Dear Zach Braff: Please stop making movies that require you to stare doe-eyed at the camera while you contemplate Your Place in This World. Your thoughts aren’t the thoughts of your generation. You’re not Dustin Hoffman. You’re not even Bud Cort. You’re the John Mayer of cinema. More upsetting, however, are your soundtracks, which are filled to the brim with khaki-rock—a genre that bends its knee at the Eagles, turns Gram Parsons into Maya Angelou, and thinks Brian Wilson is some character on Grey’s Anatomy. Somehow you’ve managed to convince people that bands such as the Shins and Snow Patrol are actually important, as opposed to the enjoyable-if-forgettable pop-fluff they really are. If you’re going to go that far, you could at least acknowledge their catchy-melody-and-exploding-chorus brethren, the Elected—even if the band’s publicist describes its lyrics as “where hearts might go when they fall off our sleeves.” That’s a line only you, Mr. Scrubs, could get away with. The Elected perform with Margot & the Nuclear So and So’s and Whispertown 2000 at 8 p.m. at the Black Cat, 1811 14th St. NW. $12. (202) 667-7960. (Jason Cherkis)