When packing, lay out all the clothes and money you plan to take. Take half the clothes and all the money. 
Don’t wear white. Tourists wear white.
Learn the local customs or risk looking like a dick. 
Insure the rental car.
Just because you are on vacation does not mean you’re invincible. Keep your ass out of the riptide.
Make eye contact. 
Cultivate patience. 
Don’t pay to park.
If you have a complaint, rather than demand a certain response, empower the person to whom you are complaining to solve the problem. They will often offer you more than you would have asked for in compensation, especially if you learn to complain with kindness.
Frequent hygienically-sound food trucks. 
Understand you are a target for crime when traveling. Be prepared to shank a bitch if need be. 
Like many of these Demeter Clarc Manners Moments, some of you will be like, “duh”, and some of you will claim you’ve never heard of the custom before. Let’s talk about tipping housekeeping when you stay at a hotel. We all know that for the most part, cleaning up after others is a boring, thankless, and often disgusting job. Why not express gratitude for your housekeeper’s service with a tip?
So how much is right? Well it is all up to what you feel comfortable with, but I would say certainly no less than $1-2 per day and no more than $5 a day, unless the service is nothing short of spectacular and then the sky is the limit. Frankly, in this age of dismally mediocre service, exemplary conduct should be profusely rewarded. What wouldn’t I tip to avoid an encounter with a dubious pube? 
Don’t even start with the “I don’t have cash” bullshit. It is your OBLIGATION to carry cash while traveling for this very purpose. It is just as important as your ID and suitcase. 
Okay, so I’m not the super most hardcore hiker in the world, but I’ve hiked some shit and don’t get easily intimidated by physical challenges. When I researched hiking the Kalalau Trail, one of the few ways to access the rugged Nā Pali Coast, I didn’t necessarily get hysterical when people on Tripadvisor proclaimed “You can die on this hike!” Those bitches were right!
First, Kaua’i is (obviously) muddy because of frequent rains. Therefore, the trail is usually super muddy and slick. It begins with difficult slippery, steep rock terrain, dries out into an exposed root section, and requires crossing a fast moving stream several times before tunneling into a terrifying stretch of super muddy path with a sheer drop-off. I spent most of the hike repeating the mantras, “I am the rock. I am the mud. I am the mountain” hoping the affirmations would please the Garden Isle Gods and they might spare me a broken bone or twisted ankle. 
To add another layer of intrigue, in December of 2012, apparently some methy jungle-living asshole pushed a Japanese tourist off a 15 foot cliff on this very trail. She did not die, but was critically injured. When I wasn’t watching the ground to ensure my footing, I was looking up the hill to make sure a psycho tweeker wasn’t about to descend on my ass. Good times on Kaua’i!
In total, I hiked 8 miles in 5 hours. The ranger predicted it would take me 7, but he doesn’t know me. I do work, son.
Considering the difficulty and intensity of the hike, I can’t let the opportunity pass to share with you some of the profound displays of stupidity I encountered along the way. 
1) Did you really bring your infant? Look, I know parents don’t want to leave their little babies at the resort with a sitter, but this hike was no place for a child. Several parents carried babies in backpacks on this trail. Without a backpack and even with three points of contact on the mountain, I still found the terrain extremely slippery and treacherous. What happens when you slip and drop your child? Not a good look. Most young children will not enjoy this experience. You will spend the whole time worrying about them, and it won’t be fun for anyone. Depending on the child, 10 and under can sit this one out. Drop them at the kiddie pool with Nana.
2) Are you seriously wearing a skirt? I passed a girl who was ordering everyone around wearing a khaki mid-thigh skirt. Bitch stop supervising everyone else and put on some fucking pants. This is not a day of shopping at the GAP. G-sus. 
3) Do you really need that tripod? About 2/3 of the way into the 8 mile hike, I saw a couple trying to negotiate a huge tripod and some intense camera equipment through this mess. We all enjoy a good vacation photo, but a full size tripod is overkill and trying to haul one up this gnarly trail could very well kill you. If your name is not Ansel Adams, pack a point and click and get over it. Best to keep your hands free and pack as light as possible. 
Please excuse me, but I need to get a big ol’ fuck you off my chest. Seriously, fuck the TSA. I’ve been traveling quite a bit lately, and I’m so sick of those snide brokedown TSA bitches. Lazy, usually grossly unfit, and delusionally mad with power, from what I can tell these useless assholes stand around all day torturing people over the relative viscosity of their toiletries. Yup, that sealed Gillette gel anti-persperant is going to undoubtedly blow everything to smithereens. 
Before you get all sanctimonious on my ass with the national security speech, spare me. The TSA ain’t gonna save your ass. Do you know how many people I know who have easily gotten weapons and/or drugs accidentally and/or purposefully through screening? SEVERAL. Does the TSA ever catch these folks? No. The TSA’s time is apparently better spent on a crusade against body butter. Conversely, if you don’t want your bag manhandled by a dickhead TSA agent then follow their inane, draconian regulations to the letter. Put the perilously dangerous liquids in the stupid quart bag or risk telegraphing your non-compliance with the TSA’s idiotic limitations. My sympathy only stretches so far for flagrant violators. 
The TSA is like a building with a doorman: they both lull us into a false sense of security while simultaneously and unnecessarily intruding into our private business. Oh, and thanks for that unhealthy side order of radiation too. I just need to say it one more time. God it feels good. Say it with me. FUCK THE TSA!
I’m meditating in the desert bitches. 
I thought I liked those stupid J-41 shoes, but after shredding 2 pairs in quick succession the shoddy fabrication became a deal-breaker. I’m on to a fresh set of Merrell Barefoot which are so much more durably constructed. 
Super lightweight and narrowly tailored to the foot in keeping with the latest running principles, these shoes work for the daily grind and rise to the challenge of a hike. I find them comfortable, cute, and travel-friendly. 
After finding out my favorite Coachella spot was COMPLETELY reserved by one greedy party for the first weekend, I hit Hotwire in the hopes of finding a hidden deal. Hotwire yielded favorable results for my recent trip through the Pacific Northwest. This time, not so much. 
During this search, I found the taxes and fees bananas, and significantly more than I remember from previous reservations. Usually after a booking, I rush to compare the advertised room rate to the Hotwire rate I just booked. Well this time, with taxes and fees, I ended up paying $13 more than if I had booked directly through the hotel’s site. This has NEVER happened to me before when booking through Hotwire. Usually, I get to look forward to a good gloat. I was robbed of that opportunity, and I’m fucking bitter. 
I love a bargain, but you gotta read the fine print, especially with these NO REFUND sites. $13 isn’t a that big of a deal, but it still just gets my goat. Gouging hotels rates are just the beginning; the entire experience of Coachella = an unbelievable financial racket. 
This book Heads in Beds: A Reckless Memoir of Hotels, Hustles, and So-Called Hospitality by Jacob Tomsky has been getting a lot of shine, so I Kindled it to see if it indeed included any salacious insider gossip. Let me save you the trouble – this tell-all doesn’t tell much about the hotel industry or human nature that you don’t already know.
Tomsky started in hospitality at the bottom of the valet pile in New Orleans, and eventually made his way up to third-in-command at a mid-to-high-end Manhattan hotel he calls “Bellevue” to protect its identity. 
Tomsky works primarily as a front desk clerk. The self-serving thesis of this book? Heavily tip the front desk clerk with “bricks” ($100s) or “baby bricks” ($20s) to score under-the-table upgrades. Throw some money around at the desk and you too can enjoy a $4 comped bottle of shitty pinot. How Fancy.
The inverse is also true. Mistreat your wife, make a racist comment to the cabbie, or fart downwind from the all powerful desk clerk and find yourself key bombed. Tomsky will stick you with a bunk key card, book you in the shittiest room, or one that gets all-night phone calls because the room number matches 1+ the local area code and every ninny in the hotel forgets to dial 9 for an outside line. Remember to be on your very best behavior or the desk despot will punish you!
Tomsky promises park views, late check outs, and express check-in if you slide him some cash. But I don’t really want or need any of that. Fuck the view. I’m sleeping here. Can you get me a clean room with that $20? Probably not. Even the finest hotels suffer from inconsistent housekeeping. 
I don’t care about stealing from the mini-bar. If you do, Tomsky says go wild; the hotel will comp the oft-disputed charges. 
Hey ya’ll, I hope you had a fantastic weekend. I took a little trip to Atlanta this weekend for Music Midtown, a huge music festival held in Piedmont Park. Who played? All these mutherfuckers…..
Before entering the show, we decided to have lunch at The Flying Biscuit, a southern chain know for it’s vegetarian-friendly options. After a 20 minute wait, we were shown to our table. I ordered tofu scramble. 
It arrived with an infection of tiny shards of turkey bacon. I asked my waiter, “is this meat?” I couldn’t exactly tell what the small pink strips were. He scooped up my plate and not long after the manager came over to our table. 
She slid down the wall behind her into a deferential squat and said “Words cannot describe how appalled I am that errant pieces of turkey bacon somehow ended up in your tofu scramble. I understand that when you adopt a commitment to a certain lifestyle, that the commitment is important. Your lunch is on the house. Is there anything else I can get you.” Take note, mistakes happen, but it is the way these mistakes are addressed that matters. The manager handled the situation with the utmost of professionalism. She acknowledged the error, expressed an understanding of why a vegetarian would be appalled at discovering turkey bacon in a tofu scramble, and immediately rectified the situation. This scenario could have resulted in a death-blowing Yelp review, but instead I must take time to create a pocket of praise for the Flying Biscuit and their top notch manager. 
After our free lunch, we walked over to the park. Attendees covered the shady hills blanket to blanket by the time we arrived. We headed down to the sunny field and sat for a bit of Adam Ant. Working an OG Captain Jack Sparrow look, Adam played a decent, if expected, set to a half-interested crowd. After Ant, we shuffled over to the mainstage for Ludacris. 
Who hates crowd participation? I do! Ludacris spent most of the set trying to coax his “true fans” (approximately 10%, though he erroneously believed that percentage to be much, much, higher) to sing along with his catalog of hits and flip the bird at one another. Most absurd? He tried to pretend that the show was spontaneous and that he was just pulling tracks out of his hat. To maintain that illusion, he probably shouldn’t have presented prepared background visuals and lighting to accompany his supposedly unplanned set. Don’t insult us Luda. To add further insult, three-quarters of the way into the set his DJ played Smells Like Teen Spirit. Yup, you absolutely read that shit correctly. Mutherfucking Nirvana. It was as if he and his people looked at each other and said, “What do white people like?” The completely irrelevant foray into mid 90′s grunge felt absolutely pandering and gross. Much like Snoop and Dre at Coachella, I felt intense 3rd person embarrassment and shame for the washed-up rapper. 
Next came Florence + the Machine, a band that has impressed me live in the past. Florence flubbed her intro; it was not noticeable to the general crowd, but she must have referenced the mistake at least 4 times in the 75 minute set. It wasn’t a big deal, but she belabored it to the point of annoyance, comparing the experience to arriving at school naked. An absolute PLAZA QUEEN set up next to us with his cheesy Bob Marley backpack and bracelets and proceeded to sing every single song at the top of his lungs completely off-key. It was so loud, disruptive, and pitchy that I unapologetically and continuously laughed out loud through the Coachella-similar set. He was so enthusiastic, I couldn’t bring myself to remind him that it was not his American Idol audition. It wasn’t just that his singing was bad, it was also the intensity and mood he was bringing to it – like he was at a Slayer show or something. At one point the kid threw up the sign of the beast – AT A FUCKING FLORENCE + THE MACHINE SHOW! Blanche, you’ve been dethroned; there is a new PLAZA QUEEN clawing at your crown, and he has a soundtrack child!
We secured such a favorable position for Florence at the mainstage, we couldn’t bring ourselves to give up our spots to navigate across the crowded field to hear Girltalk. Girltalk is super fun live, but we remained focused on the reason we came – Pearl Jam. When Florence finished, and the crowd began to shift, we gained another 30 feet towards the stage.
One major difference between Midtown and Coachella is that Coachella has way more geographical space with the polo grounds and all. By the end of the night Piedmont Park was asses to elbows everywhere we looked in every direction as far as the eye could see. I know Leah Love, your greatest fear right? The uncontrollable mass crowd could easily become a riot or stampede at any moment and there isn’t shit law enforcement, Jesus, or Eddie Vedder can do to stop it.
The dense crowd had more than its fair share of rude pushy assholes. Or maybe I was just in a mood, I’m not sure. I made some friends and I made some enemies. So we’re all standing around waiting for 60 minutes for PJ to start. The natives are getting restless. We’re staring at an empty stage. 
The crowd thickens and two girls roll up. Late twenties-early thirties, taller, one blonde with tats, the other dark brown overgrown frizzy curls. Brown-haired girl has shorts on and some sort of white doily top. At first all is chill. We’re all respecting each other’s personal space. 
But soon brown-haired girl gets a little sloppy, a little loud, a little big. And by big I mean her big ass is continuing to bump into me. In a crowd like this, people bump into each other, no big deal, I blew it off. After the third or fourth relatively firm contact, I gently guided her back to her spot and sweetly said “Mama I’m going to move you back over where you were.” All is calm. Girl is moved. The waiting continues. Her ass hit me again and this time in a wedge-in-front type of manner. Again, I say “could you please stop hitting me?” a little firmer this time. I stood my ground. 
This is the part where half of you will lose respect for me and the other will throw a fist in the air. Let me be perfectly clear: I’m not proud of what I’m about to confess. 
I overhear the girl saying to her blonde tatted friend I’m just going to stick my ass into this girl (meaning me obviously). The audacity! I was appalled. Anger surged through my body like steroids. So against all logic and common decency that’s when I hip checked the girl – hard. When she turned around surprised I sarcastically said excuse me in my best bitchy. 
She responded by saying she knew it wasn’t an accident. To which I respond, “You wanna tussle in this crowd?” She had a beer can in one hand and began to raise her other hand. I doubt seriously she was going to hit me, but this is where I would claim self-defense in a court of law. 
I reached up and I snatched a handful of hair and took the bitch down. Right there in front of everybody, to her knees, one hand. I really wasn’t trying to hurt her. If I were trying to hurt her I very easily could have taken out her front two teeth with my unicorn ring which I always wear to rock shows just for this very reason. 
Blonde friend freaked and started to go for a handful of my hair when my brave companion stepped in and pushed everyone apart. I threw up the fist, unicorn gleaming and said next time it’ll be this. (My very best “you wanna knuckle sandwich?”) That’s when the verbal bitch slap began. Blonde tatty kept shrieking “why?, why?, why?!” over and over again. “Why do you have to get ghetto?” (Which I found fucking hilarious, because really how else can you be in a fight but ghetto?). I said, “I asked you twice to stop touching me. You continued to stick your fat ass in my face, and I will not continue to be assaulted by you for the rest of the night.” Then brown-haired girl says, “My boyfriend loves my fat ass.” And I said, “I bet he does when he’s got you bent over fucking you up the ass and you’re screaming and you love it. I know your kind. (insert slow head to toe bitch scan) Yeah, I know your kind. I know your kind. (3X slow for effect) You are trash.” 
Look it wasn’t ladylike, smart, mature, or classy, but in the immortal word Steven Hyde, Where Zen ends ass-kicking begins. 
If you are still reading, when those two bitches left we had a great time. As an added bonus, the fight cleared quite a bit of space so we had a little breathing room. Plus, we made friends with everyone around us because 1) they wanted to know the fight gossip firsthand, and 2) they wanted to stay on the good side of the unstable hair-pulling psycho girl. 
Pearl Jam absolutely rocked our asses off with a killer set list including: Rearview Mirror, Crazy Mary, + the obligatory Black, Alive, Elderly Woman, Nothingman, and Betterman. 
