3-27-22

in which I discuss the Sims and predestination, Joey "Pick Me" Potter, tonsil crypts, and serious ideas for tramp stamps.

😰THAT GREEN DIAMOND LIFE😰

In 2003, my older sister Ellie would let me watch her play The Sims. Her on her 15-pound Dell Dimension would heat up and whir as the game loaded inside the computer, its gears and cogs generating terrain, reticulating spines, and stuffing genies into bottles to build for us the best of all possible worlds.

After school and on Saturday mornings, I’d sit there, open-mouthed in my plaid uniform jumper or Paul Frank pajamas, as she entered Build Mode and the sweet sound of jazz piano flowed from a grimy pair of speakers. My sister was a magician, dragging walls with a shwoomp, thump, ka-ching! across a grid of grass, building a boxy McMansion with a mechanical bull for a household of eight adults akin to The Real World. There was always a hottie named Chad.

Of course, we used the game’s cheat codes (“rosebud” for 1,000 Simoleons, followed by “!;!;!;!;!;!;!;!;!;!;!;!;!;!” to multiply) to give our Sims unexamined lives of excess. They would never search for jobs on their own computers (or, God forbid, peruse the newspaper for listings). Instead, they’d have five different toilets in each bathroom and never work a day in their lives.

Hours later, when the place was furnished with scary clown paintings and white grand pianos, we quickly got to killing them or making them fuck. The surest way to see the Grim Reaper was removing the ladders from the pool while they swam, but more exciting was a bearskin rug up in flames, consuming Chad as he made out with a random neighbor by the fireplace.

The best part of all was making my Sims “play” (or, by the game’s second installation, “Woo Hoo”) in a vibrating heart-shaped bed. (Admittedly, the Simlish phrase Za woka genava (“I think you’re hot”) can still turn me on.) When my sister had slept over at a friend’s house, I’d sneak into her room early in the morning and play on mute. There was nothing better than hitting Ctrl + Shift + C and entering the code “move_objectson” to relocate a bathtub still in use by a naked Chad. For a beautiful moment, alone with morning breath and knotted hair, I’d catch a glimpse of his digital junk (a Hanging Chad, if you will!), finally free from the mosaic blur of the game’s sensors. A flutter in my stomach and a twitch between my legs, I felt naughty and delighted at once. 

Depwa Spanewash Depla Blah!

I often feel like a Sim, flitting about the world with a glowing green diamond hovering overhead. And though I’m intensely interested in Protestantism and comforted by the concept of predestination, it is not God who controls my every move with His mouse. In the words of John Berger (sorry), I’m both “the surveyor and the surveyed,” the watcher within me separate from my external self.

1562 Etching by Frans Hogenberg illustrating the Second Coming. Angels gather the elected while the damned turn and turn in the widening gyre.

I know the idea of dissociation is trendy these days, but that’s because it’s real and epidemic, especially among those born after 1990 (NB: this is not based on quantifiable data but rather anecdotal evidence). It started for me around 12 or 13, when I became obsessed with taking photos of myself on my MacBook’s Photo Booth app.

My best friend at the time (who is now a minorly famous Instagram baddie due to her father’s role as Trump’s former fixer) was tan and thin and somehow sexy at 12.  Having taken a cab uptown to my family’s Carnegie Hill co-op, littered with manila folders of my mom’s work papers and stained with Cairn terrier pee, we’d spend hours in my room talking to Buckley boys on iChat and taking pictures for Facebook albums.  As the countdown flashed onscreen, I’d wiggle a little behind her so that my face wouldn’t look so much fatter than hers. Then I’d prune my top lip and suck in my nostrils, pleased with my nose in sepia tone. Meanwhile she’d widen her eyes and place her index finger, its nail filed into an oval and freshly painted Ballet Slipper, to her bottom lip. She was tween hotness incarnate, and soon, I’d sacrifice my grades, my values, and my daily caloric intake to become some version of that.

Because I knew you… I have been changed… for good. (Tao Midtown, 2009)

Of course, I’ve since found my way back to the path of self-righteousness. But I’m still rarely back in my body, except maybe in moments of gastrointestinal distress. Most of the time, Player Me sits in a control room inside my brain, doing her best to control the Sim Me that roams the outside world. Not infrequently, the Player is pleased with, even enamored of, the character she’s created. Such self-adulation may stem from a positive response to the Sim’s jokes, photos or videos in which the Sim is attractive or charming, or memories of a time when the Sim fulfilled her goals and gained respect from her community. The feeling was most acute when I’d go on dates and spend the entire time providing entertainment for two, unaware for the several weeks that I didn’t actually like him, I liked that he liked The Show.

Unfortunately, the Player may lose control of Sim when the latter, in a moment’s glitch, enters free will mode. In such moments I am still not free, because the Player is watching in horror. The Sim ignores her queue of tasks: Go Here, Brush Teeth, Clean Litter Box, Prepare Healthy Meal, Get to Know ____, Go for Jog, Read Book, Learn About Art, Go to Sleep. She opts instead to dip snap pea crisps in Marmite in bed after midnight, soiling her newly-changed sheets with crumbs from her mouth and dust from her fingertips. She ponders G-string bikinis on sale from Adam Selman Sport, then opts for a pair of French cut leggings she can only wear at home. She watches a mustached man with a disc bulge get his neck cracked by an Orlando chiropractor, then switches to feline acne.(1)

In social settings when I start to fear I might be boring, my interior self, that omniscient player behind the screen, watches as her avatar’s disembodied head rolls around frantically, then spins on its axis like the little girl in The Exorcist. Carrie the Sim vetoes the player’s commands—Listen Intently, Ask About Interests, Compliment Appearance, Discuss TV Show—and instead announces she’s just had diarrhea. The rogue task boxes pile up on screen—Tell Stranger Fake Story, Alarm Mom with Impulsive Text Exaggerating Mental Distress, Reveal Unsolicited Personal Information to Employer—and they can’t be canceled with a few clicks. Her Charisma Skill plummets back down to zero, and her mood drops five points from embarrassment.

Dag dag :(

I now only play the Sims once every couple of years. The last time was when I had COVID right before Christmas, and downloaded the Sims 4, plus the Cats & Dogs ($19.99), Cottage Living ($39.99), and Spa Day ($13.99) expansion packs. I built a cottagecore/Goop-inspired compound for a hot interracial lesbian couple named Sunshine and Storm, along with their painting prodigy son Cirrus. For nine hours, I designed their property in the hopes that they’d enjoy a life of steam baths, Kundalini yoga, hydrangeas, chickens, sheepdogs, and a fecund garden of oyster mushrooms, Japanese eggplants, and butterhead lettuce.

But with the place finally furnished and their lives ready to start, I could only play 15 minutes before boredom set in. Despite the game’s sweeping technological advances and a pixel world more complex than ever, it just wasn’t all that fun. The game was no longer about playing adults because now, I was an adult—an adult loser trapped in the same game IRL. But outside the computer, there are no cheat codes (except, of course, those inherent in privilege). The Player cannot ramp up the loneliest stretches of life to Ultra Speed. Relationships cannot be preset (except maybe with family), nor can a perfect body, or a likable personality.

A few months ago, I saw a beautiful willowy girl at Public Records and, full of Ritalin, shrooms, and alcohol, told her that I loved her, and that she looked like me if I made myself on the Sims. I think she was flattered but scared, which I suppose is to be expected. I guess I was caught in free will mode again, never to be loved or WooHooed (184 days) until the end of time.

Please God, help me get back on course. Would you please let the player control the game? Or, better yet, force quit? If I caused this fall from myself, a fall which you foresaw, how can I find redemption? You have chosen, through conditional grace, who among us will work to save ourselves.(2) But I can’t save myself while I play God in this game, so perhaps I’m damned after all. I pray you’ll make me an NPC again, that you’ll free me like you have Mortimer Goth.

Watch the Mortimer Goth glow up here.

(1) Congratulations, you’ve found the mise en abyme! Click here to claim your prize!

(2) I guess I’ve chosen Arminianism over Calvinism now?

🔥💖CRUSH OF THE WEEK💖🔥

My crush of the week is soap opera legend and former RHOBH Viewer Proxy™ Eileen Davidson. As I embark on Season 7, sadly Ms. Davidson’s final one, I appreciate more each day her work ethic on Y&R, her courage to stand up to LVP in the Hamptons and Dubai, her poise in Amsterdam (“Beast? How dare you.”), and her integrity in talking down Lisa Rinna from her Munchausen claims against Yolanda. But most of all, I admire her poise and understated elegance, and her sensible spending on bags and shoes, which reminds me of my own mom’s love for Talbot’s.  

“I’m not touching that.” - E.D.

😡🤬ENEMY OF THE WEEK🤬😡

I don’t really have an enemy this week, but rather a conundrum: is Joey Potter a Pick Me Girl? If you’re unfamiliar with the term, you can learn about it on TikTok and Urban Dictionary. According to this YouTube video, “Pick Me” was originally an AAVE phrase with roots in Black church culture, where it referred to a woman or girl who dresses properly, emphasizes piety, and is focused on marriage and family. But since being coopted by mainstream (read: white) Internet culture, it’s come to refer to a host of woman archetypes that apparently reflect a sense of internalized misogyny. Examples are Charlotte York (Wifey Pick Me), Serena van der Woodsen and Julianne Potter from My Best Friend’s Wedding (Not-Like-Other-Girls [NLOGs] Pick Me’s), and Tomi Lahren (Anti-Feminist Pick Me). In Gone Girl, Amy Dunne’s “Cool Girl” monologue speaks to the NLOG Pick Me type:

Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.

Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men – friends, coworkers, strangers – giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them. 

So, back to the question of Joey Potter’s Pick-Me-ness. Her Tom Boy aesthetic and less than feminine interests (Rowing a boat across a creek and climbing through windows, I guess?) are not the issue. It’s her annoying pretension that she isn’t beautiful, combined with a disdain for other girls (namely Jen Lindley and Audrey Liddell) she sees as hot, blonde, and dumb. Neither Jen nor Audrey are Pick Me’s themselves, but rather smart, self-aware, and chaotic Bimbos (and I mean this in the 2022 sense) who are only ever kind to Joey. Moreover, Jen almost spares Joey from Toxic Nice Guy cringe head Dawson, driving her toward Pacey in the process!

Two weeks ago, I saw Katie Holmes entering the Bowery Hotel. I did not go inside.

But as we’ve learn from the YouTube video linked above, perhaps Pick Me is simply a phase many women go through, particularly during adolescence, as a result of insecurity. (However, I’ve been personally tormented by a Pick Me Girl who’s continued her ways well into adulthood). After all, Joey does change. And if a Pick Me Girl is bad because she swears she’s “one of the good ones,” doesn’t a girl who calls out Pick Me’s more or less do the same? Or is it different because what matters to the latter is the approval of other women and not men? Am I a Pick Me girl? Sound off in the comments!

🫖CELEBRI-TEA☕

Last night I saw Minka Kelly with her girlfriends at Izzy Rose on Greene Ave, just a stone’s throw from my apartment. Pretty random place for her to be, but she seemed to be having fun. She was beautiful and, at 41, looked younger than me.

💬TK💬

If you don’t write and are thus unfamiliar with the “TK” (to come) reference, your culturally illiterate self can be glad to have learned something new today. Coming up in future newsletters are some discussion topics I find interesting, like Western esotericism in reality TV (the “God Warrior”/soy-milk-drinking, solstice-observing, tarot-card-reading Hippy Lite episode of Trading Spouses, Carlton Gebbia on Season 4 of RHOBH, maybe a bit of Long Island Medium), the vindication of Yoko Ono (please read this), the growth hormone deficiency MMA fighter industrial complex (Hasbulla v. Abdu), and a micro-history of Fresco by Scotto and its ties to the mob. Please send any relevant materials my way. It is also possible/probable that my sister and I will be launching a podcast covering such matters in the near future. If you have an idea for a name, please let me know.

❓WHERE ARE THEY NOW?❓

A quick segment for those curious.

1.     Daisy, Yolanda Hadid’s health advocate during her battle with Lyme can be found here on Instagram. Her website is here.

2. Cedric Martinez, Lisa van der Pump and Ken Todd’s grifting house guest from the first season of RHOBH can be found here. Like many “friends of” who appeared on Housewives before Instagram, he is clinging fiercely to his former Bravo fame.

3. And saving the best for last, Dana “25,000” Wilkey from early RHOBH can be found here with a bio that reads “‘Did you know? $25,000 sunglasses’ 💎😎.” She is lovely, and by the grace of God has agreed to be interviewed by me on Instagram Live. Stay tuned.

🍎RHONY REBOOT CASTING🍎

I am unfortunately not what Andy Cohen is seeking for the Real Housewives of New York City reboot. And no, that’s not because I’m not a housewife (hello, Bethenny “I’m not a housewife, but I am real” Frankel). Apparently, you have to live in Manhattan (Ok, but you made it work with Alex and Simon?) and ideally have a successful career. So, that’s a bust. Good luck with your show, Andy! I hope you find someone whose business is as booming as True Faith Jewelry or Yummie Tummie. Holla!

💌DEAR CARRIE💌

“Feline Acne” now has an advice column. To submit your personal quandaries (they can be posted with pseudonyms), please send me a direct message on Instagram or email me at cmonahan1596@gmail.com .

Dear Carrie,

I’m really stressed about school/my career and I feel like my boyfriend doesn’t understand. He always tells me I should just take the day off, which makes me feel worse because that’s the last thing I can do.

-       Lucy, 27, Denver

Lucy,

This dynamic reminds me a bit of my mom and me when I was miserable and trying to get perfect grades in high school and she would encourage me to go to parties when that simply wasn’t possible. It made me furious. I would ask your boyfriend to support you in times of stress through acts of service (making dinner, for example) rather than making impossible suggestions (but please, don’t phrase it that way). If you are in a long-distance relationship and acts of service are harder, then maybe him providing words of encouragement, small gifts, or checking in (but not annoyingly) would work. And if you haven’t yet expressed (with patience) that you can’t slack off if you want to meet your goals, then do so.

Very best,

Carrie

Dear Carrie,

I am in love with one of my best friends, but he says he is not interested in relationships right now, and especially not monogamy. Is it dumb to agree to be friends with benefits with him?

-       Helen, 24, Chicago

Helen,

Unfortunately, it is probably dumb indeed. If you are anything like me, part of you is hoping that the FWB situation will nurture romantic feelings in him for you. While that’s possible, I think you need to be honest with yourself about your motives, and whether you will really be able to dissociate your love for this person from physical intimacy. That is not something I’d personally be able to do. If you really can’t help yourself, one option might be to cast a wide net and date other people while you “benefit” from your friendship with him. Perhaps you will find someone who is ready for a relationship and loves you.

Very best,

Carrie

🤯DID YOU KNOW?🤯

THAT THE POCKETS IN YOUR TONSILS ARE CALLED CRYPTS? I’ve been consumed by tonsillolith (tonsil stone) removal content on TikTok lately (viewer discretion advised). If you’ve ever had a tonsil stone, please tell me about your experience.

🔎ARCHIVAL🔍

Thank you to my friend Jules DeVaan for sending me this week’s archival treasure, shared here on Twitter by “crazy ass moments in American politics.”

I would have had cantaloupe.

✔️TRAMP STAMP IDEAS✔️

Please submit more!

• C-SPAN

• Left of Center

• nanomagic

• r a i s i n g  a w a r e n e s s – from Witt, 27, Brooklyn

• INSIDE EDITION (inside a bubble heart) – from Emma, 25, Chicago

• EFFICIENCY FRONTIER – from Cami, 24, New York

• Hyalauronic Marine Moisture Cushion

• “be” in Bebe font – also from Emma

🎶SONG OF THE WEEK🎶

“I Think We’re Alone Now” by Tiffany because it reminds me of a time when I was young and still horny.

📺VIEWING RECS📺

1.    Kelly Killoren Bensimon speaks her truth about Scary Island (April 21, 2021)

2.    Abandoned Chuck E. Cheese and Stich animatronics, before and after (2022)

3.    Lindsay Lohan interview with Wendy Williams (2018). Then please watch my 2021 seminar “The Dissociation of Lindsay Lohan: Celebrity and Exile in the Age of the Global Image.”

📚READING RECS📚

1. “The Monumental Success of Simone Leigh” (The New Yorker, March 21, 2022)

2. “I Will Survive, by Borba,” a.k.a. the anti-abortion Zootopia fanfiction comic (2017)

GOODBYE.