Last time I heard his voice, we were saying goodbye. “You are my hero,” I said. “HERO? What did I ever do,” he laughed.

“What didn’t you do?” I asked. I meant it. Beyond living life to the fullest, he always did everything he could for me – most of all, insisting that I never fail to believe in myself and my capacity to succeed as a writer, even if the struggle would be a long and impoverished one.

“Zo… this is so boring,” he said. I laughed. Even at the end, he was funny

But it was true – being unable to get on stage, read the news or even watch films was excrutiating. Mental inactivity was intolerable. He was ready to go.

But my grandfather Don had had a good run. And what I admired the most was how passionately interested he was in absolutely everything the world had to offer. One of the truest polymaths I’ve ever met.

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This week, I heard his voice again when I discovered that the CBC has an archive of his radio show Morningside online – featuring episodes mostly from 1982, the year of my birth, which is pretty cool. It’s not every day you well up with tears in the office when once again you hear the most comforting voice you’ve ever known.

Here’s a gem, him interviewing bananas children’s author Robert Munsch, who was one of my favourites as a kid (I think most Canadians would agree with me on that one).

http://www.cbc.ca/…/entry/robert-munschs-storytelling-ingre…

Beautiful. These will keep me in memories – and with gratitude in my heart for having been so lucky to have known him – for a while. Thank you CBC, not bad.

You know how frat boys steal road signs for their dorms? (Best I ever saw: a NO DUMPING placard on top of a toilet.) You have no idea how badly I want to nick this.

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At the office on Easter Monday researching the neuroscience of psychedelics. (As you do.) Four attempts to print one particular research paper consistently produced one, single, mangled jumble.

It appears the PDFs themselves have made the printer trip balls.

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If you cross your eyes a bit and hold it out to the right, I think you can make out passages from the dead sea scrolls.

I’ve decided to put this on max volume to help the printer have a good time. I think it jives with the theme of the day.

My latest piece in The Daily Beast is about “orgasmic meditation” and OneTaste. It made me laugh then, and it makes me laugh now. (Not the practice – the marketing.) Anyhoo. Are they a cult? Up to you. As a kid who grew up selling t-shirts for heavy metal bands at clubs, I find their online merch noteworthy.
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Beyonce’s salute to the Black Panthers was very cool and visually impressive – respect, for sure.

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But instead of giving us more of the same tired trite lines about bling (“I’m so reckless when I rock my Givenchy dress (stylin’) / I’m so possessive so I rock his Roc necklaces” … SNORE), she could have said something with a bit more substance.

Perhaps she could have taken a page from Marvin Gaye’s “You’re The Man” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EB2bFF8TfWY

We don’t wanna hear no more lies
About how you planned a compromise
We want our dollar value increased
Employment to rise
The nation’s taxation
Is causin’ all, all this inflation
Don’t give us no V sign
Turn around and rob the people blind
Economics is the issue
Do you have a plan wager?
‘Cause if you’ve got a master plan
Got to vote for you
You’re the man

More: http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/marvingaye/youretheman.html

Now THAT, young lady, is how to communicate a political message without making it all about yourself. We get it – you’re hot and rich.

People always think of Gaye’s sexy stuff, but not enough remember how deeply political – and fucking articulate – the man was.

Political mettle has far more sex appeal than nicely honed glutes, madam.

It is with great pride and joy that I can formally announce that I have been signed to The Artists Partnership, a London talent agency that represents Idris Elba (yuh huh), Harvey Keitel, Kim Cattrall, Jeremy Irons… And now me.

Let’s go, kids. This is going to be fun.

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Note to self: next time there is a fire in the restaurant below your flat and you have to hurriedly grab a garment to stay warm in uncertain circumstances, don’t grab the fluffy black vamp coat you got for Burning Man. It makes you look like a cheap whore checking in at the motel next door.

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The concierge at the shitty motel thought I was very amusing.

(Among many brilliant quips posted on Facebook – at my request, I required laughs – was my aunt Mary Harron‘s comment: “It’s a good look, I say go for it.”)

Also, note to self: Check that the fire alarms installed by your dodgy landlord work next time you move into a new place. Discovering molten electrics after a near lethal inferno is less than fun.

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But hey, enough of burnt fire alarms. Who wants to check out a fossilised power drill, rendered blistered and black?

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Or what about this bottle of cleaning fluid that expanded violently from the heat, leaving a giant mutated plastic bubble in its wake?

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The Quasimodo of cleaning fluid, if you will.

… I’ll stop now.

Don’t play with fire kids.

I was invited to give a lecture at Google HQ last month about my book.

Not sure how many authors decide to include a pic of themselves as a baby in headphones with a spliff, but I’ll be chuffed if I was the first.

01 Reprobate Baby

All I can say is that I feel blessed to have known such a beautiful, gentle, regal, incomparable individual: Rodney Archer.

This photograph, and this painting, do justice to the elegance that was Rodney…

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But nothing does it better than this video. How many people begin their day with joyfully giving change to the local gas sniffers for a cup of tea?

Read more about the wonderful man, whom I have known since the day I was born, in a couple of fantastic blog posts about the Spitalfields community here and here.

Hello boys and girls.

Today’s magic word is…

Contract. 

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Sometimes in your career you have a moment that makes up for every late night, every bounced cheque, every thought of “what the fuck have I done to my life”.

Those moments are worth capturing – even if it’s 10pm on a Thursday in your Shoreditch hipster office.

Boom.

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