As I’m sure you can infer from the title of this article, I am not very hip.

I have no problem admitting that I can be a scared little boy.

Moving to LA from NYC five months ago was a huge decision for me, one that could have been helped by, like, a guide book.

Some people think the Hamptons are just a wasteland of homogenous wealth where rich folks go to play polo.

For every Lost In Translation or Easy Rider, which inspire us to pack our bags and hit the open road (or at least order Japanese whisky at the hotel bar), there are countless other movies that motivate us to shred our passport and never leave the apartment again… ever.

It’s tough to get a real feel for a city until you’ve seen the local women gyrate topless for tips (or at least that's what Woodrow Wilson used to say).

Although not every airplane is filled with terrible, annoying people, it’s an unavoidable fact that yours certainly will be.

Everyone has a booze-bum friend who never contributes any alcohol to the party, but has zero qualms about beelining straight for the top-shelf stuff as soon as it's set down.

It's that time of year again: time to put away your boat shoes, break out your Seasonal Affective Disorder medication, and start the search for a girlfriend to watch movies in bed with during the upcoming cold Winter months.

You're all dolled up for a big Saturday night out in the Hamptons, and after spending roughly seven thousand dollars on a cab, you arrive to find a line extending half the distance of NY-27.

The Hamptons club scene is about as cutthroat as it gets, and, unless your name is Shia LaBeouf (an admittedly odd name), there's no guarantee that any amount of waiting on line... or crying... or money-throwing... will get you inside.

We're officially in the dog days of Summer, and nobody relates to that more than actual dogs.