Why I wrote Acid Heroes

Why I wrote Acid Heroes.  I was trying to figure out who John Lennon was.  Such an enigmatic character he was.  I had patterned my life after him in a way as a youthful role-model.  Later I realized he was far different than the person I thought he was.

Plus, I was trying to figure out what happened in “the ’60s.”  It was some weird, profound cultural shift for sure.  But what actually shifted?  Was America better or worse after the ’60s.  Take a good look at America 2011 and ponder that question.

Plus I was pissed at people like Timothy Leary and Ken Kesey. Leary was just a smiling hustler of course.  Kesey, when I was in high school the book “Electric Kool Acid Test” was one of my favorites.  Kesey is portrayed as this great hero.  Captain America. But in retrospect I concluded Kesey’s one great claim to fame is that he started — or at least popularized — the concept of public drug parties in America.  Pot, acid, speed.  Shortly after came cocaine and all the rest.  So I was re-assessing all of that.

Course after I published it I realized nobody cared about shit like that.

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Ace Backwords: Egomaniac

(Originally published October 23, 2006)

“The stage performer wears his vanity like the flimsiest set of armor.” So said Jackie Gleason. Or words to that effect, or maybe I just made it up.

But it’s true what they say: To be a performer, an artist, a writer, to be in Show Biz, you have to have a “strong ego.” There may be those rare moments when 20,000 people are wildly applauding the Greatness that is You. But the other 23 hours and 50 minutes of the day, you’re on your own. Generally if you don’t believe in yourself and your talents — often in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, or, even worse, complete indifference — then almost nobody else is gonna believe in it, either.

George Harrison once said, words to the effect: “The media builds you up and makes you famous so they can make money off you. Then they start tearing you down to make money off of that.”

Course it’s probably a little disingenuous for ol’ George to put himself in the victim category, as if the media tricked him and forced that darn fame on him. Almost everybody I know that did become famous, only achieved that dubious honor by obsessively chasing after it for years and years (though it’s also true that there are rare cases of accidental fame, people who just happen to be in the right or wrong place at the right or wrong time; family members of spectacular crime victims, for example. Or people who are just so brilliant that they can’t avoid fame. But these people are the exceptions to the rule.)

The other day I was sitting on a street corner with this other 50-something street person friend of mine, and we were commiserating on the state of our failed lives.

“Well, you WANTED fame,” he said to me. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? And you are famous, aren’t you?”

And it made me wonder. In truth I’ve always been extremely leery of fame. It’s a very toxic and unhealthy thing for one’s ego to be singled out like that. And the sheer fact of thousands of people knowing who you are, and sticking their noses into your business, can complicate your life in a thousand hideous ways. And this too (which is probably a BIG surprise to all the people who imagine “fame” as this wonderful thing, of people applauding them and giving them awards): Half the people that know you probably hate your guts. They’re either envious of your “success,” or pissed off about something you said. (There was one guy here in Berkeley who walked around in a rage against me for 15 years over a comic strip I had drawn. When he finally confronted me, with teeth-gritting anger, it turned out he had projected the exact opposite meaning onto the strip than I had intended.)

On the other hand: The office building where I rent an office recently got sold to a new owner who is in the process of gentrifying the building and throwing out all the old tenants. And so my immediate reaction was: “Maybe if I got another hit of fame, maybe if I got my picture on the front page of the paper again, that would impress the new owner and he wouldn’t think I’m a useless bum and throw me out on the streets.” So “fame” has always been a two-edged sword in my mind.

My problem, re “fame”, was: What got me into this so-called business in the first place was the purity of “self-expression.” In other words, I wanted to make a career out of shooting my mouth off. The problem was: It’s like any other business: In order to make money you have to advertise your product and invite the public to sample your wares. In the case of self-absorbed artistes, this boils down to advertising yourself.

In 1990 the CBS News did a national feature on me and one of my artistic efforts. It was an interesting experience to get to observe the media machine from the inside-looking-out. And, because of the television exposure, we managed to sell 2,000 copies of the product we were hawking at 10 bucks a pop in 2 weeks (they don’t pay millions for those TV ads for nothing!). A couple years later, the TV producer approached me about doing another feature on me. Which I turned down. Much to the TV people’s shock. Kinda’ like: “Do you know how many people would give their right testicle for this kind of publicity? You can’t reject us; we’re the ones who reject you!” They seemed deeply offended by my attitude. In truth, I didn’t even own a TV, haven’t watched that shit in 15 years. And was even less interested in being on TV.

So I guess I really didn’t want fame all that bad. For television is the prime engine of the fame machine. I’m not sure what I really want. Though whatever it is, I often suspect it is not available to me in this Universe.

More Pathetic Whining from ol’ Ace Backwords

(Originally published April 24, 2006)

I’m gonna be 50 in a couple months, and I kinda’ feel like the rug has been pulled out from under me. The world I used to live in is gone. And yet, here I am, still walking around in it like a ghost. I came to Berkeley 30 years ago looking for the ’60s counterculture. But that’s long gone. For a while I was part of the Telegraph Avenue street scene; there was a bohemian magic to the scene for most of the ’90s. But now, there’s hardly anything left but a bunch of bums flopped out on the sidewalk.

I often say to myself: “I went from up-and-coming to down-and-out with no flowering period in between.” And that’s sort of the feeling. I still look at all the beautiful young girls who pass by, who used to dance around my world. But now I’m just a tired old man.  The young girls inspire feels of pathetic regret more than longing.

Yesterday, Sunday, was the People’s Park 37th Anniversary concert. It was a tired affair.  The same bands did the same ten songs they’ve been playing for the last 10 years. At the end of the Funky Nixons set, the singer called out to the throngs: “FUCK THE POLICE!”  The heroic battle cry of Berkeley’s fabled radical past. But it had all the impact of a bratty child repeating a dirty word for effect; not even shocking, just sort of: “Yeah, yeah, heard that one before…” Wavy Gravy was walking around amidst the sparse crowd dressed in his clown suit doing his tired act. He’s a gray, little old man  now. Wasn’t it just yesterday he was a young hippie heralding a Great New Day from the stage of Woodstock? Oh well. I guess we ate too much of the brown acid.

I stumbled across a flyer from a People’s Park benefit show from 37 years ago. I guess it was 1969, that fabled year. It was billed as “People’s Park Bail Ball.” I guess it was to help raise money for the Berkeley activists that got arrested in the great People’s Park Riots. Oh what exciting times they were. Topping the bill, believe it or not, were: The Grateful Dead, the Jefferson Airplane, Santana, Credence Clearwater Revival, Elvin Bishop, and others. And the price was — get this — $3. What, no Funky Nixons? Why, I wouldn’t pay more than $2.50 for a line-up like that. My, how times change. But the flyer was like a before-and-after picture of the People’s Park scene. What was then and what is now.

Tonight, Jane Fonda was appearing at Cody’s Books on the Ave plugging her latest book.  People were lined up in the store as she sat at a table signing books. People were looking at her and gawking and pointing and giggling like she was an exotic zoo animal for public inspection. Weird. “Its Jane Fonda! Can I pet her!”  She looked like a handsome, dull, glazed, well-preserved, middle-aged housewife. No Barbarella suit tonight. The people in the crowd were mostly graying, affluent-looking Boomers. I guess the Boomer Generation has done boomed. In Berkeley you’re doomed to endless succession of ’60s retreads coming to town to tell their exciting stories of those exciting days of the ’60s.  What exciting days they were.

I guess its all in how you look at it. Mostly, I look at it from a negative point of view.  Aside from these occasional exalted visions that take me all the way to heaven. But not tonight. Now I’m going back to the office and sip on a 16 ounce can of Old English malt liquor. And nurse my wounded pride.

Stoned

     I don’t know where my life is going.  And I guess I just don’t care anymore.  Friday, noon, drinking my first cup of coffee trying to wake up, smoke a fat joint which adds a surreal element to my groggy morning hangover.  What the fuck am I doing?  Getting stoned first thing in the morning.  I was never a “wake-and-bake” kinda’ guy.  Once I start smoking pot that just finishes that day in terms of accomplishing anything or getting anything done.  “Another day shot to hell,” I often joke at the end of another mis-spent night.  So normally I try to hold off until 5 in the evening before I start drinking and getting stoned.  So that gives me about 10 hours during the day to take care of business as a semi-functional human being.  Once I get stoned its like I turn into another person.  I get introverted, find the most simple social interactions to be bizarre.

Like waiting in a long line when I’m stoned  —  I start tripping on the back of the head of the guy in front of me, all these movies popping out of my mind about all  the people in the store who are crammed around me.  Me — nervously fidgeting and darting glances all across the room  —  stoned out of my mind, trying to “act normal” and failing to do so.  I make some joke to the cashier woman working behind the counter, realize she doesn’t understand a word I’m saying and that I’m babbling about a subject that would makes sense to no one aside from my THC-ridden brain.  Stagger out into the street with a goofy smile on my face.  Suddenly I pass someone who trips me into a rage. I seethe with murderous thoughts as I glare over my shoulder at the perpetrator.  Then I’ll be overwhelmed by a deep sadness and pangs of guilt.  I’ll start working on the issue in mind like a psychological puzzle (whats WRONG with me? etc).  I stagger to Hate Camp, quickly survey all the people hanging out, making that instant —  and crucial  —   decision as to where I’m going to sit, trying to avoid sitting between the cross-fires of two warring camps, for instance, or trying to avoid proximity to the boring guy who immediately attaches himself to me and peppers me with his non-stop dull prattle, or trying to avoid the crazy one who will quickly disrupt any peaceful or interesting conversation I am having with someone else, or avoiding the five people who will immediately hit me up for a smoke the second I take out my pack of Basic 100s. So there’s a lot of thought involved just with the simple task of finding the right place to sit in People’s Park.  Usually I have pretty good luck wih my seating arrangements. I got 4 or 5 places I like to sit, in my usual back-against-the-wall position (or in this case, my back against a tree and me surveying the action in front of me  —   I have a fear of people sneaking up behind me).  So then I’ll sit there for several hours getting more and more stoned and drunk.  Lately I’m into rolling these joints that are like two-thirds bud and one-third tobacco  —  slipping into this cozy, creamy buzz.  If the conversation is good, I’ll liven it up like a Johnny Carson talk show. I know how to moderate a discussion  — its one of my few gifts.  And once I hit on a good subject  —  it can be deeply spiritual, philosophical, or psychological, or it can be something hysterically funny  —   I know how to play out and explore the theme.  I can dominate the discussion with my insights (so-called) or I can steer it around the circle, coaxing everyone to get in their two cents.  If the conversation is dull I’ll put on my headphones and shades and space out in this inner world of musical symphonies.  Sometimes I’ll be overwhelmed by emotions, other times I’ll be studying the bass lines by some black cat on a Motown record.   Last night I was listening to this song by Heart, “These Dreams,” that they were hyping as this ethereal, celestial song, so I’m listening to the first half of the song as a critic — “Hmm, sort of interesting, nice little chord there and I kinda’ like how it shifts into the second verse from a songwriting-construction point of view,” and I’m just sort of analyzing it from a thumbs-up-or-thumbs-down point of view, and I’m just about to change the channel because the song is OK but nothing to write home about, then the song kicks into the hook and its so beautiful I’m crying and crying and tears are running down my face, and then after I stop crying I go back to critiquing the song like a music critic —  Do I like this song or not?  —   and then I’m thinking: “Fuck, the song is so beautiful I burst into tears, what more do I want from a song, ths song is OK, okay?”  Like I gotta’ shut up the critical chatter in my brain that is always judging everything. Then another song will come on the radio and its the perfect song for the moment, a George Thorougood song or a Beatles song or something.  And I’ll space out for another half-hour in this musical cocoon in my head.  Suddenly I’ll snap out of my reverie, pull the headhones off, look around, try to remember where I am sitting and how I got there.  Its like coming out of a foggy dream.  And then I’m staggering down the street trying to avoid bumping into the pedestrians that are coming at me from every direction.  “Darn, now I have to deal with stupid reality again!” I’ll often think.  Then I’m standing on line in a brightly-lit neon store (most likely buying yet another beer) and I’m trying to conceal the manic grin that keeps sneaking onto my face, and wondering when they were gonna’ start coming after me with the butterfly nets . . . .