Micturition Syncope

There is a name for the very specific circumstance which i found myself having last night. How peculiar. Here is an alternate version as posted to Myspace, which has more readership but just a little less clout.

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I think it was the two minutes from 11:59Pm to 12:01Am, in the transition from September 4th to September 5th, in the men's restroom of Lee's Palace with Chan Marshall in the middle of playing a solo Cat Power show fifteen feet down and thirty feet south, it was under these conditions where i experienced my first Micturition Syncope.

Here is a vague description of a Micturition Syncope.

For my Micturition Syncope, i thankfully had enough tact to properly sheath myself, although the curtain seemed to have come down on me prior to having the opportunity to zip up my jeans and making myself fully and uniquely presentable.

I do not remember falling on the slimey smelly floor, but that is where i found myself later, with some worried hipsters shaking me on the shoulder and helping me out of the men's room and onto some steps.

I had been sort of hyperventilating through the tenth eleventh and twelfthth Cat Power songs, and was feeling very lightheaded and disconnected and overtemperate, so i figured a trip to the scarcely populated upstairs bathrooms would be the perfect antidote. Huzzah. So much for bright ideas.

I have the following explanation choices:

1. I am one of the lucky 25-30 year olds' who are developing a panic attack disorder; 25-30 being the age range during which people who tend to develop panic attack disorders develop a panic attack disorder.

2. I am claustrophobic and cannot go to see popular musical artistes anymore. Unless there is theatre seating, like there is for instrumental Yo La Tengo shows, or Sigur Ros, or other pretentious stuff that i really enjoy. Which wouldn't be all bad.

3. My heart (the biological one, not the one that likes cute kitties and girls) is an abnormally-beating dissident who has it out for me. Hence starving my brain of oxygen.

4. My blood is an imposter, made from vinegar and red food colouring. Hence starving my brain of oxygen.

5. I do not excel at standing in place, or my blood is no match for gravity, which causes my calves and thighs to become virile and healthy, but Starves My Brain Of Oxygen.

6. A stew of factors resulting in my brain becoming deprived of oxygen, thus leading to hyperventilation, retreating to a men's restroom, blacking out and collapsing onto tainted flooring surrounding toilets following urination.


I worry about whether i should be worried. I have had hyperventilation fits / panic attacks maybe seven or eight times in the last four years. By the time i am forty, the hyperbolic trend will have me hyperventilating every three hours, and that will just not be tolerated, if i am in the middle of trying to watch a new episode of '24', or something. And by forty-one, i will rely on a machine to do my breathing for me. And hopefully it will be stylish, and hopefully it will have a belt-clip.

I wonder if they still make little brown paper lunch bags, because i should apparently start carrying those around in my pockets, to breath into, since hyperventilation fools me into sucking down as much oxygen as i can, when what i really need is some sweet sweet carbon dioxides, which would prevent my blood from becoming alkaline, like a freaking Duracell, and keep my poor skull in good supply of my nice nice blood, which doesn't deserve this tainted reputation that it is getting.

Anyway.

Then as soon as i gathered myself and got back to watching the show, some girl also fainted up by the stage, but of course she had twelve people helping her out, including Chan Marshall, and she got to go backstage, and she probably regained consciousness with honeydew nectar being touched to her lips from a golden goblet, while scantily-clad Egyptians waved large mythical feathers for increased air circulation. Y'know, and here i am with no support structure other than the new mysterious stains on my shirt and pants.

Anyway, again. I am just becoming aware of my imminent institutionalization, is all. Pardon the bitterness.