My girlfriend will not be accompanying me on this trip. In fact, she'll be exactly 262 miles away (by car) or 165 miles as the crow flies. In other words: I'm single this weekend. And because I'm single, I need to have a back story. I'll be hunting for cougars and/or European princesses, and I doubt any of them will be taken by a lowly television writer. So here are my possible occupations for the weekend:

• Pediatric Cardiologist: I've used this before and it works like a charm. Aside from the equated wisdom of being a doctor, you're saving children's lives. Specifically their hearts. And when a woman looks into your eyes and says, "You fix babies hearts?" with that warmth and glow in their eyes only achieved when in the presence of someone truly exceptional and compassionate, you know it's going to be a good night.
• Lighting Engineer at the Empire State Building: I'm not sure if this is a true job, but that really isn't the point. When they inquire about what it is you do, you say you're in charge of changing the colored lights on the building every night. Maybe it isn't the most lucrative job in the world, but when you promise that the next night you'll display their favorite colors, they're putty in your hands.
• Seaplane Pilot: Who hasn't met a pilot? Gone are the days of the suave airline pilots (save for Sully) of the 50s. But a seaplane pilot is something different. You tell the girls you own the plane and usually take it on fishing charters in the Caribbean and they see a man who can pick up and go at any point. The last of the adventurers. A man bound only by the rules of aerodynamics.

All of these will work, and most are impossible to research until after I'm long gone. However, this does bring up another problem. Notably Facebook. Everything is on Facebook these days. Hell, my mother is on Facebook. And a quick jump on the computer will reveal to the girl I'm trying to impress that I'm "currently in a relationship." And now, I don't like to take these tactics. But hard times call for hard measures. And so we make up a story. A painful story. A story of emotional breakdown and forgiveness. We tell them how the relationship ended. Let's cover this in steps:

1. Don't make the story complicated. The relationship had to have ended recently, hence you haven't had the heart to remove the "relationship" label from your page.
2. If you're going the break-up route, she broke up with you. A good addition to this is saying, "maybe I didn't try hard enough" or "maybe I loved her too much" ... things like that. Girls will swoon over that. A man so broken-hearted that the only reasonable thing for her to do is give him a night where he can forget his troubles ... much like the bar in Cheers only with less fat people.
3. She died. Harsh. But one you can pull if you feel you can truly sell it. This will require tears at some point and if you think for a second you can't bring them on, don't drive down this road. If you're telling a girl that your ex had died, you need to sell it. Remember, she didn't die of Prostate Cancer. In fact, it's almost best to stay away from Cancer in general. Also stay away from AIDS or drug over-dose. The best death to fake is the "hit by a drunk driver" or "she tried to stop a robbery".
4. Once home, make sure you set the privacy settings on your Facebook account to the most strict ones possible. Make them so tight that you can't even see your pictures. You don't want your nosy girlfriend poking around and suddenly coming across you doing a body shot off some girl wearing a tiara.

In terms of packing, one must remember that this is the Hamptons, not Ocean City, Maryland. The T-shirt with Bugs Bunny on it will not cut the mustard out East. Take a stroll through the pages of your latest Ralph Lauren catalog for an idea of what to wear. If, for some horrible reason, you actually own a tank-top - leave it at home. In fact, burn that in a waste basket Crying Game style.

Avoid shorts with more than four pockets. If it looks like you're a nature photographer (thanks JW) or you have gone or plan to go Fly-Fishing, leave them at home.

Shirts should have collars, but none that should be popped. Popping one's collar is like stamping "douchebag" on your forehead. Trust me, no one thinks you're as awesome as you do. No one. Not even your mother.

The weekend schedule calls for a visit to the Axe Lounge, a well-known club in the area that's been a haven for celebutants this Summer. And proper club attire is required. This, however, does not mean one should wear flashy clothing. A good rule of thumb, if your clothes can be used for safety while jogging at night, don't bring them out. You want style, but need the substance to back it up.

Also, I'm packing a variety pack of condoms. Half my suitcase is taken up by them. It's physically weighed down by the density and sheer amount of latex.

With that, I intend on posting updates throughout the weekend here and on my Twitter Feed. I haven't been told much of what I'll be doing, but the snippets I've received seem pretty awesome. And if, by chance, I get someone pregnant this weekend ... I never wrote this article. It was Johnny or Baierman. They hacked my login.