Imagine being roofied, but instead of getting sexually violated in your spaced out state, you get all your plaque and tartar removed. Professionally.

That’s the basic idea behind sedation dentistry. Dentists, realizing that most people severely dislike having sharp metal and strange phalanges enter their mouth, have found a way to triple the number of patients they see each day: Drugs. Good ones.

Admittedly, the roofie analogy may be a bit hyperbolic. After all, patients of sedation dentistry — unlike college freshman — are well aware of the pharmacological agents they’re taking, and the intended effects. But you get the picture.

Sedation dentistry is a hit with both patients and practitioners: Patients have their primal fears and anxieties alleviated long enough to bitch-slap decay and gingivitis, while practitioners earn enough extra cash to build a new wing onto their beach house.

Which brings us to the only real drawback of sedation dentistry: The cost. It can be prohibitively expensive for the average Joe. Many insurance companies won’t cover it unless it is deemed medically necessary. And let’s face it, unless you suffer from seizures or Tourette Syndrome, receiving sedation to have your teeth cleaned or lightly drilled is not medically necessary.

But don’t let your lack of disposable income dash your dreams of pain- and panic-free dentistry. Instead, consider taking care of the sedation part yourself. Fortunately, there are several options available to you:

Benzodiazepines. Popping a Valium, Xanax or other benzo half an hour prior to your appointment will give you the most authentic sedation dentistry experience. After all, these are the drugs most commonly administered by actual licensed practitioners.

Benzos are ideal for people who suffer moderate to severe anxiety before and during routine checkups. If you have a history of vomiting or cutting yourself over the mere thought of a professional dental cleaning, benzos are the way to go.

Narcotic painkillers. Vicodin, OxyContin, Percocet or Percodan can help to reduce anxiety with the added benefit of making you feel invincible. It’s not uncommon for patients who pop these pills to dare the dentist to pull out all their healthy teeth without the use of anesthesia. In most cases, the dentist declines.

One of the benefits of narcotic painkillers is that they make it easier (than benzos) to remain awake throughout the appointment, which is important if you don’t want to miss your chance to rinse or to receive your free toothbrush.

Marijuana. Now we are moving into less conventional methods of DIY sedation for dental visits. Marijuana — though rarely if ever administered by licensed dental practitioners outside of Amsterdam or Humboldt County — can certainly help to relax patients enough to get them through a cleaning or other basic procedure. It’s often a little easier to score than pain meds or benzos; however, there is a greater chance that patients who use marijuana just prior to a checkup will develop serious concerns about the dentist or hygienist being an undercover cop.

If you do choose THC to sedate you at the D.D.S., it’s recommended you use a vaporizer rather than a bowl, bong or joint. Most dental practitioners will refuse to treat you if marijuana smoke comes billowing out of your mouth during an appointment. And even if they do decide to proceed, the contact high they receive could have detrimental effects on their performance — possibly leaving you bleeding or blind.

If you cannot get your hands on or afford a vaporizer, consider ingesting marijuana brownies prior to your dental visit. Just be sure the brownie mix is sugar-free — otherwise it somewhat defeats the purpose.

Alcohol. For those of you who are desperate for low-stress dental care but who have no solid drug connections, there is always liquor. If it was good enough to anesthetize cowboys in the Old West during root canals and bullet extractions, it’s good enough to deaden your fear and minor discomfort during your biannual exam.

Take a shot or four of vodka, whiskey or tequila within an hour of your appointment, and then suck on five Hall’s cough drops 10 minutes before the appointment. If the dentist or hygienist asks why your breath is so mentholated, tell them you have a cold. If they ask why you keep falling out of the exam chair, hiccupping, and trying to pick fights with other patients, tell them you just returned from Afghanistan.

Radiohead. If drug or alcohol use is out of the question (e.g., you are straight edge, a recovering addict/alcoholic, exceedingly boring, etc.), you might consider listening to painfully depressing music to help take your mind off your dental angst. Many patients who’ve listened to Radiohead’s Ok Computer album in its entirety leading right up to their visit to the dentist report excellent results. Others have had similar success with The Smiths, Snow Patrol or Nick Drake.

Should you decide to give this approach a go, be careful not to overdo it or mix the aforementioned musicians. Doing so could result in you aggressively pleading with the dentist to jab your gums with a hook just so you can feel something.

NOTE: Regardless of which method of DIY sedation you select, be sure you have somebody to drive you to and from the dentist office — preferably somebody who hasn’t gotten into your stash or listened to your music.

Sedation dentistry. You owe it to your teeth and gums. Your liver will forgive you.

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Something in the Way, Nirvana

The title of this song (which doubles as the chorus) allegedly describes Cobain’s struggles with depression, i.e. there’s always something in the way of his being happy, feeling better. That sentiment paired with extraordinarily somber vocals makes “Something in the Way” one of Nirvana’s more emotional — and depressing — songs.

Is That All There Is?, Peggy Lee

“Is That All There Is?” articulates three ‘coming of age’ experiences with sheer disappointment and detachment, uniting each event with an awful disillusionment that sort of makes you not want to live anymore. The song’s mid-tempo beat attempts to mask the bleakness of its lyrics, but that dichotomy only serves to depress the listener further. In my experience.

No Surprises, Radiohead

“No Surprises” depicts sadness and disenchantment in a simple, no-frills kind of way. Radiohead has no shortage of depressing songs in their catalog, but “No Surprises” is the one to turn on when you’re feeling overwhelmingly ‘over it.’ And by ‘it,’ I mean life.

It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding), Bob Dylan

A protest song for defeatists, “It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding”) expresses Dylan’s scorn for contemporary (1965) American culture. With lyrics void of optimism, it’s difficult to listen to this song and not feel completely powerless.

Nothing Compares 2 U, Sinead O’Connor

This song so perfectly describes the initial stages of heartbreak: the desperation, the denial, and the sort of pathetic groveling only a heartbroken person is capable of. Makes me want to take Sinead out for ice cream every time I hear it.

Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want, The Smiths

There’s something about quietly begging an unknown entity for something to go right for once that strikes me as equal parts relatable and miserable.

Sometime Around Midnight, Airborne Toxic Event

The ultimate Seeing-The-Ex-Who-Broke-Your-Heart anthem, “Sometime Around Midnight” is an emotional rollercoaster that ultimately leaves you wishing your cart would derail.

Mad World, Gary Jules

This Tears for Fears cover accurately describes loneliness in a crowd without relying on cliché. While it’s not his song, Jules does “Mad World” the justice its haunting lyrics deserve.

Oh Well, Okay, Elliott Smith

“Oh Well, Okay” perfectly captures the mutual isolation that comes along with loving someone who’s suddenly become indifferent toward you. The resolution of the song is both exasperated and pained, likely similar to the relationship it describes.

White Houses, Vanessa Carlton

While it’s the most upbeat song on this list, “White Houses” is its own special brand of sad. Carlton’s story of a particularly eventful summer paints images of youth and regret in the listener’s mind. I feel 5% emptier every time I hear it.

Everybody Hurts, REM

Expected as it is, “Everybody Hurts” makes for a great depressing song because it appeals to very base, overarching emotions that you feel almost idiotic for harboring. The repetitive call to “hold on” is especially chilling when you’re in a dark place.

Brick, Ben Folds Five

“Brick” is just so goddamn sad. Before I knew anything about abortion, I knew that. Based on Folds’ high school girlfriend, the lyrics convey a secretive, confusing, heartbreaking experience that all too many people can relate to. The contrast between Folds’ trademark ‘fun piano guy’ persona and “Brick” adds another grim shade of context to the song.

As I Sat Sadly By Her Side, Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds

No list of depressing songs would be complete without a contribution from Nick Cave, whose lack of faith in humanity is evident in “As I Sat Sadly By Her Side.” If you’ve ever dated a depressed person (or been a depressed person), the air of helplessness and alienation in this song really strikes a chord.

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Hi teenagers,

Don’t roll your eyes at me. This is serious. I’m here to give you some helpful advice and it will only take a second. Then you can go to In N’ Out and eat your animal fries, drink Smirnoff, sulk in your bedroom, or whatever it is you kids do these days.

First and foremost, I want you to know that what your feeling right now is 90% bogus. Like it’s just not real. Your brain is just freaking out and doing somersaults right now. It’s not your fault. You’re actually mentally deficient. When you go to college, it will start to even itself out and you’ll settle into who you are. When you’re in high school, it’s like you’re going personality shopping. You’re browsing through the racks wondering, “Do these straightedge pants fit? How about these druggie ones? What you’ll learn later on (like three years max after you graduate) is that you can be lots of different things. When you’re a teenager, you’re constantly searching for things that can tell you who you are. “Does this Smiths record adequately explain who I am? What about this Who poster?” Sadly, some people never grow out of this. They’re always looking to the external to define the internal and it’s super sad. What most people learn however, is that music, clothes, books, are like added seasonings to an already flavorful personality. They don’t make up the inner core but they certainly make for nice dressing.

Everything you’re crying about will make you laugh in about five years. Every meltdown you’ve ever had will bring you immense joy later on. You don’t have the beauty of hindsight when you’re in the throes of teenage grief but you do in your twenties! And, boy, is it a wonderful thing to know that most of the melancholy you experienced ultimately didn’t matter. Your parents were right about that one. Your parents are right about 60% of the time. The other 40% are lies that are meant to scare you straight. Or because they’ve actually forgotten what it’s like to be a teenager.

Oh, your parents! Unless they’re actually terrible people and you are the child called It, you’ll like them again. Honestly, you’ll like them the second you move out. As you get older, you begin to see your parents as real people (“Oh, weird, I think my mom is the black sheep of her family. That must really hurt her feelings.” Or “My dad worked really hard to keep us above the poverty line. How did he do it? I can barely write a ten-page paper on gender politics.”) Distancing yourself from “Mom” and “Dad” and embracing then as flawed individuals will humanize them, and then you’ll feel like a total jerk for all those years of hell you put then through.

You know your best friend? The one you call your “wifey” or “twin” and spend literally all of your waking hours with? The one who, like, really knows you? Yeah, they might not be your best friends in a few years. You might get into a major fight and never speak again or, worse, slowly drift apart like a needle being pricked on your skin over and over again. Your goals might change, they might move far away and build a different life for themselves. It sucks but it’s what happens when you have days, months, and years working against you. So cherish the moments you have now. There is no friendship quite as electric as the best friend you have in high school.

Don’t do anything harder than weed. Your brain is not fully formed yet and you will be forever altered if you mess with the serious stuff. Save it for your twenties.

A lot of the things you’re learning in school won’t matter BUT it does teach you how to do things you don’t want to do, which is a valuable lesson.

Have sex but not with too many people. Your body might be saying “Let’s go” but your heart is whispering “No!”

Lastly, get ready to feel intense nostalgia for this period of your life for, like, ever.

Signed,

A psycho 25-year-old

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Band names are tough. Keep in mind that your name has to fit on fliers and drum kits, and it can’t already be taken by an Icelandic pop-punk trio or a non-profit organization fighting childhood illiteracy. At this point, your pickings are probably pretty slim. (I imagine this is how we ended up with Hoobastank and The The.) So it’s no surprise when bands adopt other bands’ song titles. And if you’re searching other artists’ discographies for a clever band name, your hunt may well lead you to The Smiths. With wordy song titles that run from the melodramatic to the wry, The Smiths are a one-stop shop for your as-yet-unnamed band. But do these bands sound anything like their inspiration? As one such Smiths-inspired band, Girl in a Coma, releases their fourth album this week, we’re ranking Smiths-derived bands from least to most Smithy.

5. Pretty Girls Make Graves

Named after a track on The Smiths’ eponymous debut album (itself derived from a line in Jack Kerouac’s The Dharma Bums), PGMG are the least Smithy-sounding of our lineup — with their riot-grrrl shrieks, they sound more like a fusion of Sonic Youth and The Pixies. But while they were together, Pretty Girls Make Graves attracted an audience not unlike The Smiths’: mopey and sarcastic youth. The music is more relentless and visceral, but the message, when stripped of its screaming guitars, is very Smithy indeed.

4. Panic at the Disco

Baroque pop duo Panic! At The Disco aren’t the Smithiest band in the world, but there’s much that vocalist Brendon Urie and drummer Spencer Smith get right from their forebears. While The Smiths are often remembered for their miserablism, the glamor and flamboyant, tongue-in-cheek attitude of Panic! At The Disco is a part of The Smiths’ story too. (You can’t listen to “Girlfriend in a Coma” and argue that the Smiths were all misery.) The two bands share a penchant for grandiosity, romanticism, and whimsy. Plus, note Urie’s Morrissey-esque preening charisma.

3. Girl In a Coma

An all-female rock band featuring two Mexican-American sisters and a lesbian bass player is practically a Smiths song in and of itself, and Morrissey himself confirmed this by having the group open for him on his 2007 tour. Lead singer Nina Diaz’s voice is a key aspect of the band’s Smithiness — like Moz’s before her, Diaz’s voice moves from a lonely howl to pop sprightliness. Girl in a Coma also evoke The Smiths’ confrontational spirit: amidst familiar romantic themes, they also tackle more political topics like Arizona’s controversial immigration law.

2. Shakespears Sister

Like Morrissey, Siobhan Fahey famously struggled with depression and used her music as a means to quiet her inner turmoil. But the Smithiest quality of Shakespears Sister was their knack for self-parody — the group fearlessly lampooned their own misery, much like The Smiths circa The Queen is Dead.

1. Gene

Naming themselves after The Smiths’ 1983 B-side “Jeane” resulted in Gene being plagued with Smiths comparisons throughout their career, right until their split in 2004. Like Morrissey, Gene frontman Martin Rossiter’s was known for his preening performances on stage and was constantly fielding speculative comments about his sexuality. Finally, check out the group’s album covers — Gene’s aesthetic shamelessly apes The Smiths’ appropriation of art-world images and fondness for eerie color-washes. There is no way you can look at the cover art for Gene’s single “For The Dead” and not think of The Queen is Dead.

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image – The Sound of the Smiths: The Very Best of the Smiths

I love The Smiths. I’m sure this is truly shocking information that’s bound to surprise everyone. I mean, I can’t believe I’m even sharing this with you guys. It’s been my scarlet letter for so long—”O” for Obvious Homosexual Music Choice. But listen, The Smiths taught alternative gays how to love men. It was the oxygen our closeted asses needed to breathe. Morrissey sang what our hearts needed to hear, which was, “I’m sad, horny, and can someone please have sex with me?”

I first heard The Smiths in the most uncool way possible. I was 13 years old and doing the chores around the house when I had heard an angelic voice begin to waft through the TV. We had Direct TV at the time (so chic) and I had put it on an eighties music satellite radio station to listen to while I Cinderella’d my way through the living room. Upon hearing that tortured voice, I dropped my broom immediately and rushed over to the TV to see who it was. When I saw that it was The Smiths, I instantly thought of the book, Perks of Being A Wallflower, and that song “Asleep.” “I know this band. They’re way influential,” I thought to myself. “I should check them out ASAP and tell my friends about them. Instant indie cred!” At 13, I only had a blurry watercolor of my gayness. I knew it was strange that I was so obsessed with Mary Cherry and Nicole Julian from Popular, and I definitely felt weird about the fact that I occasionally wore a shirt around my head so I could have long hair, but I couldn’t really grasp the concept of loving men. I wasn’t ready for that yet. But over the years, The Smiths and Morrissey began to teach me how.

I became one of those people who was so profoundly touched by a band’s music. Their lyrics mirrored my feelings exactly and when they were layered upon those jangly guitars, I was in heaven. Although I remained in the closet for a few more years, I was unabashedly in love with The Smiths. I even put that super gay poster of Johnny Marr and Morrissey on my wall, which completely confused my parents and friends. “I just really love them, okay?”, I would tell them. I remember spending countless hours in my bedroom staring at the ceiling and listening to Morrissey wail on my stereo. He became much more than a musician to me; he was my mentor. He was telling me the big gay secrets of the world and teaching me about love and heartbreak. I ate it up and then cried… a lot because, damn, his stuff is depressing.

Over time, I stopped listening to The Smiths so much and they became sort of like an afterthought. When someone would ask me what my favorite band was, I would have to think for a moment before remembering The Smiths. But that doesn’t mean I love them any less. When I listen to them now, it’s like a special treat. They still fill me with joy, which is rare with a band I loved in high school. All the others — Rilo Kiley, Modest Mouse, Tilly & The Wall — died a fiery death but The Smiths were spared.

I recently had the pleasure of seeing Morrissey perform at Carnegie Hall, but I unfortunately don’t remember any of it. My anxiety with crowds became unbearable so I took half a Xanax before the show started. Big mistake. All I can recall is someone trying to rush the stage and Morrissey being like, “Um, no.”

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You can expect to be surrounded by lots of music. I’ll gift you with a lot of mixed “tapes”, which I’ll spend too much time on (“Which Smiths song should I include? Can I put this Stone Roses jam on here or is it too obviously romantic? I don’t want him to think that I’m sending him messages via a song!”) These mixed tapes are important to me because they create something tangible. If we ever break up, I can put the tapes in a shoebox to remind myself that this love occurred.

You can expect to be taken to lots of dinners and movies. On the surface, I abhor traditional dates but deep down, I love something as simple as Dinner And A Movie. I’m not about to go parasailing on the third date, okay? You can’t see me sweat and do something physical until at least the 8th date.

You can expect a lot of apologizes from me for nothing at all. It’s a nervous tic—apologizing profusely for things that don’t matter and I hate that I do it. I actually want to tell you, “Sorry cause I’M NOT SORRY. I’m only apologizing as some sort of self-loathing exercise.” If you think I’m genuinely apologetic for accidentally taking a sip from your water, you are just as delusional as I am—in which case, we should definitely get married!

You can expect spending a lot of days in bed and ignoring people’s phone calls. I’m really into going off the grid and getting high on each other for nine hours. Has anyone noticed that when you spend all day in bed with a lover, it feels like a drug binge? You’re just addicted to touching their body and you feel like time is standing still. Before you know it, the day is gone and all you’ve accomplished is each other. You spent the day laying in bed naked watching people go by on the street who weren’t in love and doing errands and “making the most of their day”. You’re glad you aren’t them. You’re glad to do nothing.

You can expect a lot of sass, a lot of me pushing you away to see if you’ll come back. I love someone who can push back. It makes me believe that you’re strong and powerful and can do something like build a fire just by conjuring heat with your body. It makes me think that you can do great things and not take anyone’s crap and stick by me even when I’m being a total asshole. We all have habits in relationships that we don’t like and wish we could change. Some are negotiable and some stick like glue. This stuff falls in the latter category.

You can expect a lot of love from me, which is a hard thing to get. But once it’s in your possession, it’s done. Over. I’m screwed. Not today and not tomorrow but someday when it all falls apart. You will have the most intense power over me. You can make me laugh, cry, scream, dance, throw things, whimper etc. It’s like my emotions are a puppet and you’re pulling a string. You know this, I know this, but no one talks about it. No one talks about the awful things someone you love can do to you.

I’m not being defeatist or meaning to paint a bleak picture of relationships. I guess I’m just constantly drawn to the two extremes—how “I love you and want to protect you” can one day turn into “I want to destroy you.” This isn’t always how it works though. Sometimes relationships just naturally fade away. No one is destroyed and the damage is light. And sometimes relationships never end and you marry someone and grow old together and watch each other die. You feel content in knowing that you built your life with someone else. At 25, I can’t fathom that type of love but I want it. Just like you do.

I’m referring here to the relationships that can wreck you. You can expect these things when I fall in love you but what can you expect when we fall out of love?

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1. Among My Swan by Mazzy Star

No, this album does not have their # 1 hit “Fade Into You” on it. That would be So Tonight That I Might See, which is also a great record but not as flawless as Among My Swan. Songs likes “Rhymes Of An Hour” and “Happy” show the band at its most miserable AKA best. With Hope Sandoval’s hazy vocals that sound like a bottle of Vicodin, Mazzy Star didn’t stand a chance at creating upbeat pop songs. And thank god because depression has never sounded so good. I recommend you listen to “Disappear” while submerged in your bathtub acting like a jellyfish.

2. The Covers Record by Cat Power

Cat Power has never been known to be a ray of music sunshine (which is why it’s weird that she lives in Miami) but she went to some #dark places with The Covers Record in 2000. She takes rock and roll covers like “{I Can’t Get No} Satisfaction” and “I Found A Reason” and injects them with her own particular brand of moodiness. Hell, she could do a record that’s entirely comprised of Raffi covers and still make you want to kill yourself. But that’s whats so great about Chan Marshall. She’s a giant bummer but a beautiful bummer. You make yourself sad just so you can listen to her stuff.

3. Sea Change by Beck

Love him or hate him, you must admire Beck’s ability to switch gears with every record he makes. It seems like he’s either super happy and making some good pop jams (“Odelay” and “Guero”) or making some serious introspective slow burners (“Mutations” and “Sea Change”). The latter record in particular is devastating to listen to. He doesn’t just dip his feet into the sadness pool, he throws his body into it. To be honest, I haven’t even listened to the whole thing, which says a lot coming from someone who loves kill yourself music.

4. Blue by Joni Mitchell

You know how when people say that certain music feeds their soul? I used to think that was a stupid/embarrassing thing to say until I really got into Joni Mitchell. She’s the # 1 California diva and although she doesn’t exclusively make sad music, her voice is so fragile and soulful that you can’t help but feel super emotional while listening to her. Her album, Blue, is undoubtedly her masterpiece. It really captures a young woman in the seventies navigating her way through relationships. I dare you to listen to a song like “The Last Time I Saw Richard” and not feel something. Listening to the record doesn’t make you feel the traditional kind of depressing. It’s like warm comforting melancholy. Does that make sense?

5. Ghost Blonde by No Joy

With a name like No Joy, you know this band isn’t going to be pumping out the “Teenage Dream”‘s. Fronted by two Canadian babes and signed to Mexican Summer, No Joy brings that lovely dense shoegaze sound to the masses by peppering their heavy songs with beautiful melodies. Any time the listener feels like its being swallowed up by darkness, the band brings you back with killer riffs and haunting vocals. No Joy makes you no longer miss happiness and sunshine. Their recipe for doom and gloom is euphoric.

The OC was an ensemble drama that aired on the FOX network from 2003 to 2007. The series had nine principal characters that lived in Newport Beach. Four of the principal cast members – Seth, Summer, Ryan, Marissa – were 16 in 2003 when the series began. They were loaded. Seth and Ryan’s house had a poolhouse with a cliff-style view of the ocean and enough space in the backyard to throw events with 80+ names on the guestlist. Summer lived in a mansion with a grotto and drove a BMW. Her mom had a “pill problem,” though Summer never bat a lash at the presence of Xanax, Percocet, and Klonopin. 99% of the show was shot in Malibu, CA (which is decidedly less gaudy than Newport Beach).

The real Orange County, CA is just south of Los Angeles. The bottom half of the county is the wealthiest – Newport, Corona Del Mar, Laguna, San Clemente. I lived in a cul-de-sac in Huntington Beach (the middle of ‘The OC’). My backyard was small. It had a crippled lemon tree. A small shed with a lock – the key nonexistent. I drove a 1990 VW Passat station wagon for the first half of high school. It would stall in the middle of intersections. Its transmission was replaced at least three times.

My friends and I ‘met’ Seth, Summer, Ryan, and Marissa in 2003. Up until then, we thought no one ever talked about our town; no one had ever heard of it. Seth, Summer, Ryan and Marissa became those friends you only talked about knowing. We wanted to know what they knew about us. We knew it was a soap opera, designed to pull us in and keep us close. We did so, willingly. We not-so-secretly envied Seth and Marissa, even when we yelled at them for making bad decisions. Choices we were unable to make because we didn’t have enough money or the right script.

At our “OC parties,” we laughed at all of Seth’s jokes and winced when he was about to fail with Summer. Said things like “if he actually went to Marina he’d be such a poser.” We hid our smiles when a sarcastic dig at Newpsies was thrown, when they went to Modest Mouse together. We, that group in the corner who’d hear “emo faggots” as the football team walked by, hadn’t even seen Modest Mouse. We wanted to be Seth. He listened to Bright Eyes and Death Cab for Cutie and still dated the untouchable, intimidating girls at his high school. Those kinds who wouldn’t look at us boys with long hair and too-tight jeans, who didn’t play football, who would go ice-blocking or sit outside of Del Taco when there wasn’t anyone around to buy us booze.

Modest Mouse never came to Orange County. Neither did The Killers, or Death Cab for Cutie. Wouldn’t it be awesome if they came here, we asked each other during commercial breaks. Yeah, except they had no where to play.

I had my own Marissa Cooper in high school, except we never hooked up. She went to Sage Hill and was a collagist and a lover of Marc Jacobs. She begrudgingly attended cotillion. We blasted The Smiths and Rilo Kiley while we drove down PCH in the afternoon in her Audi A4, ashing Camels out the window. She hated home. Her mother was a drunk who didn’t know how to love her daughter. Her father was kind, but always on a work trip. So she found solace in her friends, and would have terrifying, truly amazing tantrums when inebriated on alcohol and/or other illicit substances. She is still alive though, and doesn’t get existentially shit on as much anymore. She’s well, according to her Facebook. Last time I saw her was two years ago. She still had her Audi. She’d stopped shaving her arm pits. She wore a Marc Jacobs t-shirt that I remembered from high school, it was peppered with holes.

The OC did come to Huntington Beach once, to film a season one episode on a golf course. This happened at Seacliff Country Club. The girls in our group squealed, planned the day they would meet Seth Cohen. They were going to ditch school and catch them on lunch from filming. Fuck Seth, we said. Us boys wanted to ditch too, maybe catch a glimpse of Anna. I fantasized about charming her over with my varied, expansive taste in music, then going to TK Burger to get shakes and ahi-ahi burgers. We’d get stoned and make out in my Volkswagen, listening to something twee. Later Smashing Pumpkins, maybe.

There’s an episode during Season Two where Sandy Cohen and Jimmy Cooper are having dinner. Jimmy Cooper wants to leave The OC. Sandy encourages him. This place is a vortex, says Sandy, it’ll swallow you up. That part is true. Orange County is full of secrets, and they consume you. Secret joys and tragedies. When you don’t leave that place, anything that isn’t 75 degrees or bikini-clad or wrapped in a corn tortilla is exciting. Like Santa Ana’s rockabilly scene. The mysterious death of a stripper-turned-informant in Orange. Local AA meetings are peppered with old, melted punk rockers.

Things I didn’t find in my OC: The Cohen’s mansion, the trophy wife, the publicized Irvine Group (read: “Newport Group”) scandals, The Bait Shop, Chrismukkah, the comic book kids. As the show entered its third season, when I got a car and my first blow job, when my friends had boyfriends and girlfriends, when Seth started listening to “bad music” (which meant anything after 1996 for us, who listened to Death Cab anymore? We want Fugazi), when Marissa Cooper died, when Ryan got over it, Orange County felt real again. Flat, boring, beautiful, secretive.

Orange County is weird. But it is home. All of my close friends are from there. And as gilded and fake the show made my town out to be – as did the other OC shows that followed – I’ll still love it. The show is ridiculous. But it gave us an excuse to hang out on a school night. And it made our home feel less isolated. Orange County is like LA’s weird second cousin. There is no where else where you can buy weed, drive down PCH to eat a tofu mushroom burger, then walk on the beach in the space of an hour. One thing I would like to clarify: none of us say “shakka” seriously. Stop making fun of us for that. Shakka.

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Sonic Youth

Anyone who claims to love Sonic Youth is 60% lying. It’s not because they suck—they’re actually very good—but it’s because they’re one of those bands that people automatically know to like regardless of whether or not they’ve actually listened to any of their music. It’s just one of those accepted things: Sonic Youth is cool, we need oxygen to breathe, water keeps us alive.  Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore are these untouchable rock gods living in Northhampton, Massachusetts, raising a teenage daughter named Coco, and everyone just can’t seem to get enough of them. They even appeared on an episode of Gossip Girl and people were still like, “Loves it.” As of right now, I have only four Sonic Youth songs on my iTunes, which I’m sure is average for a self-professed fan.  I’m sure you would like to hear more of their music but their discography is so extensive and you’re already consumed with the new Yeasayer album. One day you’re just going to sit down and listen to all of their records, right? Riiiiiiight.

The Smiths

Morrissey got you through a real rough patch when you were sixteen, didn’t he? it was when you hated your parents, your crush wasn’t paying you any attention, and your skin was a real youth in revolt. Listening to The Smiths was the only thing that made it better. Posters of the band adorned your wall and you may have given your best friend a copy of The Queen Is Dead instructing them not to tell a soul about this band. Little did you know they broke up like 20 years ago and a cover of “How Soon Is Now?’ was used as the theme song to Charmed. But as things got better and your emotions started to level out, you found it harder and harder to fit them into your musical life. Today hearing “That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore” is nice for about ten seconds until you’re transported back to being an unloved teenager and then things start to get uncomfortable. Your lip starts to quiver, your eyes start blinking rapidly, a zit begins to form on your chin. Suddenly you get the urge to throw your iPod across the room and smash into a million dejected little pieces. It’s okay. This just means you’re a grownup now who doesn’t need to magnify their sadness by listening to some closeted British guy wailing.

Radiohead

When a band is universally loved, they are not to be trusted. Case in point: last summer I went on a group wine tasting tour in Napa Valley {I know, I know!) with a bunch of young married couples who were wearing visors and ill-fitting khakis. For the first hour, things were pretty awkward, but after a few collective glasses of vino, the yuppies started to let their hair down and chat with one another discussing primarily 401K’s, the real estate market, and backyard BBQ’s. This one couple in particular was studying my friend and I curiously, perhaps confused as to why two 21 year old gothic princesses ended up on a wine tasting tour. Finally, the woman—who had managed to get wasted after only visiting one vineyard—asked us if we liked Radiohead.

I replied yes and exchanged a confused look with my friend. I then looked back at the woman and noticed that her performance fleece vest was becoming off balance almost as if it had gotten contact wasted from its owner.

She bobbed her head lazily and said, “We do too! Me and Bob are gonna see them at the summer festivals, um, this summer. Got our bags packed. We’re ready to go. We saw them at Coachella last year and it was like “Wow!” Bob just loves them.”

“I love them.” Bob echoed.

So apparently Bob and the drunk woman love Radiohead. Do they love the band like they love their french press or their Roomba? Who knows, who cares, I’m turned off. When a band has the ability to transcend social groups, you might take that just to mean they’re super talented, but you’re wrong! It means someone is not being completely honest with their feelings, someone is using the band to establish some sort of credibility. I’m not pointing any fingers here, but let’s just put it this way— I doubt Thom Yorke would ever wear a performance fleece vest.

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The judgmental stranger is a growing breed of somewhat unhappy people who have the need to make themselves feel better by judging others, often accompanied by self-ambivalence and misdirected anger. While the religiously fervent Muslim and Christian are the “classic” judgmental strangers, we shall explore other types, perhaps in demographic overlap with this kind readership.

1. Record store clerk. Less the case now because of mp3s and iTunes, but still, the record store clerk is the archetype of the stranger who will judge you for your taste, or lack of, during a transaction of consumer goods. One obviously shouldn’t attempt to purchase anything mainstream-douchey like Jack Johnson or John Mayer; but it is also ill-advised to get something “predictably authentic,” especially if it’s recently gained popularity among the unsavvy, or is still non-ironically listened to earnestly by sensitive folk. For example, if I were to go to a record store and buy The Queen is Dead (let’s say a used CD for $6.50 at some dreary college town) the record store clerk (either a skinny near-sighted male with low muscle mass, or a semi-attractive girl hosting a regretful “tramp stamp” with inconsolable mother issues) would be like all “[sigh] what a dipshit this guy for earnestly listening to The Smiths; that is like so 1996 like way back when I was already aware of Morrissey’s self-reflexive mockery of bourgeois ennui and depression, haha. Choad.” Because of this, a sincere man must buy said album for $9.98 from iTunes in the privacy of his own apartment because he cannot bear the disregard.

2. Waiter at recently gentrified “foodie” neighborhood. They encourage you to have the $22 dollar chanterelle scallops, but you get the $9 dollar burger; they say the $12 dollar cauliflower soup with fried sage is “phenomenal,” but you get the $0 dollar tap water. They are working for per-percentage tips and trying to increase the bill, but you show up hungry and post-top ramen ghetto. It doesn’t help that they have a sleeve of tattoos under the white pressed shirt and you are wearing last season’s 30% discount Old Navy. Fact is, you rolled into this hip fusion joint to impress a date but pretty much know the only magic occurring tonight will be your disappearing checking account; you want out, cheap as possible. Meanwhile, your date is wetting her lips at the 6 ft. tall European sommelier and you figure okay, she can have her Pinot under the milky way, just get me home under $80 dollars, including cab fare. You lay down a 16.5% tip and lover boy rolls his eyes. You ask for the saffron Polenta to go, and he simply asks you to go.

3. Book store clerk. Let’s say you want to buy Catcher in the Rye for your 16-year-old niece who is having difficulty assimilating into her junior year at high school (never mind the aggressive acne, that is hardly the point). Now let’s say you go to a local book store, and some future cat lady with a B.A. in English from some New England town sees you lay the book on the counter and thinks to herself “oh-my-god-like who in the world hasn’t read this over-rated book?” and you want to reply “n-no you don’t understand — this is for my niece okay? When you were 16, you probably really liked this book too, and just because you’re like 26 now don’t mean the book is any worse; it just means you are past that time in your life, which is totally legit n’ cool, but please don’t shit on this experience for every single sad and confused 16-year-old just because you happened to have been born first, like big freaking deal so your dad popped a load into yer mom a decade earlier.” You want to say this, and maybe ask her out, but end up staring at your feet, hoping that this transaction will be over soon. Oh Salinger, these phonies.

4. People with severe dietary restrictions. They may be vegetarian, vegan, “freegan,” or will only eat local or raw foods; or maybe their dietary constraints are religious, like Jews/pork, Hindus/beef, etc. Or maybe it’s as dissent against the corporate food industry and their ethically suspect agricultural practices. You will often hear “free range,” “organic,” “grass fed,” and “farmer’s market” spoken in ingratiating tones; and “fast food,” “heavily processed,” and “factory farmed” spoken with derision. Point is, order off the menu and spend the subsequent dinner awkwardly listening to their soap-box spiel about the complicated and philosophically rigorous lineage regarding their dietary beliefs to which they eventually came. Those with severe dietary restrictions, generally self-involved and morally righteous, enjoy nothing more than to monopolize dinner conversation by being at its center. Politics is an accessory, and these people are so shiny.

5. Erotic dancer. I once (okay, a “handful” of times) patronized “The Lusty Lady,” a progressive co-op peep show joint in San Francisco’s North Beach district. Therein, behind plates of glass, beautiful women would make erotically provocative gestures in self-moderated slow motion while sexually frustrated and depleted men, in tiny booths spanning the circumference of the room in which these ladies performed, fed popular denominations of US currency ($1, $5, $10, $20) into the meter in order to prolong visual engagement with the dancer, who would look at me with a kind of maternal disappointment and sadness, as if thinking “poor man, poor boy, your barren eyes and pinky prick are making me so dry.” The army of roses tattooed on her body conspired against me, same as the world which led me in here. She’d smile an apparition of a kiss, plant her dark mistreated nipple against the other side of the glass, and laugh as my mouth watered and heart wavered. Mama, I thought; but she was long gone, as was my last dollar.

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