02-20-22
in which I discuss Miss Mommy, irresponsible procreation, horniness for Timothy Leary, IUDs, atomic tourism, and Theragun as a public health crisis.
Let’s begin with *~Famous Mommy Time~*
When I was a little girl and my mom was at the height of her fame, recognition from strangers filled me less with pride than with a sense of power. It happened most often when we left our jaded sphere of the Upper East Side for something like a Broadway show. I loved holding her hand down the aisle as out-of-towners turned their heads and half-whispered, “That’s Katie Couric!” I’d send them an impish smirk, sometimes squinting in mock annoyance. They’d look down, knowing they’d been caught, and I’d bounce behind Mommy toward my seat, the velvet sash of my Bonpoint scoffing from behind.
When we went on vacations, people would approach her at the breakfast buffet to tell her she looked just like Katie Couric. Depending on her mood, she’d either confirm what they already knew or say, “People tell me that all the time!” while shooting me a little wink. Sometimes in a restaurant, a middle-aged woman would approach our table and say, “I watch you every morning. Would you mind if we got a picture?” Mom would smile and say, “Thank you, but I’m sorry… I’m with my daughters.” I’d look to my sister, hiding her braces and suffering through Accutane, and we’d offer the fan two self-important shrugs.
The biggest perk of those Today Show years was access to stars who burned much brighter than Mom. As I ate an Eggo waffle before school, my first crush Adam Sandler told me “hi” on screen. On important days, I’d skip homeroom, assembly, or even P.E. to go with my mom to work, rolling into the car before sunrise to meet the likes of Destiny’s Child and Britney Spears in Studio 1A. They had to be nice to me on account of my mom, even when I ate the tops off every mini muffin in the greenroom or asked to sit on their laps. In a golf cart with Hilary Duff from her trailer to our Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade float, I didn’t have to ask. In her hot pink sweater dress and black beret, she plopped me there like a cool big sister. She remembered me, she said, from our hotel suite meet-and-greet that summer, to which I’d worn space buns and turquoise toile.
At 30 Rock I’d hide from Claudia, the chain-smoking wardrobe lady who kept Krispy Kremes in her pin drawer, and saddle up on a swivel chair in the glam room during the second hour. With the important guests gone, my mom’s hairdresser would notch me up in her chair to straighten my wavy locks while a makeup artist painted “freckles” on my face with brown eyeliner. The grown-up next to me—probably a boring author—would smile at my reflection as I marveled at myself, shrinking and infinite in the parallel mirrors. Pampered and painted, I’d get a ride uptown with mom’s driver Jack to school, where teachers never fretted over speckled cheeks and lost time. I was special, after all.
Unlike my too-cool older sister, I took every opportunity to get on television. Beyond my Macy’s parade appearances—which later included Raven-Symoné (Build-A-Bear) and Carrie Underwood (Pillsbury)—I relished my third-hour Today Show stints on days I did not have school. I bit into maple-infused pork ribs at 10 a.m. and told the chef I liked them with a face smeared in barbeque sauce. I sampled eggs cooked by an Egg Wave™ (the “amazing new discovery that lets you cook the fastest healthiest eggs ever! All right in your microwave!”) and gave them a thumbs up. And with my losing second-grade soccer team, I ran drills with Brandi Chastain on a turf-covered Plaza, only to regret wearing a sweatshirt under my pinny that morning for years to come.
Which brings me to my Enemy of the Week: James van der Beek.
As a former celebrity child who does little more than waste space in the universe, I’ve chosen the man behind the original toxic TV nice guy as my enemy this week because he will not stop making babies. If you weren’t aware, van der Beek and his DOÊN-wearing wife Kimberly are living out their cringe frontier fantasy on a Texas compound with six kids. James and Kimberly look a lot alike, and their offspring all look like living versions of Kirsten Larson, the now “archived” American Girl Doll from the mid-19th century whose family leaves Sweden for a new life in the Minnesota Territory. I mean that as a compliment to Olivia, Joshua, Annabel, Emilia, Gwendolyn and Jeremiah, and should clarify that my issues with their prairie-core parents have nothing to do with them.
There is something creepy and self-indulgent about the van der Beeks’ constant procreation, largely due to the way they use their kids for social media clout. It’s probable that these children are very much loved, but I can’t help but feel like making more little toe-headed angels is all part of their brand (this goes for Hilaria and Alec, too).
Of course, JVDB will undoubtedly raise better citizens than far richer morally bereft elites like the Sacklers. And in many worlds, the van der Beeks are hardly elites. Maybe their inheritance (which I don’t imagine is enormous) being split into six will serve them well. Same with their dad’s fame peaking decades before they were born. Maybe they’ll be okay. Maybe they’ll do great things, especially if their parents stop posting them on Instagram.
But it’s also possible that they’ll end up something like me, which is frightening. If they operate as I do, they’re more likely to live comfortably within the system than to devote their lives to revolution. And that for their whole lives thus far they’ve existed to a million plus people (and increasingly themselves, I’d guess) as pixels, might lead some of them to spend adulthood desperately trying to be famous themselves (see Chet Hanx, virtually all the spawn of Bravo-lebs, the nepotism glitterati… and me). I’m certainly not burning down my mom’s house in East Hampton or taking an oath of voluntary poverty to join the Catholic Worker movement. Instead, I’m getting monthly LED treatment on my melasma at HeyDay NoHo, filling my apartment with fake food I impulse buy on Etsy, and taking pictures of myself.
Then of course there’s the effect on the planet and the fiery world the children of today will inherit (though I know the latter will be far worse far faster for poor kids). According to my calculations (which might be wrong), if every woman on the planet had six kids, it would raise the temperature of the earth’s oceans by 0.004 ºF within a generation.
This is on top of corporations, which I know are far more responsible for climate change, with just 100 companies currently producing 71% of global greenhouse emissions. But isn’t there a direct relationship between the power of corporations and the growth of the consumer class? But then again, maybe rich people having more kids is good in that it’s sort of a form of wealth redistribution? God, take away my Ritalin.
Think of all the people in the world who, unlike the van der Beeks or the Baldwins, don’t have access to birth control. Anarchist Emma Goldman, a pioneer for reproductive rights who worked as a Lower East Side midwife in the early 20th century, argued that Gilded Age capitalism required high birth rates among the poor, since “nothing so binds the workers to the block as a brood of children and that is exactly what the opponents of Birth Control want.”
On the contrary, James and Kimberly van der Beek are having babies on purpose, not because they don’t have access to birth control. And they are not likely making producers but consumers of goods and services. Same goes for Los Baldwinitos. As the offspring of a rich celebrity, I have a feeling they will not join the ranks of the exploited masses—the “material to be destroyed,” in Goldman’s words—but, like myself, become destroyers of the material.
In the future, if I find myself in a position to rear a child, that child will be adopted. At least that’s how I feel right now. I realize I sound self-righteous, but that’s because I am. It’s not surprising that JVDB is obsessed with procreation given Dawson’s reaction to his 40-something-year-old mother’s unplanned, high-risk pregnancy in Season 4. And though the future looks van der Bleek, I’m earnestly hoping they prove me wrong.
For more: “To Breed or Not to Breed?” (NYT, 2021)
CRUSHES OF THE WEEK
I have three crushes this week (and I’ll keep them short).
John Lindsay shirtless on Rockaway Beach while campaigning for New York City mayor in 1965. I know he’s kind of seen as the worst NYC mayor of the 20th century, but I feel like he did the best he could, and looked mighty fine doing it.
Certified countercultural zaddy Timothy Leary, perhaps experiencing mild hallucinations, hanging out on the Millbrook estate where he and his followers were living in a 63 room mansion and regularly trippin ballz. Please enjoy the LSD prophet’s 1966 Playboy interview in which he refers to acid as “Western yoga” and describes music emerging from speakers “like squirming curls of toothpaste.” Watch him on “Firing Line” with WFB, Jr. here. Turn on, tune in, drop out, and BONE ME!
Tracy Anderson Method instructor Olivia Elias wearing sunglasses while doing splits outdoors on Ms. Anderson’s CARDIO FLY SUPER G FLOOR™ in Malibu. I’m usually disappointed when Tracy herself takes a break from the online studio (there’s nothing like the rush I get when she transitions from free arms to weights and shoots us acolytes a smile or a kiss), but Olivia’s really doing it for me.
🌸TANYA’S CORNER🌸
Tanya, my friend whom I met through Black and Pink’s pen pal program, has a birthday coming up on March 4! A transgender woman, she is currently incarcerated at Mule Creek State Prison, a men’s facility in Ione, California. Tanya continues to be held in men’s prisons despite the 2020 passage of California Senate Bill 132, which is supposed to “allow incarcerated transgender, non-binary and intersex people to be housed and searched in a manner consistent with their gender identity.” Due to a backlog of transfer requests, Tanya has not been transferred to a women’s facility.
If you’d like to write a birthday card for Tanya, please send them as soon as possible, since mail processing is particularly slow in her current facility. If you have questions, feel free to send me a direct message on Instagram (@carriecmonahan) or an email (cmonahan1596@gmail.com). Some of her interests are poetry, astrology, cooking, gospel and R&B music, animals, and celebrity news. Please don’t include anything with glitter or plastic, and remember to use her deadname Anthony Nugent on the envelope but Tanya in the card itself.
Anthony Nugent, #P85509
MCSP A-2-225
P.O. Box 409020
Ione, CA 95640
An update on her restitution fund: $4,400 of the $5,195 raised has been deposited into her account so far. As a reminder, the sites I use to deposit (JPay and Access Corrections) are finicky and only let me deposit $300 at a time every 10 days. But we’re almost there!
ARCHIVAL
This week’s archival find is courtesy of my friend Josie Weinberg, who has recently committed most of their free time to The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City. It’s a flier for the Sixth Annual Convention of the Contenders of the Faith of Jesus Christ, Inc., organized by the founders of Faith Temple Pentecostal (namely Dr. Rosemary Cosby, Mary M. Cosby’s grandmother a.k.a. “Big Mama,” who walked and hitchhiked from Indianapolis to SLC with her four children to start Faith Temple in 1960). Rosemary’s ominous husband Robert Cosby, Sr., who would later marry Mary (allegedly in accordance with her grandmother’s will), is pictured on the flier as a “presiding official” next to Big Mama.
Everything you need to know about the allegations surrounding Mary’s church (its schism, Robert and Mary demanding exorbitant tithings from their congregants, foul play surrounding Rosemary’s “sudden death,” and the exhumation of her remains) can be found on this Reddit thread. And please watch the Faith Temple church service in Season 2, Episode 20.
Lastly, don’t miss this exclusive interview with Mary’s mother Rosalind (who left Faith Temple and started a restaurant called Mama’s Plantation (???) just outside of SLC. Mary and Rosalind look and sound exactly alike, which makes me wonder: is Rosalind just Mary in disguise?
MITIGATE YOUR MONTHLY
Speaking of Mary, who links the purchase of her ugly bathroom sconces to being on her period and claims that sparkling water “hardens your ovaries,” I’m currently riding the crimson wave myself.
For the past two years I’ve been on TriSprintec since my OG BC Ortho Tri cyclen was mysteriously discontinued. Yes, TriSprintec is partially responsible for my melasma (which Hilary Duff also has). But I will never get an IUD for the following reasons:
That girl who had one and went to Cabo on spring break, only to suddenly deliver a seven-pound baby somewhere near El Squid Roe (is this an urban legend?).
The tragic Dalkon Shield fiasco of the 1970s.
I’m good with getting it every month because it tells me that I’m probably okay inside. I feel like periods are supposed to feel like periods, because your body is doing a lot of work. When my lower back hurts and I’m contorting myself for relief, I take comfort in knowing that my reproductive organs are working as they’re supposed to, contracting and shedding my uterine lining. As I’ve learned in DBT, it’s important to think dialectically.
Here are some tips from The Care and Keeping of You on dealing with menstrual discomforts:
GEOGRAPHY
I’m mad at myself for not visiting the Atomic Survival Town near Las Vegas when I was there last summer. To prepare for Operation Teapot, a series of nuclear tests done in 1955, fake homes inhabited by dummies were built at varying distances from the test site. Watch this archival footage of a farmhouse full of mannequins preparing for a nuclear blast here and a solarized clip of a child dummy calmly sustaining Armageddon here. (Thank you to my BFF Witt for telling me about this.)
Apparently the Las Vegas Chamber of Commerce issued atomic tourism calendars in the 1950s, listing detonation times and the best places to watch them. But within a few years, surrounding residents noticed that their livestock had deformities and beta particle burns. The Limited Test Ban outlawed above-surface nuclear testing in 1963.
CELEBRI-TEA
A never-before-published piece of celebrity gossip is something I learned in first grade at Disneyland, which I used to frequent because I was spoiled and my mom had a boyfriend in the Pacific Palisades. As is customary, my mom asked our VIP tour guide (I think her name was Robin?), “Who is the meanest celebrity you’ve ever toured?” The answer was MTV VJ Daisy Fuentes, who allegedly got impatient and shouted, “I’M GONNA GET MYSELF ANOTHER LITTLE PLAID PERSON!”
Maybe this was a one-off thing, and she’s perfectly nice? Oddly enough, I looked her up on Instagram and discovered that she and her husband Richard Marx went on a double date with my mom and stepdad on Friday night. I don’t know how to feel.
PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT
I urge you to be cautious using your Theragun/Hypervolt close to your cervical spine. My therapist told me she has a mini stroke from doing so. You may, of course, continue to use it safely on your private parts (but obviously over Everlane leggings).
SONG OF THE WEEK
“The Winner Takes It All” by ABBA (1980). Watch the official music video here. This is my song of the week almost every week because I’m a lonely loser who romanticizes situations that are ultimately meaningless for the other person. This song is especially real to me right now because my friend (whom I kind of love?) was supposed to make me a popstar but now he has a new girlfriend who is 40% hotter than I am so he doesn’t care about me anymore. Regularly, I imagine singing this to both of them while crying.
If you’re in the same situation, buying a velvet headband on Etsy might help. When I felt invisible at my friend’s going away party last month, I put hers on and suddenly—like magic—people were trying to f*** me!
READING
I cannot stop thinking about “The Strange Case of Anna Stubblefield” by Daniel Engber in The New York Times (2015).
Then, there’s this comment on the recent NYT article about adults like S*r*n* K*rr*g*n going to the American Girl Doll café to get obliterated and take pics fully sent me (and made me hate myself more than usual):
VIEWING
I’ve taken comfort in this video by YouTuber Lorry Hill in which she explains all the procedures Bella Hadid has likely had as of 2020 and the total cost ($100,000 — but I feel like it’s more?).
TEXT OF THE WEEK
NUMBERS OF DAYS WITHOUT INTERCOURSE
149 :’)
HAVE A WONDERFUL WEEK! I LOVE YOU ALL <3
Your Brilliant and so funny!
Amazing read!