By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
OC girls might slum it with the occasional cholo or even go for a wab just for the hell of it, but they usually love the pocho the most. Otherwise known as an assimilated Mexican, his English is impeccable, he's only Mexican when you ask him to pillow talk en español or you're ordering tacos somewhere, and his name is easy on your tongue: Will instead of Guillermo, Joe instead of Joaquín, etc. But it doesn't matter: When you take him home to meet your family, he'll be thought of as an illegal-alien savage no matter what UCLA degree he earned.
Key exception: If you're a Mexican girl, you'll date every type of Mexican hombre in the vain hope of finding one who's not macho, a pussy or a mamí's boy, an ideal as preposterous as democracy taking hold in Mexico.
He's an office geek of some sort, whether working for a hip company in Irvine's technology hub, doing IT for a Fortune 500 company, or serving as the design guy for his boss or designing stuff on his own. He's always a nice guy, if a bit shy. His idea of a vacation is going to Comic-Con every year—he can't find you tickets, but you're more than welcome to join him at BlizzCon or WonderCon or D23 or whatever lesser-tier conventions he also attends 'cause he attends them all. The nerd's not very exciting, and you might dump him because of that, only to long for him after his IPO gets released and he moves away to Cupertino with a trophy wife, proving nerds always win in the end.
THE HIPSTER CHRISTIAN
He's always saying such things as "Praise Him" and citing the Gospel while sipping his latté from Portola after mass at ROCKHARBOR, Mars Hill, Saddleback or Newsong. Yet he also gets drunk and might smoke a cigarette. And he's waaay too happy all the time—probably because he has figured out that if he and his girlfriend do it in the butt, then she'll still be a virgin.
THE ALMOST EXECUTIVE
This guy has hustled forever doing the work of others, whether he's a real-estate agent, a rep for a company, an ad guy, a car salesman—you name it. But he's only doing that to pay the bills because he's working on a product that'll get him the home in Newport Coast he has coveted since senior year at Edison High. It could be a clothing line, a new game, a skateboard—just about anything—and he'll mention it as he takes you to the fanciest restaurants or most exclusive hotels, always telling you that one day, he'll turn in his leased Beemer and buy that Tesla he has been wanting for a couple of years. But his dreams never quite come true . . . so he has to re-up the lease.
Although OC has always been notoriously straight-laced, our gents have always loved getting rich off contraband, whether making bathtub whiskey during Prohibition, smuggling in hashish from Afghanistan in hollowed-out surfboards during the 1960s, smuggling in cocaine from Colombia during the 1970s and 1980s, smuggling in marijuana since forever, or running a legitimate co-op since the passage of Proposition 215. OC's typical stoner, however, is none of those. He spends his days lit thanks to his fraudulent medical-marijuana card, is now into e-cigs and treats his higher-end bongs as if they were Matisses. Maybe he has a job—and if he does, it has to somehow tolerate his lifestyle, which means he lives in a ratty apartment in Huntington or Newport Beach, or maybe Fullerton, but definitely not in South County. He deals small-time because he doesn't have the desire to do anything more ambitious than attending next year's Kush Expo. The stoner isn't a beach bum, although he's friends with them because how else are surfers supposed to get their local supply of Maui Wowie? He gets involved in politics only for weed and reads OC Weekly only for the "alternative medicine" ads.
Ah, the bro: our working-class hero, our wearer of MMA-style T-shirts, who'll go to fancy events in flip-flops and dreams of pounding Patrón in Vegas next weekend, who snickers at the rest of the men on this list and has the aggro-ness and muscles to follow through on any threats. While some people want to stereotype them as exclusively white—in fact, the owners of bro-tastic label Sullen Clothing once accused us of anti-white racism because we dared to write the company appeals mostly to bros—we've known enough guys to know that OC bros come in all ethnicities and fashion preferences. Persian bros come from Mission Viejo and Irvine and prefer spiked hair and luxury cars; Mexican bros blast Pearl Jam while driving big trucks that aren't lifted and wearing Dodgers jerseys; Asian bros care for their import cars, singing karaoke in Little Seoul and Yelping like a madman. And our HB contingent is almost exclusively working-class white, hates his white-trash 909 cousins and drives lifted trucks as though Tito Ortiz's life depended on it.
So let us now celebrate bros: I've never met a bro who didn't have a steady job, or at least trained in the gym to make it big as a tattoo artist or MMA fighter or had an energy drink or clothing label to hawk. Most OC girls will give a bro at least one shot, if only because they seem like so much fun. But then they realize that other girls will call her a bro ho, and she'll become embarrassed and drop the guy. Poor bro. . . .