A Left-Brain Manifesto

Last night I did the most San Franciscan (read: hipster) thing I have ever done.
I:
-saw a play
-about disabled people and sex
-in the Mission
-in a theatre that doubled as an art gallery
-that sold PBR
-and had gender neutral bathrooms, as in "Yes ma'am, you may come in to powder your nose after that man who just took a huge shit has finished wiping his ass."

If that ain't the most San Franciscan thing ya ever did hear, I dunno what is.
ANYWAY, the play was a composition of various monologues done by people who are disabled in some way or another (handicapped, victims of stroke, deaf, etc.)...so basically it was Megan Heaven. I was enjoying some bits and pieces from each act, but frankly it was a little more sex and a lot less crippled than I had hoped for. So I wasn't surprised when what appeared to be a woman approached the stage wearing head to toe lingerie: corset top squeezing her monstrous jugs up her nose, lacy booty shorts that left little to the imagination, and a garter belt with thigh-highs attached. While this "woman" had no discernable handicap, i think I agree with whoever put her in the show's lineup: any person trying to squeeze THAT body into THAT outfit is most definitely off their rocker (or, wheelchair, I suppose?). That, or morbid obesity is now being categorized as a full-fledged disability, a possibility I wouldn't doubt in San Francisco.
Okay fine, I'm exaggerating a little... she wasn't morbidly obese, but she was obese enough to accidentally snap off one of her garter strings about 30 seconds in to her "dance", an event that left me stifling bouts of laughter for the rest of the night. This runaway string soon proved to be just the beginning of what turned out to be one of the most confusing, unnattractive, so-horrible-you-can't-stop-staring stage moments I've ever witnessed.

Her act (a dance + monologue) encouraged the audience to "breathe into her lungs", "live inside her body" (not a wholly impossible request of some, given her measurements), and do other metaphoric actions that my left-hemisphere dominated, un-San Franciscan brain was incapable of comprehending. Many of these phrases were sung in her deep tenor-like voice, and the "dance" moves were played out with such unbelievable force that I swear to god there was an earthquake every time she jumped. Which isn't saying much in San Francisco, due to the high probability that there WAS, in fact, a little earthquake each time she jumped. Regardless, it was evident through the earnest devliery of the message and hearty applause it drew that people were actually "moved" by this performance, in an almost spiritual sense.
What the hell? I never get "spiritual experiences" (one of the reasons I was doomed when God placed me in a religious family), much less those induced by watching a 400-lb display of stretch marks move around a stage like a gorilla.
In fact, the closest I've come to any sort of supernatural-esque feeling of euphoria is while playing classical music on the piano, and even that is probably just the calming sense of accomplishment I get from hitting all the right notes. Oh yeah, and I'm usually drunk.

As a child, I used to internally reprimand myself for my so-called "evil" thoughts and actions in church: opening my eyes during prayer, passing notes to my sister, giggling at the crazies who'd flail their arms to heaven while singing, etc., hoping that my guilt trips would eventually drive me to feel what all my friends supposedly felt when they prayed, sang, and did other religious activities.
But to no avail... I was left even more confused and conflicted with my alternating thoughts of shame, doubt, and artificiality.
What was I missing?? I could smile, nod, and pretend all I wanted, but at the end of the day, I simply had NO IDEA what my family, teachers and peers were talking about when they praised the Lord's "mercy", "love" and "grace". The only visible proof to my mind that God loved me was when I'd get an A on an exam or win a soccer game, both common (at least in America) but nonetheless egocentric and idiotic interpretations of a personal god's omnibenevolence.

Back to the Mission theatre. As I sat on the gender-neutral John for the 3rd time that evening, probably contracting some STD from the toilet seat, I began to make parallels with my religious past and wonder about Elephant Woman's relative transcendency. If the other 100 people in the audience were able to watch in amazement and complete sincerity, seemingly being lifted to a place of understanding and enlightenment, why couldn't I even temporarily deny my urges to simultaneously crack up and barf? It was like being 13 again, my parents forcing me to participate in church activities with the promised bribery of a Chili's lunch afterwards if I would just PRETEND to be enjoying myself.

What was (is) wrong with me? And more importantly, who could (can) I blame for my emotionally- and spiritually- devoid behavior? An abundance of testosterone? A mom who wore the pants in my parents' relationship? The autistic-like behaviors said to result from years of having an eating disorder? (seriously)

Nope, only my current, conscious emotional literacy was to blame for this lack of sensitivity. I had to man up and be a bitch. Because in a society driven by idealistic, proverbial notions and circumlocutions, where everyone pretends to know what the fuck they're talking about (but really hasn't a clue), sometimes, ya just gotta join in, raise your hands for Jesus, and clap for the fat girl.