The Fallout

Oh, Bonnaroo.

I love you, but you're letting me down.

I thought we had something good going. I fed you with my money and spirit; I danced in your muddy streets. All I asked in return was some good music, expensive beer, and some damn good fried food.

And you provided, oh so willingly. You gave me Bruce Springsteen and Bon Iver and the best curly cheese fries I ever had.

But now, eight days after my return, I have a bone to pick with 'roo.

You and your delicious microbrews and your loud campers and your late night shows have landed me in the hospital! I look back at pictures of my adventure and want to scream at my former, healthy self. "Sleep another hour! Put down the acid and crack! (kidding!) Step away from the Natty Light!"

But perhaps I shouldn't really blame Bonnaroo for my current situation. I mean, everyone else is healthy.

I could blame this disease. Or maybe the other.

Whatever the cause may be, I'm stuck here for at least another night. I've been here since Thursday after my throat started to feel like I was getting strangled by Benjamin Linus. I put off coming in because strangulation? No big deal. But when I lost the ability to speak, I knew it was an emergent situation indeed.

My two days of kicking it like Keller were the worst days of my life. You might as well have taken away my ability to breathe! I saw so many opportunities for my wit to be vocalized, but they just drifted away, like bubbles on the verge of bursting. I even heard my coworkers discussing the latest celebrity news. They had so many important details wrong (Brangelina's children's names! Whether TomKat was married!) and it was painful to hear them, unable to jump in and contribute about Sarah Jessica Parker's surrogate twins or John Travolta's hidden homosexuality.

Celebrity gossip aside, it was also quite difficult to do actual work at the office. When coworkers addressed me, I grunted and would try to speak, but usually ended up spitting on myself and mumbling. I sounded like the Sloth from Goonies.

I knew that I looked like a freak but I insisted on hiding my illness. I had just returned from vacation and oh yeah, had recently missed a bunch of days for my fallen appendix. I didn't think it would look good that I was sick again.

Eventually I couldn't take my own silence anymore, so I popped into the ER, hoping for a quick tune up. That was five days ago and evidently, I'm still here. It's gotten past toleration at this point. This is mostly due to my roommate, who makes very questionable noises. All. Night. Long. She kind of sounds like Meg Ryan in "When Harry Met Sally". I think you all know what scene I'm talking about.


Fortunately my unlimited supply of morphine puts me to sleep so I can tune her out. I don't want to sound like a junkie but that drug = happiness.

And since I've been locked up in The Hospital That Is Not Bellevue, I've had a fair amount of visitors come to help lessen the pain. Meghan came tonight bearing some great gifts--ginger ale, powdered donuts, Chace Crawford. Sure, he was on the cover of People, but pictures of Chace are probably more interesting than the actual Chace. Derek brought me the same magazine, which I find reassuring for two reasons: 1--that he knows me so well and 2--that he supports my love of Gossip Girl. His sister also dropped by with OK! magazine. I guess my love of celebrity gossip really is known by everyone. (If only I was known for my love of James Joyce).

My family has also been here multiple times, giving me an excuse to unleash the crankiness that I typically hide from nurses, doctors and friends. They're family, so they can't really get mad when I scream at them to buy me a very specific brand of popcorn and then get angry when they take an hour to find it.

Genevieve also stopped by to fill my "weird gift" quotient. This time around, she brought me a stuffed flower that said "It's a boy!" and these really weird glasses that can be used as a straw.

Anyway, I'm hoping to be sprung tomorrow. I'm getting so bored and delusional that I actually emailed my boss for work to do from my bed. I was also so anxious for activity that I bit the cultural bullet that is Stephenie Meyer and rented Twilight. (Advice to you all: do not mention to me that you like the movie Twilight. I will fearlessly mock you until you are a shell of the person you once were.)

So if you have anything for me to do/look at/ read, send it my way.

Until then, I'll be here.

Lovingly yours,

Kelly 'The Fungus Is Among Us' Bergin

Good times

Lately, my health has been like the New York Mets: beat.

It's been so up and down the past two or three months that friends, coworkers and family are constantly asking me the same question: How are you feeling?

I can't really say that I know how to answer. Though I've been fielding this question for over 23 years (DRAMATIC!), the answer has always eluded me.

"Fine, thanks" is the usual reply.

Of course, this is usually a lie. But I don't want to bum people out. I mean, what's the alternative?

"Well, actually, I'm bleeding out my ears. My toenails have turned green and I'm emitting a stank worthy of Fresh Kills. I've lost my eyesight and can't read Braille because my fingers are teeny-tiny! But my attitude's great!"

Usually, I give a succinct answer. But sometimes, sometimes--I over share. In a big way.
I've talked about this here. And since this little episode, I've tried to stop. But sometimes I open my mouth and cannot shut it. (Okay, fine, I can never actually shut my mouth.)

This is mostly because the question makes me uncomfortable. I'm not sure how much people want to know when they ask "How are you feeling?". Do they want a simple, quick response so that they can feel like they were polite without having to be grossed out? (Believe me, when I tell you how I have a pus coming out of my face like lava out of volcano, people DO get grossed out.) Or do they genuinely want to know the gritty details, the flesh and bones of the situation, the "real" answer?

I don't think I'll ever be able to tell.

And it's just another frustrating part of this life.


The Adventures and Misadventures of One Trip to Bonnaroo: Not Censored At All. I swear.

Here's a story.

About four city girls who got in a truck and headed down to Manchester, TN.

Four girls with no knowledge of the open road and no knowledge of mechanics. Four girls used to the luxury of showers and clean water. Four girls vastly unprepared for the dirt and hard work that lay ahead.

These four girls, though excited for the journey ahead, felt unsettled for a life without crowded city streets, hair straighteners, and, most importantly, delivery.com. (Where would one of the nameless girls get her pad thai from in Tennessee?!?)

But--it was a journey! A quest to visit the great untamed South and immerse themselves in the musical stylings of their favorite bands.

It was all about the music.

These girls faced criticism for their decision to partake upon this sure to be arduous venture, but they persisted. Even when the Most Beautiful One's appendix ruptured, they carried on. "Not to be defeated by an organ that weighs less than an ounce!" was their battle cry. So they soldiered on, dear readers, they soldiered on.

They left the great state of New Jersey on Wednesday night, bleary-eyed but excited. During the long 16 hour drive, three of the girls nearly formulated a plot to assassinate the Most Beautiful One for a host of reasons, but mostly for her insistence on singing "I Drove All Night To Get To 'Roo". Conflicts resolved, they crossed into Central Time and into Manchester County.

Upon their arrival to Bonnaroo's magnificent (re: wasteland) grounds, the girls hopped out of the car, excited and somewhat high off of the Red Bull and Six Hour Energy drinks that they had consumed to drive through the night.

But it wasn't before long that tragedy struck in the form of a tent too complicated to be assembled. One of the girls (we shall call her Friz. Please see the picture.) struck herself in the head with one of the poles.

The girls had only been there for five minutes, and one was already in tears!

But the girls persevered and relied on what they knew would help them in this situation: flirting and cold beer. So the girls moseyed on up to the boys next door from Texas and before you knew it- Poof! a tent was made.

They quickly made friends with these adorable men from Austin and soon enough, they were having a grand old time. Friz stopped crying about the bugs, Nervous Nance stopped worrying about the truck, Burned Out B just continued on being calm, and the Most Beautiful One...well, she just focused on having a good time.

Over the course of the next four days, the girls would face a litany of disasters. The mud pile that almost drowned them all; the rain that made their hair frizzy; the maze of tents that inevitably had all of them lost at one point (except for dear, logical Nance). The girls faced each of these problems with a smile and a wink (or a drink), always knowing that they could rely on each other to fix it.

And these girls, these city slickers, they triumphed! They even experienced all that Bonnaroo had to offer.

The Most Beautiful One took a percussion class and then showed off her newest talents to any bum with a drum. (Look out for her soon to be released compact disc entitled "Sounds I can make by drumming on my desk at work".)

They enjoyed the music to the fullest extent and even got used to the stench that permeated the grounds (a mix of B.O., poop, and hippie). They held each other up when they could no longer walk (very large grounds), tucked each other in when one had passed out (from all that time in the sun!), and even welcomed each others new "friends" to the tent! The pact that these girls had formed was awe-inspiring. When one girl (who shall remain nameless) fell into a Port-A-Potty, the other girl with her didn't even try to snap an embarrassing photo!

When the four days were up, the girls reluctantly began the trek north, where they realized that they had quickly assimilated into Southern culture--they were now huge fans of Sonic, Wal- Mart and hanging with barefoot babies at the gas station (just like Britney, y'all!).

These four girls had a splendid time and would do it again in a heartbeat--although next time, it may be in a hotel room.

Until then, we shall bid adieu to Bonnaroo!

But first, please allow this list to summarize some of the lessons that one or all of the girls learned while on their grand adventure:

1) Talking about Harry Potter and LOST while drinking is a swell time but not necessarily attractive to the girls' male counterparts. Quizzing each other on Ron Weasley's favorite Quidditch teams did not go unnoticed by the neighbors, who mocked them endlessly for their poor and juvenile taste.
2) One girl can attest to the fact that Port-A-Potties are very slippery! She would like to give the following advice: if you do happen to fall in one, don't hold on to the toilet bowl for leverage! Especially after it's been four days in the hot Tennessee sun, used by thousands of asses around the farm. She regrets this poor decision the most.
3) Southerners do not appreciate you imitating their accents. One of our enterprising girls may have learned this the hard way. This girl would also like to add that it's not advisable to brag about winning the Civil War to someone who has a Confederate flag sticker on their car.

See you next year, Tennessee!



we are back.

we are alive.

i am quite sick. i am starting to realize that hey, maybe i can't go to the country and not sleep and run around and have a great time like normal people. i can't live like that without paying a huge price. the price being my ability to swallow or maintain normal body temperature.

the other three are presumably fine--tired, sunburnt and cranky--but fine.

unfortunately our fish (phish) has died as a result of leaving him without food for four days.

it was a sad welcoming party, watching old Langhorn flail around and attempt to eat. he suffered through the night and we prayed, prayed for his quick recovery.

but today, when we came home from work, we saw him. belly up and floating. d-e-a-d.

more on our adventures soon (when i get some pictures) but i will say this:

amazing. hot. sweaty. dirty. stinky. awesome. bruce springsteen is way hot for sixty. and joy.

and don't ever--ever--fall in a port-a-potty.

update--while writing this, i heard a flush. i called out "brenna?" in my sick voice (my sick voice is known for being very whiny, raspy and annoying). she then informed me rather nastily that she just gave "our" (re: hers) fish a burial at sea. rip langhorn (or whatever his name was). rip.


bonnaroo, here we come.

Originally uploaded by Kelly Bergin

in preparation for this grand event, i have prepared a list of likely scenarios.

1) i get really drunk and end up on stage with ani difranco. i steal the mike and sing "i believe the children are my future." bruce springsteen hears my angelic voice, scouts me out and makes me his new backup singer. (later, patti.)

2) i lose a finger trying to hammer in our tent.

3) gen gets lost and ends up in graceland.

4) in a crowd of thousands, i somehow find the long lost twin i didn't know existed. after pitching our story to industry types, we move to california to star in a white girl version of sister, sister.

5) i meet my soulmate, but then sober up and realize he is ugly.

6) i meet elvis costello and force him to father twins with me.

7) jimmy fallon discovers me, realizes he sucks, and picks me to be his replacement. his few fans weep.

8) we never make it to tennessee.

9) we make it to virginia and decide hey, that's good enough.

10) i drown in a mud pile due to my being shorter than the ditch in which the mud has accumulated.

if i don't make it back, i love you all very, very much. please transfer my debt to kristie.




What Not To Do: The Kelly Bergin Story


1) Tell everyone (including coworkers) that an appendectomy is the best surgery ever because "you get to drink two days post-op but can't exercise for six weeks!". People will finally see you for what you are. Which is not good.

2) Give invitations to do shots with people you haven't seen in years. This is not the way to celebrate your reunion. It just reminds them WHY they haven't hung out with you in years.

3) Hop in a stranger's car because he offers you a ride home. Only do this if said stranger offers you candy or alcohol.

4) Ignore your cable bill so that you can buy an expensive camera. Your internet and cable will be rudely and abruptly shut off, leading to devastation and tears.

5) Wear a low cut dress and then hang out with a toddler. Your lady parts may become exposed when lifting squirming child.

6) Automatically click on every Twitter follower you acquire. This is how you end up looking at Twitter porn at work.

7) Pick up your hair straightener when it falls in the toilet. It will still be 360 degrees and you will burn your hand badly, leading to a chorus of expletives and tears. You will then have to attempt to type a blog entry with your misshapen claw of a hand, all the while cursing your stupidity and the hangover that caused such a lack in judgment.

8) Assume that you can shop and buy expensive things because your landlord forgot to take out your rent money. He will eventually remember and you will be left with 800 dollars to pay this month's rent, food, bills and gas for your upcoming trip to Tennessee. Prostitution, here I come.


Should I pitch my idea of "What Not To Do: The Kelly Bergin Story" to TLC?

I think I could impart some serious knowledge.