I miss Hank Moody.
I’m not sure why.
He was a failure as a father, or at least a less than stellar father figure. He sought out and idealized a woman he met in his formative years as a drunken creative auteur. So after 7 seasons, why am I left with this feeling of loss and absence? I know the show ended in 2014, but I hobbled along like many others through the last season to see how our heroic drunk resolved his lifelong romantic ailments.
As it turns out, things worked out comfortably. He secured the love of his life of which he had the rockiest of ups and downs. I suppose that could be considered a happy ending.
However, the drunken and lascivious hero entered retirement. Hank Moody and his forefather Don Draper were characters that embodied the self-deprecating artistic spirit. Don, an insightful, cerebral creative force and Hank, a jester-like, whiskey guzzling lothario. The two inspired the aspiring creative types who attempted to live the Hemingway lifestyle.
Countless times over, established, intelligent, and successful men in the hospitality industry note that having a drink with Hemingway would be a crowning achievement. What is it about a suicidal, machismo, lion hunting personality that draws such support?
I suppose I am just as guilty as anyone. I read Hemingway’s verbose dialogue intertwined with cocktail servings and think “what a life to suffer for one’s art and intoxication”. Is that ultimate occupation? To dine, drink, and suffer for the word on the page….
After recently visiting Ernest’s writing room in Key West, where a singular cat napped on a dehydrated leather chair, I was imbibed with the spirit of alcohol and a suffering genius.
So, I get it. Drinking is a means to an end. I seldom remember an episode of Mad Men where Don isn’t embracing a Canadian Club neat, or Hank Moody is in a frame without a proper glass of whiskey. When nestled with a sophomoric sense of dad jokes, the two are likable, intelligent, and have little resistance when seducing the most beautiful of women.
So I’m left back thinking about the humorous and calamitous Hank Moody. He like many other fumbling lushes , stumble upwards. His curation of sentences and perfectly timed quips enliven some sense of inspiration in me and others. Clumsily handsome and almost literally falling into the beds of many sexual soirees, Hank Moody might in fact be the American Dream. Write, smoke a cig, sip some whiskey, and dissect one’s deepest fears on the page.
Not idol worthy figures, but Don and Hank have the exact balance of drunkenness and charm. Consider me envious and relatively star-struck.
I binged Californication on Amazon Prime. I miss Hank Moody. In some idiotic way, he advertised some sexual compass that guided both his writing and innate ability to talk to anyone in the room.
Perhaps that’s the essence of charm and hospitality. Have a chat and see what’s next…
Regardless, this whiskey is for you Hank.
