Californication - Sixth Season

Previously on Californication...

- How's school? - Dad, I told you.

I'm not going. I'm working on a novel.

What are you gonna fill a novel with?

Life, love, sex, death.

What do you know about any of those things?

Move it along, groupie, and take him with you.

You watch your tongue, you filthy mongrel.

This is Faith.

Have a look and grasp

the cosmic importance of this lovely young lady.

Without her, there'd be no rock and roll.

Tony talked about you all the time.

He said that you had an uncanny ability

to suck killer riffs out of him.

I'm sorry I was such a bitch.

God, I'm--I'm so sorry I fucked your husband.

But you haven't nailed it yet.

'Cause I could be the hammer.

I'm in the middle

of an epic shit storm right now.

I fired my manager last week,

and I'm all out of cocaine.

Might you be in the market

for new representation?

If you can get me some Peruvian flake,

I'll maybe think about throwing you in the mix.

Here you go, rock star asshole.

It would be an honor to work with both of you.

See you bright and early tomorrow...

afternoon.

Becca.

I think it's time, Becca.

For what?

Time you stop this funny business

and went back to school.

No, I'm not doing that.

What are you doing?

I'm living the life of an artist.

Okay, I got it, but what-- what does that mean

to you, exactly?

Because there's a lot more, little missy,

to being an artist than just

altering your consciousness on a daily basis.

I know, which is why I'm writing

on a daily basis.

You are?

Uh, how many pages you got?

I'm closing in on three hundy.

Whew. I'm jealous.

I'm going to finish it, dad.

My first novel.

I hate you.

Do you want to know how many boys I've slept with?

Oh, no! No, no.

That's disgusting.

I'm going through an extremely slutty phase

right now.

Uh, will you do me a favor and take this

and just hit me over the head with it

as hard as you can?

I won't get mad, I promise.

I just want to experience everything

while I still can, you know?

Every taste, every smell.

Stop gagging. You're not my father right now.

You're my artistic guidance counselor.

You can't judge me.

Well, your mom, she can judge you,

and she is judging you, and she's worried about you.

She's got way too many issues to handle this shit.

She thinks I'm headed down your path.

What's so bad about that?

That's exactly what I said.

That's my girl.

Okay, well, I'm not judging you.

But, Becca, promise me that you'll just keep it simple.

You know, get your drink on, keep the pages coming,

smoke a little peaches and herb even,

but stay away from the hard stuff.

And--and no more of that tasting and smelling.

That's--that's-- that's disgusting.

What about blowjobs?

Hank! Hank! We gotta go!

Thank God. Charlie, I will go anywhere with you.

You know why? Because my daughter

is asking me about blowjobs.

Where we off to?

Atticus needs you aboard Air Force 69

right this very now.

That sounds exhausting.

He's like a retarded rock and roll puppy, that guy.

Will you blow him off for me?

No, I won't blow him off. I can't do that.

I won't do that. He's my biggest client, Hank.

I'm sorry, but he is. How many records have you sold?

Are you wearing eye shadow, Charlie?

- Hello, Becca. - Charlie.

I have to take your father

- away from you now. - Take him.

Get him out of my sight.

Do you guys mind if I crash here,

do some writing, maybe have a few people over?

Whatever you need. I got alcohol.

I got pornography. I got pictionary.

Have fun.

== sync, corrected by elderman ==

Welcome aboard Air Force 69,

where your every wish is our command.

Really?

Atticus makes us say this shit.

But we will make out with each other if you want.

Oh, okay.

Hmm.

Krull, the English Danish.

What's shakin', Magic Mountain?

Here, show me so love.

No love, no love.

Kruller, this is Charlie Runkle.

I've got my eye on you, the both of you.

All right?

Good talking.

Hank.

Thank you for coming.

Why am I here?

- I've got nothing. - What do you mean?

Do you know how much money they're paying me

to write the music for this bloody fucking thing?

No, I don't.

More money than you'll ever see in your lifetime.

Hey, I've made a fair amount of cabbage in my day.

Aww, how cute.

Your proletariat hopes and dreams.

Do you know how many songs I've written

for this venture of ours?

No, but, uh,

why don't you tell me?

Zero.

Zero point zero fucking zero.

- That doesn't sound good. - It isn't fucking good.

- It's bloody terrible. - It's also not true.

You played a song for me at your party the other night.

I wrote that when I was 12 years old.

I was trying to recycle it.

That's probably why it sounded so shitty.

Fuck you. Wasn't too shitty for the judges

of my year nine talent contest.

What am I doing here?

Hank.

I need you, Hank.

I need to get at the heart of this love story.

I need you to open a vein for me.

I've been rich and famous for so long now

that I don't think I know what it means

to be a human being anymore.

You're real, Hank. You're--you're a real man.

You're a--you're a man who loves a woman

who doesn't love you back.

She loves me back. What--it's complicated.

I love my wife. She loves me.

We're together. It's not that complicated.

- You fuck other women. - That's different.

How so?

Do you urinate, Hank?

Do you defecate?

There are elements in the human body

that need to take flight.

Ejaculate's just one of them.

Right, that's what masturbation is for.

Ew, no. Masturbation?

Masturbation's for the poor, the downtrodden,

the silent unfuckables.

I walk down the street and women present themselves.

They want to extract my fluids.

It's an honor and a privilege, Hank.

What--what sort of asshole would refuse such a kindness?

- What about your old lady? - What about her?

What about her needs?

Wives are different.

They don't rub themselves raw like we do.

They're ladies.

All right, well, you seem to have it all figured out.

- I'll be on my way. - No, please.

Please stay.

I am flying to New York

to play my music for the Broadway producers.

But you have no music.

Which is why we need to hammer the story out.

Once I know the story,

the music will-- will pour out of me

like a chunky hailstorm of shit

after a night of Dutch curry.

Speaking of which,

I have got to drop the kids off at the pool

before I soil my leathers.

These pants? $7,000.

It's good to be the king.

Make yourself comfortable, Hank.

There's pizza and... cocaine and...

apple juice.