiculous, glutton-for-codependency. Do NOT even get me started on that Levon kid and his turbo helicopter-mom…!
WTF, people!? This goes against everything intrinsically “Californication”. The once-riveting Hank Moody is now akin to a gourmet veggie chip – indistinguishable from other brands, gone in one bite and forgotten by the end of the week.
What flavor was that shit? I can’t even remember…
Moody’s script these days serves as boner-killer instead of the previously potent, viagrified “moisturizer” I’d have once jumped at the chance to slather all over my face. Yeah, you read that right.
Alas, Hank – my lacy cotton underpinnings remain uncomfortably dry.
The creative minds behind you put a damper on your Moody-mojo. 😦 Could it be my own fault for falling for your fictional Rock-Star scribe who is merely following the rules of television? Must you all change and grow to wrap things up?
I say FUCK NO, Moody! People do NOT change! Chronic fuck-ups fuck it up forever. On-again/off-again drunks never stop chasing the bottom of the bottle even when they cork it up and stash it behind the couch. Bad-ass, superstar wordsmiths never leave the house without an implement and always find time to Rock Out With Their Cocks Out! Remember? How can THAT end in a neat-and-tidy red bow!!??
My fingers are crossed that you, Hank Moody, will go out with the most earnest of blazing bangs that I could never give you. Maybe the script for Sunday’s finale has even been handed back to the seasoned pros that made you so good to begin with…
There’s still hope, I guess. And if they manage to toss the baby out with the bath-water, if they shit the bed on this your last HURRAH! then at least you and I, a snarky-sexy-cool wannabe groupie from the heart and coast of Brooklyn NY… at the very, VERY least we’ll always have –
PS – I love Hell-A!!