So Bill, Why Are You Looking So Confident Today?

No kids, it's not my masculine scent. It isn't the fact that I know I brushed my teeth extra well this morning. Nope, it's not even that the rash finally cleared up (I kid, I kid, relax). No kids, that devil-may-care, mothers-lock-up-your-daughters look can only be brought about by one thing: new underpants. That's right kids, good ol' Bill was just gifted a fresh pair of undies, and I couldn't possibly be any happier. Let me also tell you, that this is no ordinary pair of underpants, kids, this is a pair of special travelpants.

Inspired by the Rumdum Las Vegas "One Suit, One Weekend" trip that was such a resounding success, my wonderful friends the Desimone sisters decided to get me a gift that would take the whole thing one step further: one suit, one weekend, two pairs of underpants. See, these babies are not just lightweight and moisture-wicking, they are insta-dry, and they are meant specifically to be worn, washed, wrung out, and worn again. As the instructions on the packaging told me: "wash them, wrap them up like a burrito, stomp on them to dry them, and enjoy." While I have been washing them in the traditional way (you know, that modern marvel we call a washing machine). Still, the fact that I could essentially wet myself, run to the bathroom, wash up in the sink, and be almost ready to go in no time. I'm not saying I would consider wetting myself, least of all intentionally, but still, I sleep a little more soundly know that if I so desired, I could, and in the end, isn't that what really matters?

But I digress. Anyhow, new underpants. Good stuff. It makes me happy, they fit like a glove, and they keep me comfortably dry.

PS - yes, those are the underpants I have, but no, it's not my junk.

Man, I'm Terrible at This

Blog, did you miss me? Well, I missed you too. I'm not making excuses about the lack of blogging recently, I just have been lame. And by lame I mean going out a lot, and keeping somewhat odd hours, oh and I got an Xbox, which is never good news for free time at home. But yeah. Blog.

See, here's part of it, and I've been thinking about this recently: I talk to lots of people all the time, I tell stories, I shoot off silly emails to my friends that are of an almost bloggy nature, but this way if a story involves something or someone, I don't have to make it 100% public. Now I know you're wondering what I have to be all secretive about, and I promise you, it really isn't anything. I just find that by the time I get home from work I tend to be a little worn out on typing out my life again. Chances are I've done it already once that day, not to mention the whole "I write blogs for a living" kind of thing I have going on from time to time. I know it's an age old joke, but damn I'm glad I'm not a gynecologist. Wocka wocka wocka.

So, for instance, I emailed some of my buddies today with this little tidbit that's an amusing anecdote for my usually mundane everyday life. So part of my team's job at work is to generate content for our weekly newsletter. With our Valentine promotion in full swing at the moment, the three single kids have to riff on and on about all the wonderful things you should be getting for that special someone without really having special someones of our own. Well, that and my general hatred of all things Valentine, except the SF Pillowfight. But I digress. My coworker was working on a top ten Valentine gifts lists, and was stumped as to what men want for Valentine's Day. Chances are if you know me or happen to either possess or have regular access to a pair of testicles, you already know where this is going. Here we are, verbatim conversation via instant messenger:

Coworker_1: morning
bill_bergstrom: hey hey
Coworker_1: what do men want for v-day?
Coworker_1: top ten is not easy for a single gal
bill_bergstrom: honestly, I have no idea what to say
bill_bergstrom: men only really want sexual favors
bill_bergstrom: but you can't exactly offer cash back on those

See, this is the kind of knowledge I be droppin' day in and day out. We don't need a blog full of this silliness, now do we? And we sure as hell don't need me griping about MUNI any more than I already do. Hell, have you seen my Twitter account? I should get sponsored by MUNI, except the complete opposite. Which is really what it's like - I talk a load of shit about how badly they fail at doing anything, and they take my money all the time. Reverse sponsorship. Boom. Patent it. Trademark by me, 2010.

It's evident that it's late and I probably stopped making sense after the first few sentences of this blog, so I'll wind it down. But still, blog! Hopefully I'll be loopy tired and sitting at home tomorrow too so I can do this again. You know, like back when I used to blog all the time.

Not to be derivative, but....

"Look at this fucking love connection."





Happy Thursday, y'allz.

So, how did you meet?

I know this post is entirely overdue, but I still rave about this over a week later. I was watching TV unassumingly a few Mondays back, celebrating the long-awaited return of Heroes to NBC's Monday night lineup, and at ten o'clock I shut the TV off. As you know, I'm not one to watch television just for the sake of watching.

Ten minutes later my phone rings and my friend says "Turn on the TV to channel seven. I'll call you at eleven when this show is over."

Naturally, you can't resist that kind of temptation, so I did as I was instructed. It was then that I first discovered what might be the greatest breakthrough in both network television as well as in American dating in the history of network television and American dating.

I was watching Conveyor Belt of Love.

The beauty of this show, outside of the speedo guy with the lap dog,

was the fact that it gives EXACTLY what it promises. Men go by on a conveyor belt, girls sit there with little paddles indicating if they're either interested or not interested, much like an auction. But rather than a constant stream of beefcakes who look like they're on break from ASU, there are a bunch of freaks. There's the fat guy with the really respectable Chris Farley impression. There's speedo guy. There's a magician who calls himself "The Filipino Chris Angel". There's nunchuck guy who also won't stop dancing. There's the ukelele guy who, it turns out, did gay porn. There's the weird nature boy who may or may not have B.O. There's sleazy investment banker-looking guy who desperately argues his case that he's deserving of a date. I could go on. I'm not alone - Zap2It published a blog about the wonderful lessons one can glean from this wonderful broadcast experience.

This is what our society has come to. Men on a conveyor belt. You know what's worse? It's still one of the best reality shows I've ever seen. I'd watch it a thousand times before considering watching American Idol. Maybe it's that people romantically humiliating themselves is more interesting than people humiliating themselves because they think they have talent.

This great revelation in television came at an interesting time. For some reason, a handful of the females I associate with (mostly co-workers) have been talking at length about their fear of dying alone amidst a crowd of fifty cats and stacks of old newspaper. This kind of thought process always fascinates me. I know it's got to be part of female body chemistry and hormones and all that jazz, but I can't for the life of me think of any man who, especially before the age of thirty, says "oh no, I'm going to die unwed with an excessive amount of pets." Yes, I know the stereotype of the "cat lady" is something that strikes fear into most every single unattached woman above 25 or so.

And yes, I know there was that episode of Sex & the City where Miranda was afraid she was going to die alone in her apartment and her cat was going to eat her face off (don't ask why I know it, I'm just well-rounded), but still, it seems odd to me the frequency with which females seem to express this concern. Stranger still that they would express it to me, who has been famously single for almost as far back as anyone can remember. I don't really have any insights into what to tell these women, but I'm just curious if any of you who happen to stumble across this blog might be able to shed some light on the issue? Do we, as a culture, preach fear to women if they aren't well on their way to marriage by their early-to-mid twenties? As someone whose mom didn't marry until forty, it's pretty foreign to me, so maybe you all can help me out.

How to Spend an Afternoon

I'll be brief, and there should hopefully be some good blogs coming down the pike. I think. If I am ever home in the evenings.

In the meantime, enjoy two of my great loves mixed together:

Two Gentlemen of Lebowski

You can thank me later. And thank Phil, I got it off his Facebook page.

The Cobra and the Mongoose

A little over a week ago, I went with the fellas in Hello Monster to see Live 105's Local Band Showcase and Battle of the Bands. The battle had something slightly more than your average "handshake and maybe some cash" at stake: the winner of the battle wins the opening spot for Live 105's Not So Silent Night, which is their big Winter concert at the Oakland Arena. The winning band gets to open for Muse, AFI, Vampire Weekend, and a few other heavy hitters.

So why the title? I was trying to come up with the classic conflict, and it seemed fitting, but the comparison I'm making is the ancient struggle that I witnessed that night at the show: the struggle between a band and a sound guy. See, it's an odd symbiotic relationship, and there is a reason that most of the major bands you see much of anywhere all bring their own sound guys with them once they can afford to. Even in my limited experience, unfortunately there tends to be an unspoken rule that bands have to pretty much bend over and take it if the sound guy at the club is being a dick. It's how it goes: it's his club and his gear as far as he (or she, of course) is concerned. Many of them are great; a lot of sound guys I've worked with have been both wonderful people and talented at their job. But when they screw you.... boy do they screw you.

So here's the long and the short of it: the band that was pretty much the front runner as far as I'm aware hit the stage with their work cut out for them. Another band from earlier in the night absolutely blew the place up and had the entire crowd eating out of the palms of their hands. As soon as they hit the stage, something was clearly off. At first I thought it was a matter of my ears - it just seemed like the vocals were off key and the mix in the house just wasn't right.

Then between songs, the lead singer/guitarist asks for more vocals in his monitors. They play another song, he asks for more vocals in his monitors again, and it is distinctly heard that the sound guy tells him that he has to turn his guitar down before he can get anything else in the monitors. This request is ignored. See, this is the dance between bands and sound guys. Guitarists especially (I am speaking as one here) know for a fact that there are "sweet spots" in amplifiers when they are pushed to a certain volume. Sound guys want a much quieter signal, usually, so they can have more control over the volume from their soundboard.

And so it goes.

So a song or two later, the sound guy comes onstage to adjust the bass drum microphone mid-song. It's not uncommon, but it wasn't so glaring that the adjustment couldn't be made between songs. So, the singer from the band makes like he's kicking the sound guy the whole time he's on stage. I personally believe he made contact at least once, but that's still open to debate. So they play, they announce two more songs. They play another song, they announce one more song. They start said song.

Something is wrong.

Something is very wrong: the guitar is about a fifth as loud as it was. Then it hits me: they got yanked. The band tries to end gracefully, which is hard to do when your lead singer is trying to sing into a microphone that isnt' making any sound. So they wrap it up, they throw down their instruments, complete with the guitar leaning up against the amp so it feeds back, the singer flips off the sound guy and storms off stage.

As they are making their way off stage, the sound guy can clearly be heard saying through the monitors "You're done. Get the fuck off the stage."

Now let me elaborate: there was apparently existing beef going all the way back to sound check. Sound guy was a dick to the drummer, and some words were apparently exchanged. Still, to his credit, the band did have to adhere to a time limit as per the schedule, and they may well have gone over. I don't know for sure. I don't know if anyone does. But either way, by being completely punk rock about it, the singer won his band the admiration of a LOT of people there that night. But then again, his band just sounded off for like half an hour plus.

So who wins? Honestly, nobody. Except the band, that is, who was announced the winner of the battle the following morning.

My Dreams in a Nutshell

This is an instant messenger between myself and a much-revered coworker. I feel it captures my interests as well as personal tastes rather well.

if anybody on the planet would appreciate this link more than you, I would probably pay a tidy cash reward

http://www.youtube.com/user/AlieandGeorgia

two cute girls

who dress up kinda like 50s housewives

and make bizarre cocktails

that usually involve meat

I want to swoop up on the two of them, steal them off to Utah, and have a good old fashioned polygamist wedding and live in alcoholic meat bliss

Though I will admit, I find it somewhat surprising how frequently polygamy factors into my life, you may recall, I recounted my desire to do a similar thing with Au Revoir Simone not too long ago.

Naturally, in a perfect world, I could join my musical brides with my alcoholic meat brides into one giant super mega-fantasy life.