Actually, he suggested that I try it out to test my suspicions about the whole scene.

I rarely get invited out to clubs. I think most of my friends, even the ones who don’t officially know that I have autism, just assume that I’m a little awkward and nerdy and not the type of person who would want to go to a club, so they don’t ask. The truth is, though, that my only real problem with clubs – aside from music snobbery –  is that I have always been convinced that I’d be turned away at the door because I’m not attractive enough. I simply wanted to spare myself the humiliation.

I explained this to my therapist and he said that maybe I should actually give it a shot. He seemed to think that I might be surprised by the results. I told him that I’d consider it at some undetermined date in the future and then promptly forgot about it.

My assignment was the last thing on my mind when one of my oldest and best friends invited me to tag along to her friend’s bachelorette in Niagara Falls. I just wanted to hang out with her. And I wanted to be in Niagara Falls, because I love that city in the absurd obsessive way that only an Aspie can. It wasn’t until well into the evening that I realized I had accomplished my goal. “Hey!” I yelled above the Britney remix as I stole a cupcake from a neighbouring VIP booth. “My therapist told me to do this!”

For the record, my therapist did not tell me to steal cupcakes at a club. My second martini told me to do that. But when I told my therapist about it today, he didn’t seem to think that it was a bad idea, either. At least he didn’t admonish me for it. I’m going to take that as an endorsement of sorts.

Anyway, I made it past the door pretty well. My virulently low self-esteem still believes that I was only let in because I was with a group of women who were rather attractive, but, at the very least, the bouncer didn’t think that I looked much like my ID. Given the photos on my health card and passports, I consider that promising. “I like to tell people that I look like Charlize Theron on my ID,” I told the bouncer. “Unfortunately, I look like her when she was in Monster.”

The bouncer barely grunted in response as he shooed me in.

So the good news is that I am not so shockingly ugly that I can’t get into clubs. And that is good news, indeed, because I clearly can’t rely on my wit to get me past the door.


Someone found my blog today by googling “seduce asperger,” and it inspired me to come up with a list of handy tips to get a little closer to the special Aspie in your life:


1. Ask the Aspie about his or her special interest.

2. Listen to the Aspie talk about about the special interest.

3. Listen some more.

4. Keep listening.

5. Flat out tell the Aspie that you’re trying to seduce him or her, because that fact will probably not occur to your Aspie on his/her own.

I don’t watch American Idol, but I was sort of cheering for James Durbin from afar and wished him well when he was voted off, but then this happened:

And as much as I want to support a fellow Aspie, and as good as his appearance and success on the show is for our people, I just can’t abide by this.

I’m all for visibility and good role models, BUT THAT’S MY FUCKING BAND! If any Aspie is going to sing with Judas Priest, it should be ME! My anachronistic obsession with Priest – complete with all sorts of elaborate plans to stage a musical based on their songs – began almost ten years ago,  back when young Durbin was probably still all about dinosaurs or machines or other boyish Aspergian pursuits. In other words, my DORK PASSENGER SAW THEM FIRST!

And that outfit? You’re an Aspie, man! Where’s your attention to detail? I wouldn’t be caught dead on stage with Rob Halford with fewer than five rows of studs on my belt.

Take the tone of this Jezebel post, for example. I’m sure that the author meant no harm, but the language here is pretty careless. Do you know what it feels like to be someone who actually has the horrible affliction in question? I wish I could make some sort of flippant joke about it, but the truth is that it’s hurtful.

Asperger’s comes with a goodie bag filled with frustrating and annoying struggles, and it’s certainly not a 24/7 party, but the only serious issues I’ve personally had with my autism have been, at their roots, problems of misunderstandings, miscommunication and intolerance.

Poor parents who are going to freak out that their child might have that awful Asperger’s disease on account of the original article and journalists who get righteously indignant that parents might freak out about that awful Asperger’s disease are certainly a greater threat to my general well-being than my ongoing feuds with the analog clock and uncomfortable crotch nubs on jeans.

Anonymous Internet Posters of the World,

I know it can be fun to discuss other people and throw around the occasional pop psych diagnosis. In theory, it can be a fairly harmless exercise, and I’m as guilty as anyone of some good old Asperger’s speculation (Brick from The Middle! Kanye West! The entire city of Toronto!). But if you’re going to start throwing around my syndrome willy-nilly, maybe you should actually know something about it first.

I understand that it can be confusing, because both Asperger’s and asshole start with the same syllable, but they are not, in fact, synonymous. If you were to look up Asperger’s in the DSM-IV (which I know is a favourite of the creepy and bizarre hivemind that inhibits the TelevisionWithoutPity boards), you would realize that “being a weirdo and/or an asshole” isn’t even on the list of diagnostic criteria for Asperger’s.

Some people with Asperger’s might come across as assholes because of their social impairments. They might be working their buns off to appear differently, but unfortunately falling short because sometimes it’s hard to figure out what makes you an asshole in the outside world. Some people with Asperger’s are just assholes. Some neurotypicals might come across as assholes because awkwardness and cluelessness are not the sole domain of my people. They might be really trying and failing as well, because the greater social world isn’t easy to navigate for everyone. Some neurotypicals are just assholes.

So when you see a story like this, please don’t immediately jump to the conclusion that the moron in question must have Asperger’s. The idea never even occurred to me when I was reading the story. Upon further reflection, I can almost see where someone would get the idea. I do recall going through a short, unfortunate phase where I wouldn’t shut up about my potential genius status. I was nineteen, struggling to find my place in the world and desperate to be taken seriously and doing a pretty terrible job of it on account of my terrible social skills. So I started clumsily telling people that I was a genius, because my smarts were all I really had going for me, and I couldn’t think of another way to prove that I wasn’t a total fuck-up. So I can see how someone might suspect that some of Scott Adams’s stupid behaviour sprung from a little dash of autism. But he goes way above and beyond your usual, run-of-the-mill Aspie weirdness.

And “deluded Asperger’s suffering narcissist?” Or “He’s either an awe-inspiringly good example of narcissistic personality disorder (I don’t care what the psychs say, it’s its own thing and should stay in the DSM) or an Aspie?”

You’re just pulling that out of your asses, Anonymous Internet Posters of the World. He could just as easily be your average nutjob compensating for the fact that he wrote a shitty comic strip that’s only brush with what is commonly known as “funny” was when Matthew became obsessed with it on NewsRadio.

Sometimes a douchebag is just a douchebag.

As I settled into a cushy seat somewhere in the secret bowels of the Lightbox for a press screening today, I found myself unwittingly caught in the middle of a twitter triangle.

“We’re friends on Twitter,” the young woman next to me said to the man behind us before reminding him of her username.

They chatted for a minute, and then the woman on the other side joined in. “I guess I should say that we’re friends on on Twitter, too,” she said, adding her username to the mix.

“Oh…” said the man.

“What does ‘oh’ mean?” she laughed. “Is it what I said about the [name of forthcoming film] screening this morning?”

Then the two women launched into a spirited and animated conversation about said film while I sat in between them, feeling awkward and maudlin.

I wasn’t exactly good at networking before the advent of Twitter, but I feel even more behind now that the social networking tool has sunk its superficial, short-winded claws into the entertainment journalism world.

I do not understand Twitter. I have an account. I had a little fun fucking around on there when I first started, but I couldn’t keep up with it for more than a week. I try to go back from time to time, but I find the whole exercise exhausting.

First of all, I can’t say anything in 140 characters. I can barely express myself in 140 words. Brevity never has been my friend, and I’m not interested in a reconciliation any time soon.

Most importantly, though, I just cannot keep up. I have absolutely no effing clue how people manage to follow hundreds of other people, tweet their every thoughts, retweet everyone else’s thoughts, keep on top of trends and share all sorts of weird and wonderful links to other things. Every time I try to jump into that mess, I wind up having a Kanye-level “EVERYTHING IS NOISE! EVERYTHING IS NOISE!” freakout.

By the time I’ve read and digested something, and decided that I might want to respond, I’m already five tweets behind. It’s the only form of social media I’ve used that actually makes me appear less socially adept than I am in real life.

My knee-jerk reaction is to blame this issue on the autism, but I suspect that it could just as easily be on account of the fact that I am crotchety and prematurely old.

So, what do you think, all six or so of my dear readers? Is Twitter a generational thing, or a social skill thing?

I guess what I’m really asking is, who is it that I should be shooing from my hypothetical lawn: the kids, or the neurotypicals?

Oh, my God!

April 11, 2011

There’s a series of more honest book titles and covers making its rounds of the internets right now. Most of them are quite funny and well done, but this one really, really, really hit home.

I’m actually reading A Confederacy of Dunces for the third time right now, as is my wont. It’s a sublimely-written book, one of the best I’ve ever read, with some brilliantly and bizarrely drawn characters. But I’d be lying if I said that part of the attraction wasn’t the fact that I really am just a slightly nicer, skinnier and (arguably, according to my husband) less flatulent Ignatius J Reilly who scribbles on WordPress instead of in Big Chief Tablets.