Original subtitles

Previously on Californication...

- How's school? - Dad, I told you. I'm not going.

Working on a novel.

What are you going to 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 you had an uncanny ability to suck killer riffs out of him.

I'm sorry I was such a bitch.

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

But you haven't nailed it yet.

Cos 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'll be an honour 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.

OK, I got it, but 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?

How many pages you got?

I'm closing in on three hundy.

- 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.

Will you do me a favour and take this

and just hit me over the head with it as hard as you can?

I won't get mad, I promise.

- Stop. - Just... Bang. Boom.

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 counsellor.

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.

OK, 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 no more of that tasting and smelling.

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.

No blowjobs.

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.

OK.

Krull, the English danish. What's shakin', magic mountain?

Here, show me some 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.

How cute.

Your proletariat hopes and dreams.

Do you know how many songs I've written for this venture of ours?

No, but 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 any more.

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

You're a man who loves a woman who doesn't love you back.

She loves me back. 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.

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 honour and a privilege, Hank.

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 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.

Hello, sweetheart.

Hello, Hank.

Mrs Fetch.

Or perhaps I should say Mrs Fetching.

I've been wanting to have a word with you.

Regarding?

- An extramarital affair. - Oh, my.

I know my husband fucks around on the road.

You do?

- But we have an agreement. - Are you sure?

Well, we've never actually discussed it,

but I have needs too, you know.

That's what I said.

I mean, that's totally understandable.

Would you like to take care of those needs, Hank?

Me? Why me?

Cos this whole rock-and-roll idiot man-child shit gets old.

I need a real man from the real world.

Are you man enough to be that real, Hank?

I don't think so.

I mean, in fact, you should speak to my estranged better half.

She would tell you that I fall more into the idiot man-child category.

Karen? She speaks the world of you.

- Really? - Yeah.

That's sweet. What does she say?

Enough about Karen.

Isn't it weird, though, because she works for you?

I'm paying Karen to remodel my home.

If she thinks she can expect more than a pay cheque

for her services, fuck her.

All's fair, Hank.

I see you and your husband have the same twisted sense of entitlement.

It's actually kind of cute.

I don't want to twist your arm,

but I'd like to take your hand here

and shove it up my skirt.

Yum, yum.

You making a play on the boss's wife?

You've got no fucking shame.

Kruller, it is not what it looks like.

I'm just meat. Man meat. You know how that goes.

- You know. - Give me an excuse, pal.

You won't even hear me coming.

I'll slice them fucking cheeks wide open.

They'll be flapping about like the sails on the HMS Bounty.

See what a fucking charmer you are then, son.

What are you doing?

What's it look like I'm doing? I'm getting ready for take-off.

What's wrong with you? You're sweating like a pig.

You know what a nervous flier I am.

No, I don't. I've never flown with you.

That's because I never fly, Hank. It scares the shit out of me.

What's supposed to keep this whole thing

from just falling into the ocean?

Well, for one, we're going to New York. There is no ocean.

That's even worse!

Certain death!

OK, just buck up, buddy-boy.

This shit is too weird for me. I'm out.

Hank. Hank! Hank.

Hey.

Hey yourself.

You just can't stay away from me, can you?

What are you doing here, Hank?

My presence was requested by the king of Pop-Tarts.

- Same. - I get it.

He's in the market for a new muse, is that it?

Who says I'm interested?

Well, you're here, aren't you?

Maybe I heard you were gonna be here.

- Maybe you did. Did you? - Maybe.

Maybe I just came with a friend.

Jesus Christ.

No, I've got it. I've got it. I'm fine.

- Frank! - Widow.

- Oh, call me Trudy. - OK.

Beautiful. You had your dick in me mouth, remember?

Of course. Who could forget?

He's got a nice rig on him, he does.

He could foam the fucking runway with that thing.

Good to know.

- So you guys are BFFs now? - Yeah.

We've certainly got a lot in common, no?

Both riding the same disco stick and all.

Staying or going?

Staying or going, Hank?

All right, favourite Radiohead album.

That's easy. None of them. That shit's way too cool for me.

- Fuck off. - No.

All right, here's one for you.

Side two, track three, Houses of the Holy,

by a little band they like to call the Led Zeppelin.

No Quarter.

You're good. You are good.

You have no idea.

I inherited a dead uncle's vinyl collection

and spent years in my childhood bedroom just listening to records.

Is that all?

I will have you know, Hank,

that I was a very good little Catholic schoolgirl.

Up to a point.

Are you trying to turn me on?

Have you given any further thought to, you know, what...

To what?

You know, you said you could do something with me,

bring my best work out of me.

You said that you could be the hammer

that would help me to nail it.

I'm not sure, Hank.

Something tells me you're a little more trouble than you're worth.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

I can wax on and wax off with the best of them, Mrs Miyagi.

- Atticus would like a word with you. - OK.

Not you, sweetheart.

I told you he wanted to get in your knickers.

Well, it's not as easy as it looks.

Yeah, don't I know it.

Whoa. Groovy bedroom, dude.

This is not a bedroom. This is my very own erotic chapel.

That doesn't sound the slightest bit creepy.

- The answer is yes. - Sorry?

I would very much like to enter into a relationship with you,

one based solely on sexual pleasure and the transference of inspiration.

I'm sorry, Atticus,

but the answer is no.

Tony said that you were like a miracle.

When you came into his life,

he was blocked and bloated and strung out on China White,

and two days later,

he had a double album's worth of material.

I would very much like to receive the same benefits,

in exchange for which you will experience

first-class travel, pharmaceutical-grade narcotics,

the occasional trinket,

and a solid 5.9 inches of rock-star penis.

That's from taint to tip.

And it's the high end of average. Don't believe what you read.

Wow, that does sound like the deal of a lifetime.

But it's not really that simple.

Why is it not that simple?

OK. I'll buy you a German automobile, but that's it.

Atticus, your wife is outside.

- Yes, but I slipped her an Ambien. - What? That's awful.

Is it?

- Why? - Cos you drugged your wife.

She loves drugs.

Look, I'm not actually used to having to ask for sexual favours.

- Typically, they just come to me. - I know. I do.

The thing is, when I throw in with a guy, I go all-in.

That sounds delightful.

I need to know what we're trying to accomplish here.

A rock opera.

About love.

Great. All right. Play me something.

You're fucking joking, right? I have to audition for you?

Do you think we'll make it?

His favourite place to play was Madison Square Garden.

Atticus promised to get me in there.

I'm gonna spread his ashes all over the fucking place.

Is that sanitary?

What are you so scared of, pumpkin?

It's just...

So unnatural, this flying.

What's the worst that could happen?

We end up fucking crumbs in a jar, huh?

Big fucking deal.

We're all just dust in the wind, you silly twat.

You remind me of my ex-wife.

You still love her?

Moments like these, when I'm staring death in the face,

I realise I have a lot of unresolved feelings for her.

Yeah, she is the mother of my child.

No, I'm sorry.

Well, I feel that my life has deteriorated

ever since we broke up.

But I've had some solid sexual experiences.

Right.

I've made some serious deposits in the wank bank.

That's brilliant.

I'm still in love with her.

Come here.

Come here, little boy.

It's all right.

It's all right. I've been there.

- That's nice. - Yeah, it's nice.

There he is.

There's your little winky.

Come on, now, wee willy.

Stand up and shout for Trudy.

Let Trudy tug all your troubles away.

There you go.

You're a speedy one, ain't you?

Good for you.

You got yours.

Rest up, pumpkin.

I might ask you to put it in me bum later.

It's too small for the front but just right for the back.

Tony was way too big for that sort of buggering.

Come on.

Why?

That's what's missing in my life, you know?

Romance and longing.

What about Mr Fetch?

You can't long for a cartoon character.

I mean, don't get me wrong.

He was a really sweet boy, all heart and balls and swagger,

but that boy turned into a rock star,

and that rock star got everything he ever wanted and more.

Eventually, he just lost touch with reality.

I just... I want to long for someone...

The way you long for Karen.

Jeez. OK.

Here we go.

Come on. There you go, come on. Let's do this.

You trying to skull-fuck the missus now, are ya?

Kruller, this is so not what it looks like.

- You're gonna enjoy this, aren't you? - You have no idea.

Land this fucking plane right fucking now!

Why? We're gonna crash, aren't we?

I want this pathetic little slut off my plane.

This is my private aeroplane, and I make the rules!

Why are we not landing?

Why are the landing gears not coming down?

What did she do?

She was inappropriate with me, with my wife on board, no less.

Is she alive?

She's fine. Go back to sleep.

It's just fucking bullshit. He's clearly pissed off

cos I wasn't interested in fucking him.

I knew it. I knew you were a fucking cow.

Hey, I thought we were friends.

No, no more!

Home-wrecker! Home-wrecking fucking cow!

No, I don't buy that for a second.

I don't give a fuck if you buy it.

She's gone, and I'm gonna tell the entire rock and roll community

that you have vagitosis and warts.

That is just fucking mean.

OK, land this fucking plane, but if she goes, I go,

and you can finish your fucking musical by yourself,

you spoiled ginger.

And get your house in order, cos your wife is looking for strange.

All right, that's the second time you've laid hands on me, broheme.

The first time, I totally deserved it

cos I wrecked your piano and your cocaine,

but I did not deserve that pathetic little bitch-slap just now.

You know what that calls for?

Titty twister!

Get him off me!

Oh, Jesus, Mary, Joseph!

Here we come!

Hank? Hank?

Hold me!

Settle down, Runks. If this is...

If this is it, this is a good day to die.

Shit!

Jesus!

Tony!

Oh, no!

Well, thank you for standing up for me.

Sure, no problem. I mean, who wouldn't?

Just because you're a groupie

and you've slept with thousands of rocker dudes

doesn't mean you're not a woman of virtue.

And I don't believe for a second that you have vagitosis.

- Or warts. - If you say so.

Go ahead, Churchill. Get in there.

I don't know if I can. I'm too freaked out.

Come on, Prime Minister.

If you're gonna die, wouldn't you rather die with your dick in me bum?

Yeah.

Fuck this.

If I'm gonna die,

I'm gonna die doing what I was born to do.

Wait. Dude, really?

Could you pick a more obvious song?

Fuck you! It's an homage.

Cameron Crowe was right, and Elton John was a god.

Fuck. This is it.

This is the moment we've been waiting for.

I'm shitting genius right now.

It's OK. She knows.

She knows you love her.

Yeah, I suppose she does.

Come here.

If this is really it,

then I want to spend the last moments of my life

listening to great music

and making out with the cute guy who just defended my honour.

That sounds like a reasonable request.

Fucking Christ!

I just had me an assgasm!

You're a bloody fucking sorcerer, you are.

Terra firma.

Terra firma, motherfuckers.

Careful, Charlie.

There's bound to be a bunch of rock star DNA on that floor.

I don't care, Hank.

I don't care if I get the mother of all cold sores.

And we are taking the train back to Los Angeles.

- No, we're not. - Why can't you ever indulge me?

Well, my friends, we did it. We have a song.

Jesus bloody Christ, woman, you are a proper fucking muse.

Thank you.

And I'm deeply sorry about my childish behaviour.

I tend to get that way when my manhood is assailed.

Fuck you.

- What the fuck? - Hello, sweetheart.

Did you have a nice sleep?

- Did I take an Ambien? - Yeah.

- Don't you remember? - No.

Yeah.

Did you drug me again, you fucking wanker?

Of course not.

Guess what, though. While you were sleeping,

I wrote you a fucking song.

I'll play it to you back at the hotel.

- OK. - Come on, darling.

- It'll be all right. OK. - Shit.

I don't want to alarm you,

but you seem to have misplaced your clothes.

I won't be needing them for a while.

So is it naked nap time?

Think I'm gonna hang back here for a bit.

Really?

Cos that's New York City out there,

and I know like seven pizzerias, all of them fantastic,

and we could hit every one,

just one bite here and one bite there and just...

Sounds yummy. Maybe after.

After. After?

I've been doing some thinking.

Some naked thinking.

Congratulations.

You have made it to the next round.