Autistic unmasking: How I ditched corporate-ready conformity for my inner punk.
Cold Open
Yeah. I was home. Freaks, geeks, punks & junkies. Turns out the jocks were right back in jr. high.
I was weird. And these were my peeps. AND I was f***ing tired of just dreaming it. It was time to be it.
October 31, 1979. The night I stopped being a meditation teacher.
Content Note: Substances, intense sensory descriptions, but no fucking blue pumpkins were harmed in the posting of this memory.
Roll with me here. It’ll just take too long to connect all the dots. I’ll give you a couple quick selfies. One for each of the 5 masks I drop in one glorious night on the town.
But flip thru the gallery one after another? You’ll get the picture.
Tiny info dump. I’m living in Oakland, California. Laughingly known as “Jokeland.” But I spent most of my time… in Berkeley. Sneeringly referred to as “Bezerkeley”… by most of the good folks of Oakland.
I had just left the Transcendental Meditation movement the year before. TM was an Indian-influenced group run by the self-named Maharishi. It became a worldwide fad after the Beatles became fans.
I got initiated in ’72 and promptly became a “bliss ninny.”
Then in quick succession
a local volunteer,
teacher,
“Governor of the Age of Enlightenment”…
I even lived about a year as a resident volunteer on one of their compounds on a converted Catskill Mountain resort.
Which zapped me straight into a state of open rebellion. Or reaction. Or something.
On this fine Berkeley Halloween Night? Let’s just say I decided to burn ALL my Bad Karma Bridges… at precisely 6:32pm PST 10/31/1979.
So click, Selfie #1.
I’m working as a union typesetter in Oakland. Bay Area Typographers Union. With the occasional double overtime, making about $44,000 annually. More money than this 26-year-old knows what to do with.
$44K. Ya know, about $200K in 21st century cash. And I’m burning through it all at a fevered dream pace.
So, I duke the waiter with a 20-buck tip for an instant seat. Yeah, nearly $100 in today’s dollars for a yuppie Berkeley-chic French bistro.
Ferns.
Organic wool sweaters.
Egyptian cotton napkins…
No reservation. No plan. Just cuz I’m walking by.
Ok. Let’s burn that first Bad Karma Bridge. If I’m gonna eat meat after 7 years of “recommended” vegetarianism…
“I’ll have that Filet Mignon au Poivre. For bonus Bad Karma Points, let’s start with goose liver pâté on crostini. A little extra fig syrup on the side.”
I pause. Glancing up and down the handwritten prix fixe menu. No wonder this joint could afford a poster by the legendary David Goines.
“Then French onion soup cuz anything made from beef consommé drives me wild. You got a really peppery dark red zinfandel…?”
Curt nod from the vested waitperson… never cracks a smile.
“Ok. Yeah. That oughta go with the filet. Bring me what ya got.”
Whoops. That was the second Karma Bridge I burnt. No alcohol or drugs since I got initiated.
Seems the Maharishi didn’t approve…
Click, Selfie #2.
So. I’m back out on the street. Feeling loose. Feeling fine. Stomach gurgling with all that beef.
But I still need more… free.
Walking down Telegraph Ave, I hit an all-night liquor store. Say, I always heard about 151 rum. Gotta wonder…
.
.
.
Whoa. Let’s just cross that off the old bucket list. And NEVER do that again.
I wake up on a closely cropped grass lawn. Northwest of UC Berkeley. Bottle of Bacardi 151 spilled next to me. Probably within smelling distance of Philip K. Dick’s old digs. Looking back, somehow I think the guy responsible for Blade Runner woulda dug this surrealistic journey…
So, I’m guessing that’s a couple more Burnt Karma Bridges. But hell, I’m still drunk. I lose count.
It’s about 11:15 pm. What to do now? I know! A really violent, disturbing, forbidden movie!
Click, Selfie #3.
So, I walk to the UC Theatre. It’s a repertory house. Plays a different double bill of old classics every night.
But it’s Halloween! Sign reads, “Halloween Midnight Double Feature! Rocky Horror / Mad Max!”
And under their fabulous red neon marquee is the longest line of freaks, geeks, punks, and junkies I’ve ever seen. And, for comparison, I was homeless on the Bowery briefly before grad school…
Most are plastered in campy dragon-lady makeup, capes, and feather boas.
Now this was the Burnt Karma Bridge the old guru woulda lost his shit over. See, we were supposed to only live in groups with other meditators. Cuz non-meditators were so… so… stressed. Impure. Bad vibes. They could really kill your bliss…
And here I was bumping uglies with the loudest, crassest, smelliest mess of humans I could find. And they didn’t call it “Bezerkeley” for nothin…
Click, Selfie #4.
What are these freaks on? Throwing toast at the screen? Spraying water into the air? Screaming, “Where’s your neck?” at every appropriate moment.
Seven years of
policing every twitch,
every volume level,
every outward sign
of my autistic weirdness
to keep a meditator’s version
of holy silence…
wiped out by the first flying slice of Wonder Bread.
And g-d alone knows what was going on in that writhing mess of body parts in the back 2 rows. Cuz I sure never looked…
Click, Selfie #5.
“Don’t dream it… Be it…
“Don’t dream it…
“Be it…”
We’re all singing that final Rocky Horror anthem.
I’m crying…
Yeah. I was home. Freaks, geeks, punks & junkies. Turns out the jocks were right back in jr. high.
I was weird. And these were my peeps. AND I was fucking tired of just dreaming it.
It was time to be it.
So, that was the night I stopped being a meditation teacher.
The night I made the five cracks in my autistic mask.
The night… I took the first step… of a 37-year journey…
To grow up.
And become fully AutisticAF dot me.
Oh, yeah. The second feature…
Mad Max. I’m so overwhelmed by the madness of the Rocky Horror crowd that I sleep right through Mad Max.
But I kept having this recurring nightmare… boomerangs & flying bloody fingers…
Was I dead? Was this Hell?
Or Heaven.
Happy Neurodivergent Halloween! Go do AutisticAF dot you.
If this excerpt grabbed you… more here, free: The Book: Frag by Frag.
This is Fragment 15 of my upcoming autobiography, Autistic Noir, arriving Fall 2026.
Why I Write My Autobiography
I’m only an expert on my own life. Born 1953, diagnosed at 63. Your mileage will vary.
Individual marginalized voices speaking truth out loud? They build bridges to mainstream readers. Think Malcolm X. Think Maya Angelou. Think Janet Mock’s Redefining Realness.
This Fall, I hope to deliver that kind of impact, that power with Autistic Noir: My Autistic Life is My Art. For our neurodivergent community.
Since 2019 I’ve published a quarter of a million words. Over half the size of the Lord of the Rings trilogy.
Gotta be a pony somewhere in that shit.
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