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It’s the South OC Triangle, a mysterious FM radio void between Laguna Beach, Dana Point and San Clemente, where one can’t get lock onto a strong NPR signal. Static electricity drowns out All Things Considered, This American Life and Fresh Air whenever one is driving within the city limits of some of the bluest towns in a very red county. Conspiracy or coincidence? You decide.

It’s the winos of San Clemente, swerving their cars up and down the PCH on a Saturday night.

It’s where guys come to bro out, and gals come to be beach chic.

It’s four season flip-flops.

It’s surfer guy dogma – a blend of oceanic mysticism and boys club croneyism.

It’s signing a surfboard instead of a guestbook at an OC wedding.

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It’s where a guy can wear a suit with flip-flops and still be considered a legitimate businessman.

It’s the home of Family Circus.

It’s the dude at the John Wayne Airport dragging his suitcase behind him on his skateboard – OC rolly bag style.

It’s the sport of competitive picnicking.

It’s where the June bugs come out in July.

It’s the black Bentley with the vanity plate that reads “UFCVIP.”

It’s the Orange County Standard of Hotness: white blonde hair, beach-tanned skin, augmented boobs, trainer-sculpted bod, fake nails, couture sportswear, giant sunglasses and a gold cross necklace, in other words “Conservative-Christian-MILF.”

It’s tearing out your lawn and putting in a drought-tolerant succulent garden.

It’s the busboy at the gourmet eatery rolling around on the bar floor and giggling with excitement when Mexico scores a gol against France during the FIFA World Cup.

It’s the Border Patrol Agents walking their beat around Dana Point Harbor.

It’s a crow in a coral tree.

It’s the tattooed mommas of Orange County.

It’s dining al fresco for breakfast, lunch and dinner in mid-March.