Jesus, writing a book is a terrible thing to do. I really don’t recommend it, unless you hate yourself and love the nagging feeling of failure dogging your heels at all times. I had a 2,000 word day yesterday, which is good, and I was shooting for the same today- I got up to 1,200 and ran out of steam, but that’s fine. Except I’m not 6,000 words into this chapter, and it really just started. Well, what the fuck?

And what’s more fun to read about than a dude talking about a book he’s writing that you haven’t read? How ’bout football when you don’t care about the sport, or books you don’t plan to read, or elections you were sick of three months before the candidates were even considering running, or plays I saw that happened a continent away from where you live? Jesus, this update three times a week thing is gonna be pulling from a dry well…

How about Rhymefest? Y’all can’t get enough of me writing about Rhymefest, can you? He’s got a new mixtape out with Mark Ronson. It’s absurd and brilliant, better than blue collar, and blue collar is one of my favorite records ever. It’s not really a mixtape- Fest is on every track, and there are ten new songs, most of which are produced by Ronson. There are also about ten kinda funny skits, but the songs are all terrific- the idea behind the record is that it’s a tribute to Michael Jackson, so it’s full of uncleared samples. This is why the thing is a free mixtape. It’s obviously a labor of love- though I question Fest’s claim that it’s totally sincere, given the interview snippets they cut up for the fest and mike skits.

Still, it’s nice to see someone besides Lil’ Wayne doing something interesting like this. Rhymefest has a hell of a lot to say, and he’s one of the more self-reflexive MCs out there. It’s rare that you’ll hear a rapper talk about how their record flopped, and what they learned from it. He references it a good handful of times on man in the mirror, and he doesn’t blame the label, and he doesn’t blame the audience who couldn’t get him. He explores it in interesting ways. He’s a top-notch MC, and he has guest verses from Kweli and Ghostface, among others, on the record. Because everybody loves Michael Jackson’s music, so it can’t be hard to get people turned onto the concept.

Ghostface has been an inspiration on the novel, and it’s interesting to hear how his style contrasts with Rhymefest. Fest is terrific, but he’s not on the same level, lyrically, as Ghostface, but that’s no indictment of his talents- Ghostface is really a writer without many peers in hip-hop, operating on levels that even some of the best never touch. I don’t know that he’s the best lyricist in hip-hop, and I’m not really qualified to make that sort of judgment anyway, but as a writer, he’s working on levels that few songwriters operate on. Nick Cave works in the same territory sometimes, but it’s a short list. Ghostface’s style, at his best, is to set a complete scene and paint a picture using negative space- when he’s writing a narrative, rather than describe what happens, or how he feels about it, he’ll tell you what the room he’s in is like, what it smells like and what’s on the television, who’s around, and then the action happens organically, because the scene’s been set and when things start- maybe shots are fired outside, or maybe he’s in a casino and the manager starts eyeing him suspiciously- it’s never i heard shots or the manager was looking for me- he gets a phone call and he hears it, or the manager has extra guards around him when he stops at the cashier booth. It’s storytelling that happens in real-time; few songwriters are able to pull that off, and when I started listening to him more seriously, I felt like it was a challenge- if Ghostface can challenge the conventions of storytelling in sixteen bars, then I damn sure better make sure I’m doing it in three hundred pages.

If you’ve ever written a novel, you’re aware of what happens when you get stuck. One of my tricks, which I borrow from some fantasy writer I’ve never read, but with whom I read an interview once, is to dive into a minor character for a few pages, to keep from feeling confined. And if I let Ghostface keep me trying to innovate, well, hopefully you end up with a book people might actually want to read.

I haven’t written a whole lot about writing in this journal. It’s partly a conscious thing- was about being a writer, and one of the reasons I dropped that online identity was to explore some new ideas, and to try to think about myself as something other than just a writer. The downside to that is, when you try to abandon the parts of your identity that you had put to the forefront, even if it feels liberating, you also end up lost. I wrote constantly about the experience of writing poplife, and have only occasionally touched on writing weathered, which is the name of the book about New Orleans.

But now? Well, hell- I have deadlines to meet, even if I only made ‘em up myself, and football season is nearly over. The time’s right to expand my topics, and trying to redefine myself by redefining what it means to be a writer, rather than just a person who writes sometimes, is one that’s on my mind.

But enough of that. I haven’t even mentioned Mitt Romney’s stunning defeat in Michigan, because it’s boring and you already know all about it. The Republican battle royal continues, and there likely won’t be a nominee until the convention, unless the groundhog sees its shadow, in which case it’ll be Giuliani, who will lose in 48 states in the general election, everywhere except South Dakota and Alaska. North Dakota will go blue, though, and in 2010 be annexed by Canada. What the hell? This country keeps getting weirder, and there are few things that will surprise anyone. Expect to see the daily show focus primarily on the Senate floor debate over whether we pick a territory without too many brown people to offer statehood to, or if we amend the flag. Jon Stewart will stare at the camera blankly, and then his head will explode, when Kay Bailey Hutchison argues passionately for just trying to give statehood to, like, the Falkland Islands because the flag had fifty stars when they sewed it, it’ll have fifty stars forever!

It’s three AM and I’m getting weirder, which makes me even more American by default. I had several people yesterday want to talk to me about Texas, which doesn’t happen all that often. But three times, people wanted to ask me about the Lonestar State, if it was as big and awesome as it seemed. bigger and awesomer, I exclaimed, then flexed my bicep to display the Alamo tattoo. what the hell is that? they asked, while swooning, and I had to explain that it was the Texas equivalent of Big Ben, which everyone involved found vaguely insulting… but I may have gotten a job out of it, so all’s not really lost.

We’ll see about the job thing. I’ve decided that I could probably use one, as the freelance thing is fun, mostly, and sporadically lucrative, but also completely isolating. I reckon that I’d have more fun living here if I spent a few hours a week with young people who are trying to get their drink on- maybe even get their freak on- and thus may end up behind the bar at a breakfast/coffee/cocktail place in Soho, if only a few times a week. That would probably be enough- don’t get excited, I’m not going straight here. Just, you know, trying to give myself more opportunities to talk to English people about Texas. They may not even call back.

While I was out in Soho I stumbled into a small bookstore that specialized in art/photography/design books- typical cool i don’t read much books, mostly, with a small display of McSweeney’s, too. Nothing wrong with it, though, and I leafed through a coffeetable-style photobook on the subject of punk houses. Turns out two of the twenty-some houses that were the subject of photo-essays are places that I’ve performed in, which was strange and comforting. They had pictures of the Bank Street Warehouse in New Orleans, where I played with the Spent Shells while touring with Beyond Gods and Empires. That had been a fun night- we first met Clint from Acts of Sedition there. He had been in town traveling, and saw a flyer and figured if he showed up he’d probably find a place to sleep, which he did. It was weird to see it in a book in England, but it made some sense- the house had been around for a while, and it was gigantic, at least by punk house standards. If you google it, the first link that comes up is to Pitchfork.

I was more surprised to see Villa Kula, a small punk house in Seattle, featured in the book. We had played there when I toured with Tony in 2004, and it had been a weird night- one of those where the people who booked it are on their cell phones to their friends, trying to get them to come out. I only vaguely remember performing that night- it’s possible that the set was really more just me chatting with the people who lived there, as I don’t think anyone else showed up, and trying to work in bits I had been doing on tour into the conversation so I would sound wittier and more clever than I usually am… I probably dropped a poem or two, as well, but I couldn’t be sure. But we had a good time that night, and I felt like it was worth it just to hang out with these people in their home, total strangers and quickly friends. It was my second tour, and that was an experience I hadn’t had much before. It was really strange to see this house where all I had done was basically hang out with the four people who lived there and eat food and talk in this book. It felt validating somehow, strangely. Villa Kula lives on, even in London. It’s a weird world, and just right for me.