What's new, Kel?

It feels like it's been a winter in Los Angeles. Like, I moved here to escape the gray but somehow the gray found me. I'm only saying this because the past two days have been cloudy. Gray's not LA's color and it doesn't look good on it. When it’s not sunny, the streets seem even more unfamiliar to me and I get lost and do K-turns (more like circles, I can never do it right) in my car and my breath catches and I have to put on a Hanson song to reset myself. Oh, there I am. Singing along to MMMBop (still), passing the In & Out I went to when I first arrived, back when I was trying to be a vegetarian, knowing I'd fail.

What's LA like? People ask me this. It's not that different. I think I might be a little different. I hope to have changed a little. Sometimes I feel like I am in between places. This is not where I will be forever, but it's where I am now. Lately I've been thinking about Chicago. I don't know why. It's too cold. I know no one.



Goodbye, mirror.



Last week I was driving to meet a friend for a drink. And I wasn't paying attention, or wearing my glasses and I slammed into the side of my building. There was an awful noise. A noise you feel in your legs and toes and fingers. Fuck, I said. I didn't yell. I stopped the car. I went out to check the damage and my passenger side mirror was dangling from the side of the car, all stupid looking. A man walking his dog said "Your mirror's off" like I didn't notice.

I went to Pep Boys. I know nothing about cars. I thought it might cost $500 to fix. I didn't know. I went to the man and asked him if he could glue the mirror back on. He looked at me like I was crazy. I just wanted a temporary fix. I tried to look cute. "Come on," I said. "I'm sure we could just glue it on." He said no. I went back inside and found someone else. He suggested I rip out my shoelace and somehow hold it together. Then I looked at HIM like he was crazy. "It might look a little ugly," he warned.
 

Daily Beast Article

Hey guys! I wrote a piece on my "puffy face moment", inspired by Ashley Judd.

Please check it out here: http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2012/04/13/inspired-by-ashley-judd-my-own-puffy-face-saga.html

thanks for all the support!

xo
kb

east hollywood, 3 am

It’s almost three am in East Hollywood. I live on the border between East Hollywood and Los Feliz. It’s easier to say Los Feliz, it paints a better picture. Oh, I know that, they say. Do you go to that restaurant?

I usually say no. I live sort of simply; I live in my bedroom and I get out when I get out. This week I spent most of my hours sleeping. I would be awake and then I would drift back down to my bed. It’s complicated; I work from my bed because there’s nowhere else and then I fall asleep. This week’s been worse than most. The drugs won’t let me sleep at night (that is the first factor) and then I make up for the sleep during the day (second factor) and it all leads back to this: 3 am and reading things on the Internet.
...

Real Talk by KPB

The wind is howling and I cannot sleep.

This morning, I woke caked in sweat and moaning out in pain. I was confused when things finally came into view; the sun was blaring through the curtains and I didn’t know where I was, but I knew I was not home.

My body speaks before I do.

I slept on and off most of the day because every moment I am awake is a song sung by the rhythm of this nasty, unwavering pain. I struggle through each second, and I pretend I am somewhere else but I am never anywhere else.

I’ve had back to back to back flare ups since February, or maybe it was October or maybe it was 2009. I can’t remember the last time my mouth wasn’t hurting me, or my knees weren’t aching.

I hang with certain people who believe that we are responsible for the negative energy that our bodies process into weakness and illness. I am not totally on board with this theory, but I started an inspirational journal on my computer just in case.

I write cheesy, needlepoint phrases that ultimately, I believe to be stupid. And it’s that black, unbelieving thought that some might say is the reason I cannot seem to get better.

And I can’t: the debts are accumulating in my body. I have not been to the doctor since February, when my health insurance expired. I thought it was coming back April 1st, but I have to wait another month. When I went in February, I was told I needed to undergo an insane battery of tests, and I have a list written down of things I must attend to, but it will wait until May.

You can get through another month, I wrote. You can do this, I wrote again. Every moment is worth living! I write these things over and over again.

But it’s not! It’s not!, I want to write. THIS MOMENT SUCKS, I want to say.

I don’t know how to try anymore, how to write more positive things on a blank Word document and fully embrace and believe them. I want to be earnest, and I want to be positive, and I want to believe that things are getting better...

Thirty Sad Songs and One Sweet Giveaway

Update: Comments closed! Thanks for playing!

If you know me at all, you know that I only listen to sad music.

I actually have a playlist for entitled "Just In Case I Die: A Musical Tribute To Kelly Bergin" on my computer, because I will haunt any fool who tries to play "Spirit in the Sky" at my funeral. I will pull a Tom Sawyer and fall out of the ceiling to shut that shit off. It may be dark, but I want to be prepared to combat any crappy music played at my dope funeral party.

So whenever I meet someone new, I almost always ask to hear their favorite depressing song. I like bulking up my library with classics I haven't heard of. I may generally a positive person (stop laughing, I'm trying!), but nothing makes me feel and write like a good sad, song.

When I first met Matt Logelin nearly four years ago, the first thing we talked about was music (and booze). Since I moved to Los Angeles, Matt has dragged me along to Amoeba on Sunset more than a few Tuesdays to pick up a new album. Sure, he may pretend not to know me as I scour the VHS tapes for a rare copy of Hanson's 1998 tour video (buy me a copy, Internet!), but I know he totally appreciates my unique musical insight. (i.e., repeating things I read on Pitchfork).

So when I talked to Matt about giving away a copy of his book, coming April 3rd to paperback, I tried to think of a unique way to introduce Matt to those of you who may not know him. Music plays a big part in his memoir, which details the loss of his wife, Liz, 27 hours after the birth of their daughter Madeline. The narrative of Two Kisses for Maddy is loosely shaped around music both Matt and Liz loved, and I know a big thrill for Matt was getting some of his favorite artists to allow their lyrics to be reprinted in his book. (I also know how much he enjoys watching Maddy develop her own awesome music taste, no doubt aided by his catalog of songs with the words 'ghost', 'ninja' and 'Batman' in them.)

Matt graciously agreed to write up a playlist of his favorite songs AND allow me to give away a copy of Two Kisses for Maddy to 2 readers. I also wrote up my favorite sad songs, in case you also love weeping in your car while stuck in traffic on the 405.

Two winners will be chosen at random but first must provide their favorite happy, upbeat song. God knows our playlists need it.

But before you try to pump us up and make us see rainbows and sunshine, here are our picks for Songs That Make You Less Dead Inside...

Hands of a Child, Chest of a Lady

Good morning and welcome to Music Monday, a new column on this here blog wherein I post an original song every Monday. So, like, once a month.

Oh, for all those new readers (a family member who just learned to read maybe?), by "write and sing", I mean "get an annoying stream of words in my head and then grab my child-sized acoustic guitar and play the one chord I know over and over".

I've written multiple "songs" about my sister and her stupid, beautiful red hair that always gets her a ton of attention; about Gen and that time she ate cat food; I've even written a thoughtful song for my mom when I was too poor to buy her a Mother's Day gift!

But I failed to break into autobiographical territory until this "song", about the unfortunate disproportionation (is that a word?) of my body.

So for all of you out there with T-Rex arms and lady boobs, this song goes out to you.

Sorry, Dad.

Note: I don't write down lyrics or even try to do a second take. That's why all my songs end abruptly and don't have any structure. Sorry, all real musicians, THIS IS A JOKE! Also, can I join fun.? 

Note, continued: I'm only writing this note because my one piece of blogger hate mail came from someone telling me I didn't know how to sing or play guitar. Uh, duh! Also send me more hate mail, that totally made me feel cool.

real time ramblings

in the thick of the pain (the smashing of hands into walls, the vomiting from its intensity, the dealing of what is utterly unfixable)...

i must remember what makes me whole.

i don't have a choice when it comes to this life.

i have been doing this a long time.

i sometimes wonder if i'd be happier without all this––these twice monthly bouts of ulcers and the nasty side effects of prednisone--

and i find the answer is a simple no.

if i did not know this pain,

if i had not known it my entire life,

i would not appreciate the things that the healthy do not.

i would be annoyed more easily.

i would hate more.

the joy i see

because of what i don't get to see...

it makes me whole.

i am not grateful for this disease, no.

but i am grateful to have this perspective. to have earned it.

i am proud that i am not bitter anymore.