Skinny Jeans and Bacon

Brooklyn Bridge, the gateway to Hipsterland.

New York City is full of hipsters. City hipsters are purposefully unconventional, less ambitious versions of city people, who come in several varieties of plaid, marled wool, or vintage denim. Every social blogger has written in some way or another their sociological interpretation of hipsters.

I don’t really care what hipsters are, and I don’t want to burden you with another attempt to divulge in detail how much I know about the illusive subculture of people. I am, however, very interested in the places where hipsters flock. Hipsters live in little coffee shops and cafés, which happen to be concentrated in unusually desirable, not-too-ghetto, young, and surprisingly affordable neighborhoods, neither too close nor too far a distance from mainstream life. If you want to see a live hipster in his or her natural habitat, look no further than Williamsburg in Brooklyn. One step off the L train at Bedford, and suddenly the average population age drops by 20 years, and everyone's faces are covered with stubble or beards.

The hipsters' greatest and possibly only tangible usefulness to society is the fact that tiny enclaves of gentrified housing and exciting new restaurants follow them wherever they go – things which even normal people can enjoy. One such novelty, Traif, in the southern tip of Williamsburg, has won its way to being among my favorite reasonably priced restaurants of all time (though I rarely frequent it).

Traif for brunch. Particularly note the sweet potato fries with chipotle aioli sauce, strawberry pancake, and bacon donuts. Dinner is even better.

Brought to you by chef Jason Marcus, who in the past dabbled with some restaurants in Southern California, Traif boasts of small and shareable dishes of duck, pork, shellfish, and anything unkosher – all in the tradition of "New American" cuisine, which is, what I've discovered, simply a hip way of saying, "Menu changes frequently; chef will cook whatever he wants to cook today."

Rarely do I find myself compelled to advertise for a restaurant that I like; Traif is among the few. But to avoid rambling on like a foodie, I will just say this: Traif has the best pig tail and strawberry pancakes I've ever eaten. The end. If you want to know more about this restaurant or read an actual review, look it up yourself on yelp or something.

The Biggest Apple in the World

Manhattan.

If you haven't heard already, I currently live in New York City.

Angelenos like to dream. New Yorkers like to presume. They presume that by living in New York City, they must be the most advanced, rational, savvy, and sophisticated people on the planet. Most of all, they presume that no other city in this nation – not even Los Angeles – can possibly be better than New York City. Thankfully, as a non-New Yorker, I can judge this so-called greatest city in the world without bias. Trust me.

New York City is a densely populated urban area approximately 2,800 miles northeast of UCLA that is serviced by seven Shake Shacks, hundreds of Starbucks coffeehouses, and a million pizza joints. The best and most in many things and the standard to which all other cities measure – New York City needs no introduction. It does, however, need some clarification.

Yes, NYC is the most populous and densest city in the United States. It has more skyscrapers over 500 feet tall than any other city in the nation. It has the first subway track in the country, as well as the most subway stops of any other mass rapid transit system. It is the hub of American theatre and ballet, the centerpiece of global finance, the home of NBC's 30 Rock and ABC's Ugly Betty, a recurring place of interest in FOX's Fringe, and the ultimate dream destination for every true hipster. The city also hosts some of the world's most classic and innovative architecture. But what people fail to see, whether or not inadvertently, is the real New York City. Give anyone a clear mind, and they would no doubt deem this city grossly unacceptable.

Number one on the list of grievances? New York City harbors a vicious and degenerate sub-species of city pigeon that is best known for having become the fattest and laziest pigeon in the world, slow in reflex and with little to no fear of humans. Whoever said pigeons are rats with wings no doubt lived in New York City for some time. City pigeons monopolize sidewalks and terrorize pedestrians, as they'd much rather prefer walking into walls and humans than flying. They also lack the ability to see anything beyond 3 inches in front of them, unless it is food. Transport the New York City pigeon to Africa, and it would surely not survive more than a few minutes without city people feeding them and not killing them.

Which brings us to city people. City people are skinny, human versions of city pigeons. They look like Californians, but with lighter skin and more clothes. In Manhattan, most city people are either out-of-state transplants who did not originally grow up as city people, or they are from Queens. They choose to become city people under the presumption that living in the city will make them somehow more authentic, mature, and cultured. City people range from the age of 18 to 40. Everyone older has most likely come to the realization that New York City is not a nice place to raise a family, and everyone younger is most likely those older people's children.

Which then brings us to houses. $1,750 a month for an old, crumbling, 130 square-foot apartment without a trash chute. Why even bother?

Which then brings us to trash. How is it at all acceptable for 3- to 6-feet piles of trash bags to accumulate on sidewalks 5 out of 7 days of the week? It isn't. Sometimes, half the sidewalk is covered with trash, and the other half is covered with pigeons, in which case I would strongly suggest taking another route rather than risk being attacked by the pigeons or, worse, fighting for walking space with a city person.

Don't be fooled. This is the real New York City:

Pigeons on the sidewalk. Car parked on the sidewalk. Trash on the sidewalk.

Recalculating

Beach people at Dockweiler Beach/Playa Del Rey.

Los Angeles is a city of independent drivers, and the first and most vital imperative for any aspiring Angeleno is to master the delicate art of navigation. The streets in the southland are neither uniformly parallel nor numbered in any logical succession. In fact, most major streets are not numbered at all; they are either named in Spanish or named after obscure people and plants, which would require one to possess a functional memory to know which street goes toward which landmarks in which cardinal direction and where that street changes names. Even with the advent of GPS devices, unfortunately, this task never comes without difficulty. The actual driving directions to one of my old apartments from UCLA, for example, read like so: "Take Westwood Boulevard south, which becomes National Place and, subsequently, changes its name again to National Boulevard; then, turn left on National Boulevard; then, turn left on National Boulevard; then, turn left on Shelby Drive." If you don't believe me, look it up on Google Maps. Why does National Boulevard intersect itself so many times? No one knows.

This brings us to the greatest piece of survival advice for anyone who foresees even the slightest – though nearly inevitable – possibility of ever getting lost in Los Angeles: Know how to locate the Pacific Ocean. Like whales, which travel along coastlines to reach their natural breeding waters, humans can rely on the coastline to reach their favorite shopping mall or beach, as the ocean clues you in to which direction is north, south, east, and west. Every Californian born in the greater Los Angeles area grows up learning environmental and visual cues to recognize beach towns and their vicinities, and you can learn them, too.

STREETS: Important streets of note include Santa Monica Boulevard, Wilshire Boulevard, Sunset Boulevard, Venice Boulevard, Manhattan Beach Boulevard, Torrance Boulevard, Beach Boulevard, Harbor Boulevard, MacArthur Boulevard, and, of course, the infamous Pacific Coast Highway. These streets lead to and travel along the ocean, forming the backbone of Los Angeles and Orange County beach culture.

CLIMATE: Although not many of you have the ability to sense minute changes in temperature, know that beach towns are generally a few degrees cooler than is the inland, with slight humidity. Sometimes, beach towns also are covered by something called a "marine layer" – a foggy mist whose presence often ruins an otherwise wonderful beach day.

LANDSCAPE: For the real estate enthusiast who can appraise property at a glance, become familiar with real estate trends to identify beach neighborhoods. In the Pacific Palisades, for example, houses will become larger, grander, and more exclusive as you near the ocean. Many houses also come decorated with a BMW or two in the front, depending on the taste of the homeowner. In Venice Beach, on the other hand, housing and square footage will become increasingly incongruent with their high real estate value the closer you are to the water. These million-dollar beach shacks also tend to come painted in obscenely and unacceptably bright colors, such as yellow or "electric purple," and streets, for some reason, tend to be small, cracked, and unkempt.

WILDLIFE: Beach towns are mainly populated by species of seagulls, domesticated dogs, and beach people. It is nearly impossible to define beach people, as they range in appearance from the Beverly Hills girl to the beach bum, from the Orange County suburbian to the Jersey Shore-like musclehead, or from the international tourists to the local family. But generally, you will see beach people wearing things called "roller blades" (shoes with wheels which were presumed extinct in the 1990s) or riding bicycles in short pants or board shorts without shirts. If a car's surf board or kayak strapped to its roof sticks out a few feet behind the vehicle and almost hits you, then you are probably near a beach.

If after assessing every one of these details you still cannot determine where you are in relation to the beach, then trust this: When over the horizon you see nothing but water, you are probably within a few miles of the ocean. And if that fails, just try a GPS.