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March 22, 2018

Hate Man is really struggling tonight. 11 PM Wednesday night.

He keeps going “Ah-ah-ah-ah!!” Sort of groaning in pain. His back hurts (went to the chiropractor today but didn’t quite get aligned). He’s having trouble breathing. He doesn’t have hardly any energy (from the anemia). A cop dumped all of his stuff into the street (the cop felt it was blocking the sidewalk) so his stuff is all disorganized. He was out in the rain last night so his stuff got all wet (it really came down last night, nearly an inch of rain). And he’s 80 years old.

Aside from that everything’s fine.

“You need anything, Hate.” I asked.

“No I’m fine,” he said.

And then went back to going “Ah-ah-ah-ah!”

Such is life on the streets.

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You and Lily Gloom became Facebook friends.

“You’re so TALL!!”

Everyone in my family is short. My 4 brothers and sisters and mother and father are all around 5-foot-6 or shorter. Except for me. Somehow I ended up 6-foot tall.

And I was short most of the time when I was a kid growing up. In 8th grade I was about 5-foot tall. I remember the 8th grade graduation ceremony. They lined the whole class up by size for the ceremony. I was like the 5th shortest kid in a class of a couple hundred people.

But then when I was 16 I inexplicably shot up and started to grow. I always suspected I actually WILLED myself to grow tall tall. You see, my big dream as a kid was to be a professional basketball player. So I really wanted to be tall. So my mother put a tape-measurer on the side of the doorway leading to the kitchen. And every couple of weeks I’d put my back to the tape-measurer and measure myself. I’d write a little line on the doorway with a pencil, of where the top of my head was, so I could see how much I had grown in the last 3 weeks.

And by the time I was 17 I had made it to 6-feet tall. I really think I WILLED myself to grow. Measuring myself over and over (don’t under-estimate the power of auto-suggestion).

So anyways, I had a bad relationship with my mother (she didn’t like me and I didn’t like her — long story). So for most of my adult life I never saw my mother or had any kind of relationship with her.

But then a couple years ago we started hanging out a bit. Every couple of weeks we’d go out for coffee. Stuff like that. And whenever she saw me she’d always say the same thing:

“You’re so TALL!!”

She’d sort of gush about it with this big smile on her face. Part of it was because most of the time when she knew me as a kid I was small. So it surprised her that I was now tall.

But after awhile it started to annoy me that she gushed “You’re so TALL!!” every time she saw me. I realized it was mostly perfunctory. She wanted to make a big show that she liked me and approved of me and was impressed with me. So she’d constantly compliment me for being tall.

But after awhile I realized that was the ONLY thing she could think of to compliment me about. I mean she was never impressed by any of my artwork or any of my accomplishments or any of my other allegedly sterling traits. But she could always say how impressed she was that I was tall. “You’re so TALL!!” It was her “go-to” compliment. But after awhile it started to feel like damning-with-faint-praise (like I said we always had a lousy relationship).

But anyways, I still to this day believe I WILLED myself to grow tall. Measuring my height over and over.

Though it could just be recessive genes.

Or it could be the milkman we had before I was born. I heard he was about 6-foot tall, kind of gangling, always wore a baseball hat, and they say he had an odd love for feral cats. And he was always delivering the milk to our house when my father was off at work.

So they could explain it too.

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The Barre daily times. (Barre, Vt.) 1897-1959, December 28, 1910, Page 1, Image 1, brought to you by University of Vermont, and the National Digital Newspaper Program.

Apparently Clyde Gearwar shot his father, Frank Gearwar, haha. I can’t read the article without paying money for ancestry.com, darnit. It made front page news and there is an article on it

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I’ve spent a good portion of the last 10 years using public restrooms. It’s one of the few subjects I’m virtually an expert on. So I’ve seen all the weird things that go on in them. And the latest weird trend I’ve observed in the public restrooms on the Berkeley campus is what I call “campers.”

A “camper” is somebody who camps out in a toilet stall for long periods of time. And I mean LONG periods. Virtually any time I go to a public restroom anywhere on the Berkeley campus these days, there will invariably be some guy camped out in one of the stalls. They’ll be in there when I come in. And they’ll still be in there when I leave. Sometimes I’ll come back an hour later and they’ll STILL be in there.

The camper almost never makes any sounds when they’re in the stalls. So I have no idea what they’re doing in there. The only thing I can figure is: the Bay Area has gotten so hideously conjested these days, a toilet stall is the only place where some people can get a little privacy. Get four walls to themselves.

And some people think I lead an uneventful life. . .

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March 22, 2017 at 12:00pm · 



. . . . . .The one thing I really miss, since I stopped drawing cartoons back in 1995. Isn’t drawing cartoons. I don’t miss that at all. But I miss being a “cartoonist.” It …
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March 22, 2017 at 11:13am · 



  Of all the feral cats at my campsite (there are 7 at this point) I think Mini Owl is getting to be the most attached to me. His favorite nesting spot is about 20 yards down the hill from my …

When I first came across this meme this morning the first thing I thought was: “What the hell is so happy about it??”

Before I get that first cup of coffee in me in the morning. I’m barely human. Ha ha.

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I’ve said all along for the last year. I have only one opinion about this up-coming presidential election. (pause)




March 21, 2018

My main website is http://www.acidheroes.wordpress.com

Random Photos 231

March 21, 2018
Ace Backwords updated his status.

I distinctly remember the Grateful Dead / Quicksilver shows at the Mab. It was 1979 — give or take a decade . And i was tripping on some bitchin’ LSD. It was either Owsley Orange or Blue Cheer or micro-dot window pane blotter acid. The finest kind. At least 7,000 milligrams. That shit was purer than Timothy Leary’s rectum. Which is why I remember the hallucinations so distinctly.

Dirk Dirksen himself got up on stage to introduce the bands. “Ladies and gentlemen a warm round of applause for this scum-sucking hippie pig Jerry Garcia. The show is over you vermin. Now fuck off and die and leave the premises.”

And then Jerry Garcia started wailing with a guitar solo that lasted at least 14 hours. By the time he was done, and collapsed in exhaustion into the mosh pit — where he was revived with a good hit of persian opium. We all realized we were witnessing rock and roll history at the FAB MAB.

Joel Selvin even wrote about it in his crucial column in the San Francisco Chronicle. Which he later turned into a book, and a screenplay, and a made-for-TV movie.

Needless to say it was a magic night that I will never forget.

They once asked Betty Page what the secret was that she took so many great photos. She said:

“I usually wore high heels. And when I didn’t wear high heels I’d always stand on my tip-toes. That’s the secret.”

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I am strangely proud that people will engage in heated debates on my Facebook page over the difference between vegan farts and meat-eater farts.

One of the truly odd thing about the Calvin & Hobbes comic strip. Bill Watterson didn’t license a single product. Not a single Calvin & Hobbes toy or T-shirt or lunch box or product endorsement or animated movie or theme park. The guy could have made a fortune.

Was he a fucking nut or something??

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They once asked Betty Page what the secret was that she took so many great photos. She said:

“I usually wore high heels. And when I didn’t wear high heels I’d always stand on my tip-toes. That’s the secret.”

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Ace Backwords updated his status.

I think the “past” often says more about the present, and our present biases, than it does about the past.

When I was a kid the history books said; “Noble white men defeated the savage Indians so they could create a great civilization.”

Nowadays the history books say: “Imperialist whitey destroyed the indigenous civilization to steal the land for themselves.”

And 50 years from now the history books will probably say something completely different.

The past never changes. But our interpretation of it constantly does.

You and Spencer Moore became Facebook friends.

“Hey it’s a public space! I have just as much right to stand here as you do!!”

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March 20, 2018

Oh man this annoys me. All these years I thought I was 25% Native American Indian. But my sister Kathy just informed me that my whacked out granddaddy — Clyde “Jim” Gearwar — was only HALF injun. So my Mother was only a QUARTER Injun. So I’m only 1-8th Injun.

Which I’m told allows me to live on the Reservations for free.

And I’m still more Injun than Elizabeth “Hiawatha” Warren. Ha ha.

But still. I thought I was a QUARTER Injun.

The doctors (the quacks) finally figured out what’s wrong with Hate Man. He’s got “anemia.” Whatever the hell that is. It has something to do with a deficiency of red blood cells (whatever the hell they are). Red blood cells send oxygen from the lungs to the rest of the body. That’s one of their crucial features. I just Googled “anemia.” So I’m an expert on the subject.

“I’ve only got 10% of my energy,” said Hate Man to me today.

That’s not a good thing.

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Me and Moo Cat hanging out.
That’s as good as it gets for me!

What a pathetic life I have. Ha ha.

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It’s 10:39 PM. Do you know where your Ace Backwords is?

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Eat your oatmeal, Rupert Murdoch!!

Its the beginning of another seemingly pointless day.  In a seemingly endless string of them.  Sip my bland, slightly-bitter tasting instant coffee.  Eat a bland-tasting banana and an 80 cent  turk…
Ace Backwords updated his status.

I admit I can be an asshole sometimes when I’m drunk.
And I can be an asshole when I’m sober, too.
But I’m NEVER an asshole when I’m doin’ crack!

I’m usually way cool then.

Because their stupid!!!

Adam Parfrey

Why is it that people keep posting “your” when they mean “you’re”? Contractions must be tricky for folks.

Needless to say:
Trump’s tendency to declare strong opinions — with no evidence to back it up — is an ALARMING tendency.

So there I was last night. Hanging out by myself. Minding my own business. Trying to write a story on my cellphone. Way in the back there. In this fairly private and secluded spot. This cul de sac. When these three guys show up. Standing over me. And announce they want to hang out back there with me.


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“Trump has really gone too far THIS time!!” they’ve said every day for the last two years.


This is a little ditty I wrote for my friend Duncan.

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You and 회색니콜라 became Facebook friends 8 years ago. We’ve made you this video to celebrate your friendship!
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March 19, 2018

Of all the feral cats at my campsite (there are 7 at this point) I think Mini Owl is getting to be the most attached to me.

His favorite nesting spot is about 20 yards down the hill from my campsite. It’s a cool little spot. Nestled among the bushes. And it gets a lot of direct sunlight. So Mini Owl likes to lay there in his personal nest, basking in the sun.

All the other feral cats. They like to hang out with me at my campsite. But eventually, they eat their breakfast, and hang out for awhile, and then head off in different directions to their personal, private nests.

(I’ve never been able to figure out where their nests are. When I thought Scaredy Cat had popped out a litter of kittens, I tried to find out where her nest was. But I never found it.)

But Mini Owl sets up his nest (his pad) just 20 yards down the hill from my campsite.

So every morning, after all the other feral cats have split, and I’m packing up my campsite, Mini Owl (whos hanging out at his nest) will hear me packing up and come trotting back up from his nest to say goodbye to me.

Usually I’ll give him an extra treat before I go. This morning I had this big, leftover turkey leg to give him. So he really scored.

But I think he’s a little more attached to me than the other feral cats. Because he lingers around right to the last minute before I leave.

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Ace Backwords updated his status.

I just had yet another weird and odd scene. In a seemingly endless expanse of weird and odd scenes.

It’s 8pm on a Sunday night. And I’m hanging out at this little nook and cranny on lower Sproul Plaza on the Berkeley campus where there’s an outdoor outlet where I can charge my cellphone and sip my beer and babble on with my latest Facebook post (Telegraph Ave 1982).

When these three high school-age kids, probably 17-years-old, are suddenly standing over me.

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The first time I really got a taste of the Telegraph scene was in the summer of 1982 when I moved back to Berkeley from Eureka. And for 3 months I lived with my friend Duncan in his dusty little hotel room on the 4th floor of the Berkeley Inn. The famous poet Julia Vinograd lived down the hall. And all sorts of weird and interesting people lived there.

The Telegraph Avenue scene was like a little village back then. A town within a town. And people talked about “the Telegraph community” with a straight face. There was cheap rent all over the place (Duncan was paying $110 a month for his room). So you had all sorts of people living there. Bohemians, artists, writers, people working low-income jobs, welfare cases, street crazies, druggies, etc.

You’d go out on the Ave and you’d see the same people every day. Hanging out at the coffee shops and the street corners and Sproul Plaza. And I guess that’s what gave it it’s “community” feel. There was a guy who rented out a little office on Bancroft and published a regular Telegraph newsletter — I forget the name but the sub-title captured the flavor of the scene: “Struggle and giggle.” And my pal Duncan published a little magazine: TELE TIMES: Telegraph Avenue’s Tight Little Monthly. And people on the scene were constantly launching new and weird artistic ventures, utopian ventures, revolutionary ventures. You name it.

Just about every street vending spot was jammed with street vendors back then, from Dwight Way to the campus. Selling their colorful hippie-esque arts and crafts. And tourists would flock to the Ave specifically to get a taste of that.

Most of the street vendors are gone now. There’s just an ever-dwindling hand full of oldtimers.

And most of the places that made Telegraph Avenue special are long gone too. Cody’s Books. The Med. Fred’s Market. Mario’s. Comics and Comix. Cafe Innermezzo. Shambala Books. Universal Records. The Reprint Mint. Shakespeare Books. And, of course, the Berkeley Inn.

Nowadays the scene is mostly just made up of the ever-growing hordes of college students. And homeless people. Which doesn’t make for much of a scene. But that’s the way the cookie crumbled.

It’s hard to believe it was 35 years ago. 1982. But when I do the math I guess it’s so. And most of the people from back then — “the Telegraph people” — are long gone, too. Which makes me wonder why I’m still here. . . I guess I’m too dumb to figure out anywhere else to go.

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I heard that when Chuck Berry toured he took nothing with him except a suitcase and his guitar. He didn’t even have a band. He’d just show up at a city and hire a couple of local musicians that could play basic rocknroll. Didn’t even rehearse with them. He’d show up at the joint, plug his guitar in and just start playing. Ha ha. And he didn’t have to worry about the back-up band knowing his material. EVERYBODY knew his material. Ha ha.

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Trump is coming to Oakland next week. This should be bizarre. (I couldn’t find any confirmation of this one so I guess it’s fake)

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Lewdo2muchLike Page

I DONT GIVE A FUCK IF HE TAP IN OR NOT !! ITS BAD !!! 😂🔫📞🔪 #sonniebotripping


Page 38 of my ACID HEROES blog. On this page I write about:

— a cartoon about cartoonist R. Crumb
— the original cover art for my ACID HEROES book
— the Charles Manson Body Building and Power Tripping course
— Telegraph Avenue in 1982
— My harrowing encounter with Henry Rollins in 1983
— a Donahooey cartoon
— Prof. Duesberg’s controversial theory on HIV/AIDS
— playing basketball with 3 little kids in a park in Arizona
— a TWISTED IMAGE Newsletter cover from 1992
— Beliefs R Us

  • Posts about Backwords from Ace on Acid Heroes: the Legends of LSD
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  • Posts about Backwords from Ace on Acid Heroes: the Legends of LSD
  • Posts about Backwords from Ace on Acid Heroes: the Legends of LSD

It turns out that the bums who are camping in the middle of my campsite are the same bums who completely trashed out the area two weeks ago. And now they’re back again to shit all over my campsite some more. I showed up last night around midnight, drunk out of my mind, and in no mood for their presence in my world.


“Oh fuck you,” one of them called back lamely.


I hoped a death threat might scare them off. But there are four of them and only one of me, so that makes them feel very brave.

I probably should be handling the situation in a more mature manner. But I hate them so much that my rage gets the better of me.

I grabbed my blankets and trudged about 50 yards up the hill to a hidden spot where they wouldn’t be able to find me. It’s a tactical advantage that I know where they sleep but they don’t know where I sleep.

Unfortunately, in my drunken state, I picked a terrible spot to crash. There are hardly any level spots in the hills, and this spot was particularly on a steep incline, and I curled up in an awkward position. When I woke up in the morning, my side hurt so bad that I was afraid I might have broken a rib. Its probably just a bad bruise or a torn muscle. But it hurts like hell. I get a stabbing pain every time I breath. And that’s not good.

As it started to get light, Scaredy Cat showed up, purring loudly. She’s very smart, and she’ll find me no matter where I crash. I fed her some breakfast and then packed up my sleeping stuff. I realized I was visible from the road, so I figured I better get out of there quick. Plus I was in no mood for another confrontation with the bums, what with my ribs aching. So I headed off towards town. And now here I am.

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I love Facebook. Its an honor to have this medium to communicate with all these other people. Plus. Feral cats. Ha ha. Hang tough everybody


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March 18, 2018


Oh man. This one popped up on my Facebook feed tonight. And I’m STILL pissed off about this one. It’s a Berkeley story from 1986. This scumbag tried to rape this 22 year old Deadhead chick. And ended up murdering her and her boyfriend. Down in the Berkeley marina back in 1986.

A good friend of mine — Vince Johnson — was a star witness in the case.

Now this scumbag is back in the news.

Some idiotic judge — who should be disbarred if they’re really that stupid. Has “over-turned” the conviction of this scumbag.

Personally. I really don’t care. Courts of law are a minor thing. And you can always get an idiot judge making their “ruling.”

But you can’t over-turn the laws of karma. Which is the highest court.

A federal judge has overturned the murder convictions and death sentence of a man convicted of shooting two Grateful Dead followers in a Berkeley homeless campground in 1985, saying the jury never heard from numerous witnesses who would have suggested another man was the killer. The trial lawyer for…

I love food porn.

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Mack White added 3 new photos.

Days later, still grillin’. And grinnin’. We are greatly enjoying our new Weber grill. Last week it was Bar-B-Cued Chicken Thighs. Today, a nice rib-eye steak a

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Ace Backwords shared a link.
March 18, 2017 at 10:18pm · 



(Mike Douglas Show ’72) (by Chuck Berry) Long distance information give me Memphis, Tennessee…
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March 18, 2017 at 10:14pm · 



A terrific Live performance of ELO at their very best Baroque and Roll featuring the fantastic Wilf…
Ace Backwords updated his status.

I was a cashier at my vending table for 19 years. So I’ve experienced it from that end.

It taught me to have total respect for cashiers and waitresses and bartenders and anybody that has to “deal with the public.”

Somebody asked me how I got hooked on feral cats.

It’s like watching a movie with all these different characters and different dramas. Unfolding in front of you every day. Like a daily soap opera.

It’s also like being an anthropologist. Studying this exotic tribe.

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I was feral cat before feral cat was cool.

Ha ha.

Ahm Seventysix was watching KEDI Film at Laemmle Playhouse 7.

Sis and I watched KEDI Film today, a beautiful and peaceful little documentary about the feral cats in Istanbul–their relationships with each other and the people who take care of them. It reminded me of Ace Backwords‘ daily documentation of the Berkeley ferals.

Movie Theater · Pasadena
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Ace Backwords updated his status.
To this day I’ve yet to hear a compelling theory for why such an inelegant term as “pot” ended up being synonymous for marijuana.

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March 17, 2018

My main website is http://www.acidheroes.wordpress.com

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March 17, 2018

I told my doctor I was a hypochondriac. So he recommended doubling my dosage of placebos.

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Making any kind of political point or observation these days is like stepping into a maelstrom. No matter what point you make, half the people will hate you. And many people will misinterpret what you say. That’s just how it is now.

Ace Backwords updated his status.

Oh and by the way. Just in case you only read the headlines from our friends in the media. And you’re terribly over-wrought over all the poor old people who are going to starve to death and DIE now that that goddamn heartless bastard Trump has cut the federal funding for Meals on Wheels!!!

Government funding for Meals on Wheels only makes up about 3% of their funding.

I was trying to think what to do to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. Then Greg helpfully suggested: “Hey. Why not get drunk?”


Guns and alcohol. What a GREAT combination!!

My mother’s father — who was a Native American Indian — used to go berzerk when he drank whiskey. He’d rampage through their house with his shotgun threatening to kill the entire family. My mother’s mother would lock the whole family in the bedroom and they’d be hiding under the bed, listening to him rampaging through the house, smashing things up and cursing and yelling. Finally, he’d pass out. And they could come out of the bed

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When some famous artist or musician dies, who I was never really a big fan of their work. I just keep my opinion to myself.

Feral Tammy (mother of Scaredy Cat and Fatty) is a total loner. I think she spent many years wandering in the woods by herself. Before she stumbled across my cat food dish one day and decide