California - Feb 23 2007
Thursday night marked the final episode of the OC, the last hurrah for the mind-numbing primetime soap opera. Good riddance, I say! Praise God that four seasons of wasted attempts to create something culturally relevant are over! No longer will a bunch of out of touch rich kids act as role models for the impressionable proletariat! At last, I can praise a new indie band without fearing the response “Hey, weren’t they on the OC?” This is a good day, my friends; a good day for art, a good day for the cultural elite.
Oh, who am I kidding? I can barely hold back the tears. Why Fox, why cancel the only thing that gives my life meaning? What am I going to do with my Thursday nights now? Instead of pretending that I’m staying in “to catch up on my Russian Lit readings” am I actually going to have to stay in to catch up on my Russian Lit readings? Bollocks! How am I going to find out about cool new bands? Am I actually going to have to buy Under the Radar?
This is disastrous; I’ve never felt such a painful loss (at least not since last season when they killed off Marissa). Oh how I’ll miss those warm
It seems like just yesterday I was cursing Julie’s name, finding myself actually liking Luke, wondering why Jimmy Cooper would lie so much. My heart warms when I think of Seth trying to deal with both Summer and Anna in different parts of the house on Thanksgiving. Oh Lord, we had such fun together.
My dear readers, I must confess: the last episode of the OC does not merely mark the end of a television series, but also the final moment in an important stage of my development. I will be frank with you; the OC was the best friend I ever had.
I’ll miss those nights where Seth and I would stay up late talking about graphic novels and discussing the latest Death Cab for Cutie album. I’ll miss sharing a juice with Marissa at The Thrills concert, and staying in with Summer to watch the newest episode of “The Valley”. I’ll miss being able to rely on Sandy “Eyebrows” Cohen every time I get arrested, and I’ll miss having the liberty of checking out Kirsten’s butt every time she walked out of the room.
I’ll miss having conversations where sighing is an acceptable means of communication.
I’ll miss driving around in SUVs with Ryan, hanging out in Caleb’s massive mansion, and trying to pick up Kaitlin Cooper without anyone noticing that she’s way too young for me. I’ll miss driving to
(Rufus Wainwright’s version of “Hallelujah” cues in on the soundtrack). What tragedy, seeing such beauty cast aside. Where did it go wrong? Was it that parallel universe episode? Or the one with the Earthquake? Was it the 6th OC Mix that had Lady Sovereign covering the Sex Pistols? Was it the fact that they based an entire television series on a bunch of spoiled teenagers (played by people in their late twenties) with little room for any plot development? Perhaps…
I cannot bear to think of my life without the weekly overdose of pop culture references, predictable characters, irreverent wit and unexplainable heartache. How will I ever find out what’s fashionable, what’s hip, what’s “so hot right now”? The OC made it so easy for me, I can’t imagine life without it…
Oh my, look at me. I’m sorry for this little outburst, dear readers, truly. Please don’t tell anyone that I did this, I’m so embarrassed, look at me, I’m a wreck, tears everywhere. Let’s just pretend this week’s column was an elucidation of Foucault’s post-structuralism, or an exposure of apocalyptic yearnings in the new Thermals album, or a critical reflection on Man Ray’s Cadeau. I promise, no one will ever know. It’ll be our little secret. Oh dear, I’m going to go listen to Imogen Heap on repeat now…
posted by HLL @ Saturday, February 24, 2007
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