Oh, ‘O.C.’ We Hardly Knew Ye

The best thing about a guilty pleasure is that it feels like it’s uniquely yours—even if it is nationally broadcast. Fox’s “The O.C.” was that guilty pleasure for me. I spent the last week trying not to reveal how much I liked “The O.C.” Perhaps professing my love in this article was a mistake, then.

Was it the man-love of Ryan and Seth? Was it Julie Cooper’s constant hunt for men? Was it the tongue-in-cheek tone that set the sitcom apart from it’s “90210” roots? I don’t know. All I know is a large part of me will miss the Fox teen-sitcom staple.

And I didn’t even like it, at first. I scoffed at those who sat entranced by Seth and Summer’s young romance, and how “wrong side of the tracks” Ryan didn’t really do facial expressions, much less connect with Mischa “Cannot Act My Way Out Of A Paper Bag” Barton with any notable chemistry. I said nay—I was too busy going to shows and not having friends.

But that was then, this is 2007; the show hooked me in its potent second season, mostly thanks to alcohol. I bemoan the incoming freshmen who won’t have “O.C.”-related drinking games to begin their Thursday night adventures. Sandy Cohen mentioned surfing—drink! Summer scoffs at something—drink! Seth makes an indie rock reference—drink!

I recall, quite clearly, my dorm room exploding with surprise when we found out that Caleb Nicholl had an illegitimate child, or when Marisa O.D.’ed in Tijuana. It might as well have been the studio audience at the Maury Povich show for the amount of “oh no they didn’ts” that were thrown around. It was that sense of hyper-drama that made each week enjoyable—basic cable one-upsmanship that promised more ridiculous plot points each week.

The show’s self-effacing humor and nostalgia, (between drinking games) made it a reassuring piece of pop entertainment—like a good friend who remembered the same exact parties as you. It was as if the “O.C.” was in on the joke, that it understood how ridiculous Julie Cooper’s affair with her daughter’s boyfriend Luke really was; a guilty pleasure that eased the guilt by giving you an “irony how-to kit.”

And then, there’s Seth Cohen.

As the poster child of the indie rock crowd, or at least those who shopped at the mall to buy their vintage cardigans, Seth remained a figure of romantic neurosis and pop-culture comforts. To say he was a groundbreaking character would be, well, stupid—but Seth’s of-the-moment depiction of worried, pop culture-obsessed males was nothing less than spot on.

Accompanied by a season-long stint of indie rock live performances (including Death Cab for Cutie, the Killers and the Walkmen) and soundtracked by college rock staples (Beck, Sufjan Stevens and Rogue Wave), Seth represented the Pitchfork-reading set with thorough credulity. And, as I watched the show every week, his worries were a type of comfort to me—as long as I was doing better than Seth, I was doing alright. Although he picked the wrong girl in season one (Anna was hotter!), Seth was a reassuring character that guaranteed to be white and nerdy was A-OK.

So, like my four year-long relationship to the show itself, ironic recollection has given way to honest emotion. Maybe I will miss “The O.C.” more than I would like to admit. The last episode gave way to Berkeley references (Sandy Cohen, professor at Boalt Hall?) and a thoroughly ridiculous ending montage (Seth and Summer get married!) but in the end, I honestly cared about the characters at the season’s demise. Irony be damned—I’ll miss the show, and I don’t care who knows.

But don’t tell anyone.

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