I’ll show you a forgotten goddamn password, you smug little ingrate of a security system. Fourth grade passwords are the best passwords and last forever, it’s a fact. Just because I can’t remember right now doesn’t mean you have to be such a–  wait, got it. Thanks.

Oh hey, what’s up guys? In the words of The Onion‘s Jim Anchower, it’s been a long time since I rapped at ya. I know. I’m not sorry. 

See, trying to do the blog every day while couchsurfing in the city (Jesus Christ, that seems so long ago) was the worst decision I made when I set out to do it. It burned me up, chewed me up, spat me out and didn’t even have the decency to call me a cab. What a dick. Anyways, it got to the point where I was worrying more about getting my blog entry in on time than, you know, finding a place to sleep and/or doing cool stuff in the first place.

 

Since then, I’m journeyed back home to San Diego, reunited with friends, filmed a documentary on The Frights’ (dafrights.bandcamp.com) west coast tour, started work at a summer camp, slept in my car once (by accident), shaved my beard, grown it back, shaved it again, grown it back again, edited parts of the documentary (Episode 1: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T6vTaRC36-s), eaten more Mexican food than Mexico, smoked 3 cigarettes, read 2 Tom Robbins books, re-read Malcolm Gladwell’s The Tipping Point, read a PDF of Max Brooks’ World War Z (surprisingly dense, great concept), paid to see The Purge (good, but only in the “I can’t believe how bad they fucked this up” sense), walked away from the smoldering remains of the Bruins and Celtics’ respective rosters (at the time of this writing, Gerald Wallace is about to be moved, for my sake), played pickup basketball, hiked and thought about tattoos. Among other things.

I checked my savings account today, and the beating it’s taken from my travels is pretty stark at this point. My awesome parents (congrats on the house in Atlanta, ya’ll) have sent gas money via the internet, because they’re amazing people, but all in all, I’ve discovered that suburbia is meant for people with households. Let’s see if I can prove them wrong (which, by the looks of the people staring at me in Starbucks, I am. I really should put some clean socks on). 

 

My friends are the best, and let’s leave it at that. 

 

Gotta go edit some shit. See you dudes not tomorrow. Glad to be back.

 

DRIVING SONG OF THE DAY: Kurt Vile, “Freeway”

DAY 61 MEALS: Two bagels, bowl of cereal, Starbucks coffee

Marc is white, male, and does things.

Twitter:   https://twitter.com/marcfinn50

Instagram:   http://instagram.com/marcfinn

Band:   http://www.facebook.com/palmspringlife

Sketches/vlogs:   http://www.youtube.com/afewdecentboys

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WHAT?! Sick. 

 

I spent most of my day yesterday freaking out over my first paid interview of my life, which went well. Then I went to a bookstore and skimmed through every Robbins/Murakami/Twain short story/Fight Club author dude they had. Finished off the day with walking around Jamaica Plain until it was too dark.

 

That’s about it. I need a short break from this; gotta write some more stuff. 

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WALKING SONG OF THE DAY: ongoing

DAY 7 MEALS: ongoing

Marc is white, male, and does things.

Twitter:   https://twitter.com/marcfinn50

Instagram:   http://instagram.com/marcfinn

Band:   http://www.facebook.com/palmspringlife

Sketches/vlogs:   http://www.youtube.com/afewdecentboys

Whaddup.

Yesterday I played pickup basketball in the South End, in black jeans, a buttoned shirt, and a pair of ratty Converse sneakers. My nickname on the court was “Sunday,” presumably because I was dressed for church. I didn’t choose this, but then again, you never really choose your own nickname on the basketball court. Yo.

This lasted for about two hours, during which I pulled off a behind-the-back pass through a defender’s legs, which caused everyone on the court to briefly go batshit insane. I acted a bit in this past year, so it was a lot easier to pretend that I had meant to do that. Whatever, it definitely made up for the 3 missed layups and general inability to jump over a matchbox that characterizes my ESPN Draft Profile.

After that, I walked back to the Common area and took a nap, which never happens to me. I never sleep when I want to sleep, but as I slowly closed my eyes I said….no, I didn’t say anything. I was asleep, silly.

There were three things immediately wrong when I regained consciousness. The first was that I had a severe case of drymouth (thanks, allergies). The second was that my eyes opened to the sight of two pairs of men’s dress shoes, with high heels in between. The third thing was that there was somebody taking a picture, and that not only was I in the shot, I was apparently the focus of it.

I sat up immediately and realized that my previously undisturbed part of the Public Gardens was now overrun by the biggest high school prom picture party of the 21st century. I had been sleeping during all of this, almost smack dab in the middle of the proceedings. As luck would have it, a pair of mischievous couples had decided to take pictures with the hobo stretched out in the park .A sweatshirt had been covering my face this whole time, so they seemed slightly shocked that I was close to their age.

The sun was directly in my face, so it took awhile to realize that the other kid with the camera had dropped it and was holding his hands over his open mouth. I laughed because he looked like Ashton Kutcher. Punk’d had seriously gone downhill.

I got up, got my things, and didn’t say a word to these kids for fear I would terrify them. It’s nice being 6 feet tall when surrounded by high schoolers, because you’re way taller than all of–PSYCHE, THEY’RE ALL GIANTS. SUITED GIANTS. I don’t remember going to prom with NBA players. Guess they do it differently over here.

Up until last night, I had never even introduced myself to the two other members of this apartment, because I had gotten in too late and they had woken up too early. It was a pleasant surprise then, when they turned out to be the absolute coolest cats this side of the Tasmanian tiger (too soon?).  We had barbecue, beers, pasta, and friendship to end the evening. I like it here.

I’m interviewing some peeps for Allston Pudding today, and I think my payment for the first article comes in the form of back-pats and affirming nods. I’m ok with this.

By the way, the other day I bought tickets to FYF Fest in August, which will conclude my couchsurfing adventures. WE’RE GONNA GET CRAZY/DEAD.

Later, ya’ll.

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WALKING SONG OF THE DAY: “Makeout Point”–The Frights

DAY 6 MEALS: delicious homemade burger, pasta salad, cup of coffee, chicken burrito, 3 bottles of water, gamesmanship, sports

Marc is white, male, and does things.

Twitter:   https://twitter.com/marcfinn50

Instagram:   http://instagram.com/marcfinn

Band:   http://www.facebook.com/palmspringlife

Sketches/vlogs:   http://www.youtube.com/afewdecentboys

Sorry, ya’ll. A very nice girl was already conked out on the other couch in the same room as mine last night, and I didn’t want to wake her up at a ridiculous hour because of my incredible keyboard prose on a Thursday evening/Friday morning. I should have, though, because this morning I found out that she likes Dr. Dog, so we’re basically soulmates. Just kidding, I’m not that kind of guy. Everyone knows you have to have a Dr. Dog t-shirt in order for me to even pay attention to–OH WAIT SHE DID. SHE WAS WEARING ONE AND I DIDN’T EVEN NOTICE IT WHEN I STARTED PLAYING DR. DOG DURING BREAKFAST AND DAMN THAT WAS SMOOTH.

Yesterday was an exercise in suspension of disbelief. For the past few days I hadn’t really seen anyone from college due to the fact that, you know, it’s fucking done. But yesterday a few friends and I went to grab dinner and it was glorious. My family has done the famed “Mary Chung Chinese Food/Toscanini’s Ice Cream Combo” for decades, ever since my dad was a starving grad student at MIT in need of some perspective on the whole science thing (which by the way, has worked out wonderfully. He’s having a great time with his new job, my mom just reunited with him in Atlanta in a temporary apartment, and as of a few days ago I no longer have a home address. It’s bittersweet). It was killer, and now I have multiple people confirming that I am looking the part of a homeless man. Thank you guys?

While I was waiting for them, I had been walking around near the river mostly because I fucking could, but also because it was beautiful outside. People were sunbathing on docks and whatnot, but it was too windy to really bring out any sort of object (there were more than a few towels that had been blown into the water). As I walked the bridge to MIT,  my stomach growled out in the ancient, sacred stomach language, “HUMAN IF YOU DON’T EMPTY YOUR BOWELS INTO THE NEAREST CIRCULAR RECEPTACLE YOU FIND  I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL MAKE YOU REGRET LIFE.” This was going to take awhile, so after considering my immediate options in the Cambridge area , I decided to completely defoul the bathroom in the Infinite Corridor at MIT. My ass has very high standards. I don’t apologize.

You can read about it here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Infinite_Corridor  While you’re at it, check out the Wikipedia entry on MIT “hacking.” Who says nerds aren’t hilarious? http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hacks_at_the_Massachusetts_Institute_of_Technology

There’s a story and a reason behind this. When I was about twelve, my dad and I visited MIT (I know this because there’s a ridiculously fucking adorable picture of me on the steps of some coliseum-like structure, with the same Boston Red Sox hat that I have stuffed in one of my suitcases right now). I remember that one of my friends had just learned how to whistle, and was whistling the theme to Fairly Oddparents at any given opportunity, so naturally I had to do it back to him. I asked my dad how to whistle, and he said that he learned how to whistle when he was at MIT, in the bathroom of the Infinite Corridor. This is a big fucking deal, because actually whistling in the Infinite Corridor is like playing an organ in the Grand Canyon. The acoustics are awesome. This means that, X number of years ago, my dad whistled in the stall and then got up from the toilet, went outside, and whistled “Zip a Dee Do Da” for the first time in his life, as the halls of eons’ worth of academia welcomed his music into the world. Let’s just say I needed to continue the Finn legacy of echoing wind in the Infinite Corridor, if you catch my drift.

So, yeah. There’s a great chance that I pooped in the same stall that my dad learned to whistle in 30 years ago. The world is amazing.

After our stomach linings were stretched like whoopee cushions full of Chinese food and ice cream, we all contemplated how lucky we are to be living in such an amazing world. Toscanini’s ice cream will do that to you. A viewing of Black Dynamite and a couple of beers later, and everything was right with the world. I miss my friends. If this crazy idea of mine has done anything besides give me an excuse to try and grow facial hair, it’s made me appreciate people again. MARC GETS SEPARATION ANXIETY 5 DAYS AFTER LEAVING WOOHOO KINDA BUT NOT REALLY BUT MAYBE ACTUALLY.

Okay, ya’ll. I’m gonna go have a great day. You should too.

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WALKING SONG OF THE DAY: “Juvenlies”–The Walkmen

DAY 5 MEALS: cereal, Mary Chung beef lo mein, 2 scoop cone mocha ice cream, pizza, 1 beer, friendship, everlasting companionship, eHarmony

Marc is white, male, and does things.

Twitter:   https://twitter.com/marcfinn50

Instagram:   http://instagram.com/marcfinn

Band:   http://www.facebook.com/palmspringlife

Sketches/vlogs:   http://www.youtube.com/afewdecentboys

I went on a run this morning, and instantly started to wonder if life was really worth it. I’m taking this as a subtle suggestion from my body to maybe  try again later.

I had crashed last night on my bandmate’s succulent couch, and I will be doing so again for the next couple of days. Having a home base, even one as small as this, is the most comforting thing ever when you’re couchsurfing. This is a priority, people. You free yourself up the entire day, you have a place to bring leftovers (IMPORTANT), you have a roof over your head for when it gets rainy during the day, and most importantly, you have a shower. Let me say that again. I HAVE A FUCKING SHOWER.

It’s so weird that it’s been four days since college ended, and my opinions on hygiene have reached this point. Who knew that homelessness was a BETTER prompt for cleanliness than a university education with crippling debt?

Quick paragraph about the couch:

 

Wow. You guys, I thought I knew couches. Even before this dumb idea of an adventurous summer, I considered myself a couch expert. I’ve sat on leather, polyester, beanbag, you name it. Nothing can surprise me anymore. At least that’s what I thought until last night.

You guys know about those things at Brookstone where you drag them on your head? Head scratchers, probably? Well sleeping on this couch gave me that sensation, but ALL OVER MY GODDAMN BODY. This wasn’t just comfort, this was practically porn for my senses (don’t worry, I didn’t have sex on/with the couch, sickos). I’m beyond excited to crash on this beautiful thing for a few days; it’s like I’m sleeping in a quicksand of comfort.

So the other day I thought about making a mandate for myself: that every day, I would have to take the T (our subway, for you non-Bostonians) to the very end of one of the lines. After today, I’m not sure that’ll happen because it takes so amazingly long to journey on those suckers, and one tends to get hungry pretty easily.

But today, I went to Dorcester and Mattapan. And boy, was it something.

Let me tell you about my experience in race relations. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been raised in largely white suburban communities. Nothing totally homogenous; my high school did have a substantial Asian population, surrounding areas had black and Middle Eastern communities and there was a very large Hispanic presence mostly everywhere in the city (for the record, I grew up in San Diego). But for all intents and purposes, I had never experienced living in a community where my race wasn’t noticeably the most populous one on the street. My parents both came from urban communities on the east coast (my dad and his mother apparently ran a bowling alley in a bad part of New Jersey. They were protected by the mob and other gangs because all of their kids hung out there. How’s that for a parenthetical tangent?), and are the most level-headed and wise people I know when it comes to social matters like race. They’ve lived in New Jersey, Charlottesville, Boston, New York, St. Louis, and god knows how much they’re not telling me. Above all, they taught me that it doesn’t matter what color you are, it’s what you do and what you say that really make a difference, and all the stuff that parents are supposed to teach their kids (but in this case is actually one of the most important things to teach kids).

So spending time in Mattapan, a place that I knew going in was a mostly black community, wasn’t going to change my life or anything. I think going to Oakland, California with my dad a few years ago was the first time where I was old enough to realize that there was a difference from seeing the people walking on the street vs. those from home.

But this was special in that it was literally the first time that I’d ever stepped onto a packed subway as the only human with a Caucasian complexion. Nobody cared, of course. Nothing happened, really. But in my head, I was undergoing the coolest (and shortest) identity shock of all time. I am the different one here, I said to myself. And then I turned on some Bon Iver and unwittingly caused the Stereotype Gods to pound their fists in anger and rip off my semi-bearded headshot from their wall.

That’s a lie actually, something cool happened. A kid dropped a pencil, and when he went to get it (near my feet), he stopped, looked up at me and said (I shit you not), “these are some tasty-ass shoes, nigga.” The shoes in question were beat-up red and white Converse that had seen me through many a late-night walk in the strange areas of Boston, so of course they were tasty. I said thanks, and he went back to chatting with his friends. He couldn’t have been more than 12.

Oh yeah, once I got to Mattapan it was raining, and cold. I had some pizza, and walked around a bit. I remembered that there was a library I wanted to check out in Dorcester so I didn’t stay long, but it was really cool being down there.

Dorchester was aight. Cool library, surprisingly large Murakami selection.

I got lost after getting off at Downtown crossing, and made my way back using the time-honored technique honed by thousands of shitfaced BU students: FOLLOW THE PRU, AND IT WILL FOLLOW YOU. 

And that was my day. Get some sleep, ya’ll. I got a date with a quicksand couch (not like that, sickos).
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WALKING SONG OF THE DAY: “Beth/Rest” –Bon Iver

DAY 4 MEALS: pizza, cereal, strawberry crepe, 2 apples, banana, veggie sandwich, racial understanding, world peace

Marc is white, male, and does things.

Twitter:   https://twitter.com/marcfinn50

Instagram:   http://instagram.com/marcfinn

Band:   http://www.facebook.com/palmspringlife

Sketches/vlogs:   http://www.youtube.com/afewdecentboys

Sorry for the lateness. Just kidding. I’m not.

Most of my day (I woke up late) was spent doing this:

And band practice, which lasted until 1:30 AM. Owning your own space has its drawbacks, I was ready to leave at least an hour beforehand. Our four track EP is slowly coming together, and we’re stoked. Will tell more details later.

Director’s note on the video: it was only filmed after I was positive that everybody in that suite had left. Not that I was embarrassed to show my body, but I was embarrassed to show my body after talking to myself in the shower. The things I have to do for my friends, I tell ya.

But this wouldn’t be Not Actually Homeless if I didn’t go somewhere new, and talk about food right? Damn right. Today, I went to the Coast Cafe in lower Cambridge, next to Hoyt Field. I ordered fried chicken, which narrowly edged out curing cancer as the best thing I could have done with my day. Whatever chicken produced this thing must have been spiced from the time it burst out of its shell, because the flavor was unreal. It was like sprinkling fairy dust on a slab of meat cut by Stromboli, the evil butcher from Pinnochio. The first bite of that sucker was exactly like the scene where the whale spits out Pinnochio and his friends out of pure disgust, only the exact opposite. The prevalent Southern accents in the entire staff of the unassuming store was a bonus. Simply exquisite.

The fries were ok, I guess.

Afterwards, I went to Hoyt Field, took an Instagram picture, and faceplanted because I needed rest, and I’m homeless so I can do these kind of things.

Taking a nap in the middle of a baseball field is like my own special version of heaven. There aren’t any Field of Dreams-type ghosts to ruin my day, nobody’s there, it smells nice, and it’s the closest thing I’ve felt to happiness on a baseball field since ever (It might not be surprising that I sucked at baseball when I was little. One year I even won the “Good Sportmanship” medal, which as we all know is parent-speak for “This kid has the same amount of athletic ability as a used tampon.” I found that medal recently when I was packing up for college. Say what you will about the medal’s true message, but damn if it doesn’t make good fire kindling).

So yeah, that happened, and every single cocky Huck Finn-styled thought of independence from mankind was shattered as soon as I woke up, because my laptop was soaked due to the water bottle in my backpack leaking. Ain’t no Jackson Island camping for this guy, unless it has outlets and wifi.

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WALKING SONG OF THE DAY: “Christmas Unicorn” –Sufjan Stevens

DAY 3 MEALS: Dunkin Donuts coffee, two donuts, fried chicken, more coffee, diabetes, slow and painful death of my metabolism

Marc is white, male, and does things.

Twitter:   https://twitter.com/marcfinn50

Instagram:   http://instagram.com/marcfinn

Band:   http://www.facebook.com/palmspringlife

Sketches/vlogs:   http://www.youtube.com/afewdecentboys

It’s 1:26 AM and I’m just now starting. As Ice Cube once said, “Today was a good day.”

Here we go:

Last night was the first time I’ve ever slept in a frat house. Fortunately for me, there weren’t any shenanigans going on, and everybody was extremely nice and courteous. This was especially notable given the fact that a wiry, hairy man who just smelled like a severe lack of internship opportunities was crashing on their couch. It’s a little bit suspicious how nice they all were actually. I’ll be right back, I’m gonna go check my crotch to see if there are any extra dicks scrawled down there in Sharpie.

Anyways, I awoke, and had to go drop off some gear at my band’s practice space in Allston, whereupon I decided to go grab something to eat. On the way there, I passed through the desolate exterior of my college, and was absolutely dumbfounded. The complete lack of humanity was truly frightening; not a single human soul dared to walk the streets on a beautiful morning at 9 AM–oh wait, nevermind. Nobody was up at 9 AM at any point of the year. Carry on, world.

I didn’t shower. You need to know this. If you didn’t, well now you fucking do.

Walking in lower Allston during the day is like walking through the trailer for The Way Way Back but without the waterpark, Steve Carrell, soundtrack, children, or stolen script fragments from Adventureland and Little Miss Sunshine (for pictures, see http://instagram.com/marcfinn . I didn’t take that many, because I hate you). It’s like Wes Anderson’s wet dream. I felt like the Kinks were about to start playing as I passed by the most picturesque laundromat ever (again, no pictures, because I hate you). It was like the childhood I never had was trying to claw its way out of my stomach like Alien, so I had to beat it back with a stick like I usually do. Don’t you dare bring that sappy shit into my house.

Anyways, breakfast. The short version: The Breakfast Club in Lower Allston is absolutely amazing.

The long version: Jesus Christ in a handbasket woven by Jesus Christ. To call the “crunchy french toast” that I ordered (by myself, sitting next to a trucker with a tendency to glare at his milk until it curdled in fear) mere “food” is like calling Mardi Gras a “gathering.” This thing did resemble mortal french toast, but only if you took out half the bread and replaced it with almonds, then glazed the whole thing over in apples, pears, and sexual love, but only if you had remembered to crush the almonds by telling an LAPD officer that they were Rodney King’s daughters. Even then, I can’t possibly convey how delectable this shit was. It’s unfair. The two most delicious meals in my entire life are still a horse dish that my dad and I had in the ghetto part of Venice (long story), and a piece of veal in the ghetto part of Rome (same story). This didn’t approach those, but it made itself a contender in the breakfast category. I finished it off with a comparatively weak coffee (to be fair, you could have given me a vintage 1776 wine bottled by Benjamin Franklin and I would have thought it was weak in comparison). I need to stop eating at delicious diners, they’re too expensive. Not that the french toast was expensive, but when you factor in my astronomical (yet completely justified) tip, it might be in my best interests to slow down. I exited the diner feeling like…I don’t even know. I imagine that Flava Flav felt a similar feeling after watching “Clockstoppers.” Just pure elation.

And then I pissed in a Walgreens. Perspective sucks.

Later, I went to the studio and did this because I was bored:

After that, I found out that the Daft Punk album leaked, and that I still had to finish my article for Allston Pudding about Snoop Dogg and Daft Punk (I’ll share WHEN IT’S FUCKING READY, OK?!), so I went to a bench near campus and listened/typed for a bit. I ran into some friends. It wuz kewl I guess.

I took the 57 bus to Watertown in an attempt to broaden my horizons of this municipality and to finish my homework–uh, article. Sorry, it’s just weird that I still have to type out things in English when my body is telling me IT’S SUMMER, GO DO FRIENDS AND SPEND TIME WITH DRUGS. There’s nothing wrong with that previous sentence.

The Bruins game (I’m in no mood to recap right now, just google it) caused the bar down the street to almost cave in. I didn’t witness the game, but I did witness that, which was almost just as good.

And then I went back to the studio, and Palm Spring Life laid down some tracks for our upcoming EP. We’re BEYOND pumped.

Tonight, I’m crashing with more awesome people. Names are withheld. I will have a shower, which is wonderful. I’m back late because I had to lug luggage. Heh.

Sorry for the lack of wits right now, but it’s my blog, my body, my energy level, and I hate you.

Just kidding. I love you. Let me sleep please. And don’t draw dicks on my dick.

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WALKING SONG OF THE DAY: “You Can Count on Me” –Panda Bear

DAY 2 MEALS: God (in the form of french toast), cup of coffee, apple, pear, Jewish bread, Kit Kat bar

Marc is white, male, and does things.

Twitter:   https://twitter.com/marcfinn50

Instagram:   http://instagram.com/marcfinn

Band:   http://www.facebook.com/palmspringlife

Sketches/vlogs:   http://www.youtube.com/afewdecentboys