Like, Californication, dude, for sure.

Besides my simmering anger (kind of like the gas is on, but I forgot to light it) that "Californication" stole its title from the brill RHCP song, I have little to hold against the Showtime series. Courtesy a free preview weekend, I got to catch up on my "Weeds," which I did not for the life of me think could worm its way out of last season's messy finale (but did) and watch the first seven episodes of David Duchovny's new series. I figure I had to see the guy imitating Adam on a Showtime promo poster on the Hollywood First National building every day on my way to work, I might as well see if he can pull it off.

And yeah, "Californication" is a ridiculous romp, a fantasy of the sex life a writer might have if he lived in Venice (Santa Monica? hard to tell) and had no other way to spend his days then picking up his fellow traffic-congested on the PCH. I'm willing to indulge. Because he's not a total monster. He'd give his whoring ways up for good (we believe) if his daughter's mother would only take him back, and he's a pretty damn good father. Better than mine. So that's where you keep the female audience, because while he's knocking boots with anyone out of booties, he's got ethics, he doesn't cheat, and when some self-conscious beauties ask him to evaluate their bodies, he tells them not to change a Goddamn thing. We have a sympathetic anti-hero, and even though he loves himself (or at least exalts himself) a bit too much (v. NY, by the way), that's OK -- his daughter and the occasional guitar-thief or redheaded-adulteress will present themselves to take him down a notch. And Madeline Zima's really embracing her inner Alicia Silverstone, which is both titillating and disturbing at the same time, a fine Showtime balance.
After seven episodes, though, we need something new to happen, someone to grow, change. Right now, we have a flirt of a show, not a seductress. Banter's all well and good, but it gets stale quick when the banter's half the substance. It should really just be the style.

Went to the WeHo book fair for a bit today. Bought a tote bag from the WeHo library to carry groceries in and support a good cause. Didn't buy any travel books from Distant Lands (a Pasadena travel book shop) booth, though sorely tempted. Went to a blogging panel and ogled the smart and sexy Mark Sarvas. Felt bad my blog's pink (really, the other choices aren't better). Saw Wil Wheaton at the Star Trek panel, but didn't listen (don't care much about manga, honestly, though he's a good writer).

No Coldwater Canyon. That'll be next weekend.

Downloaded My Morning Jacket's version of "Rocket Man." Like it because it sounds like they're recording in a grotto, or some kind of cold empty cave, and you're listening to the track with your ear to the wall. Dig it.

Also, I'd like to retract my vote for most annoying song currently on the air and give it to "Ay Bay Bay" by Hurricane Chris. Here's just a little taste of this grating, awful song (stop singing about being in the club! ugh!).

You wanna know wat we say in da club (ay bay bay)
Whites folks gangsta and dem thugz (ay bay bay)
Stuntin wit a stack of dem dubz (ay bay bay)
Ridin in a lac wit a mug (ay bay bay)

What the hell? That's not music. That's a reason to have your ears hacked off and become a nun. All men should be ashamed for their gender. Right now. Go ahead. Be ashamed. This is almost as bad as being responsible for 98% of all murders.

I gotta go take a shower. Typing those lyrics made me feel dirty.