Sarah Brown

BROWN’S CLOSE: Backpacking, and Other Burdens Part 2

Previously, on “Brown’s Close…” The pain in my ankle was sharp. The only sounds I could make were a shriek, and a pitiful, “Oh no.” This was it. My worst fear. I’d have to be taken off the trail by helicopter like the poor woman we were previously warned about. My name would go down in trail history as an inexperienced nuisance. My friend, who had been consistently moving at a quick pace and was far ahead, heard me fall and doubled back with the lightning speed of a jaguar.  Reaching my side –  “Drop the pack,” she ordered. I struggled out of the large backpack, clutching my ankle. I rolled around on the ground, taking the kind of deep breaths women are always practicing when they give birth on television. “I heard a crack,” I mumbled. My friend didn’t say anything, and instead turned grey. I rolled around some more, and then tentatively rolled my ankle. Then, with the horrific image of having to lie on the ground for hours waiting for a helicopter to find me and take me home, I rolled onto my knees, and stood up. Confirming I could walk, I told myself that my ankle wasn’t broken.  My friend helped me on with my pack, and she bounded on, with me trudging behind her. With her periodically running ahead and then doubling back, she glowingly confirmed we were not as far from Eagle River as she’d initially expected. My heart leapt for joy; Eagle River was the overnight camping site. We would cross the river first thing in the morning. Eagle River, like many of Alaska’s natural elements, is mighty. The current is quick, the water high, and hikers get caught and drown. Until my ankle injury, which was now my chief concern, fjording the river had been the part of the trip about which I had been quietly fretting.  Reaching the riverbank, I plopped down, took off my left boot, and examined my ankle. It was significantly swollen; all prior definition was gone, and the vascularity had disappeared from my foot. The ankle was unstable. My friend was marching up and down the river, examining the conditions. There was a couple across the way on the other side, happily changing clothes in full view. They had clearly just crossed through the glacial melt, and were putting on dry clothes as advised to prevent hypothermia. “Uh, Sarah?” she spoke softly, as if approaching someone on her deathbed. “I think we should cross.” “Wait, what now?” I squawked, alarmed.  I was supposed to have eight hours to prepare myself for this feat. “Well, yeah. There are people around. I’d rather do it then.” My safety track record on this trip so far was not great; tripping and drowning were definitely possible. If I did that when people were watching, at least they could report where to look for my body. “Well, let me change my shoes and see how my ankle feels.” We’d each brought separate water shoes solely for the purpose of crossing Eagle River. I pulled the sandals gingerly over my ankle. It was so swollen the straps almost didn’t make it around the blobby grapefruit that, an hour ago, had been a working joint. I didn’t have any way of treating the injury other than making it worse by walking on it for another fourteen miles. Oddly enough, submerging it in icy water might be the best thing at the moment. “Let’s do it.” Prior to the trip, I watched a safety video on crossing Eagle River. According to the video, we were supposed to line up with everyone in our group, holding the hips of the hiker in front of us, and move sideways in a line facing the current. The theory was each person would help stabilize the hiker in front of him. I hobbled over to the water’s edge, and my friend graciously agreed to be the leader, taking the brunt of the current. My friend leaned into her poles, and I leaned into her. The water, which came up to mid-thigh, was icy and, as advertised, fast. The rocks under foot were smooth and slippery, and would have been difficult to negotiate with two good ankles. My friend took a shuffling side step to the left, and I followed. We took another, and I felt myself lurch forward. “Wait, stop you’re going too fast, you're going too fast!” I shrieked hysterically, all in one breath. “You okay you okay you okay?”  “I’m okay I’m okay I’m okay,” I answered in our new call and response. We took another step to the left. And another. And another. I was torn between skipping as quickly as we could to the shore, and with keeping my ankle from getting stuck between one of the rolling, slippery rocks. We lurched to the left again, and I compulsively squeezed her hips in a death grip.  “You’re going too fast, you're going too fast!” Then, realizing we really were quite close to the shore by then --   “I’m okay I’m okay I’m okay,” I shrieked before she could ascertain if I was ready to move forward. In a weird sideways charge, we galloped the last 10 feet, and onto the rocky beach. I collapsed, tears streaming down my face from pain, and total relief. “I’m so glad that’s over,” I kept muttering. “You know Sarah? Every time you told me I was going too fast? I was just, like, moving.” I laid down on my back, lifting my ankle into the air, moaning, muttering, and periodically asking my friend if she needed help erecting the tent. She assured me she did not, and then came to sit next to me on the rocky beach. “I’m so glad that’s over and we don’t have to do that tomorrow,” I muttered one last time with finality. In advance of this trip, I had excitedly, and optimistically, purchased a “backpacking sleeping bag” on Amazon, rated down to 47 degrees Fahrenheit. All day trudging through the snow covered mountains, I’d worried about whether the bag would be warm enough.  While I did not freeze to death, I did roll around all night shivering, and wondering what shape my ankle would be in by morning. At 6, I crawled out of my friend’s tent shivering, and examined my ankle. It still resembled a grapefruit, but did not hurt as much as I had feared. Chalking it up to adrenaline, I hoped this protective panic would last until I could collapse at home later that night. My friend scuttled out of the tent soon after me, and we made breakfast. Of my remaining freeze dried meals, I determined chili mac was the most breakfast-like, and I stirred the contents around in the boiling water, marveling at the sheer volumes of sodium inherent therein. We then packed up, and hit the trail. Everything hurt. My ankle, my shoulders, my back, my feet, my new blisters. The residual pain of Day 1 exacerbated the pain of Day 2.  I spent the better part of the first two hours hobbling along, holding my breath. We were wading through creepy tall grass again, and a bear could stick his face out in front of me without warning. Eventually we made our way into woods which, while still eerie, offered more visibility. Bursting over a bridge and crossing Eagle River from a different vantage point, two young men came bounding towards us, hailing us down.  My friend grabbed her bear spray. I, on the other hand, was glad to see them. Maybe they’d give my old bones a lift home after they murdered me. They announced they were taking surveys for the Alaska Department of Natural Resources. I leaned heavily on my poles, relieved that we had stopped walking. “How did you hear about this trail?” I gestured mutely to my friend. “How is the difficulty level?” “Easy!” she rattled off. I, on the edge of collapse –  “Really hard,” I muttered, in a voice barely louder than a whisper. “A lot of beginners like it for the variety. You’re exposed to so many different types of terrain. Snow patches, river crossings, eh?” “I fell down the hill in the snow yesterday,” I answered flatly. “Do one of you have an ace bandage?” One of the surveyors obligingly looked through his pack, and then confirmed not only did he not have an ace bandage, they had stopped carrying first aid kits. “Last question,” the other resolutely continued. “What did you do with human waste?” My friend and I glanced at each other for a moment. “Uh, I haven’t had that problem.” “Me neither,” she answered coyly. “Are you familiar with the concept of, ‘Leave No Trace?’” he stubbornly continued with his intrusive line of questioning. My friend, experienced backpacker that she was, assured him she knew how to bury her poop in the woods, sans tutorial, thank you. While this little vignette broke up the monotony of the hike, we were just postponing the inevitable pain to come. We shuffled forward. “The fun part about the last day is you can plan where you are going to eat a celebratory dinner!” my friend sang out. “I always like to think about where I am going to go for dinner in Eagle River when we finish…” She glanced at her watch as she trailed off. Then – “Though we would really need to pick up the pace if we are going to have time to go to a restaurant before driving back to Girdwood.” I grunted in response and continued to shuffle. “Let’s play a trail game!” my friend called in desperation. “Oh gosh, yes please.”  Anything to distract me from my total abject misery. The game was simple. She decided on a category (“Items I will serve in the new restaurant I am opening”). We then traded naming items in that category, in alphabetical order, while reciting all previously named items. If one player failed to name a new item, or failed to remember an old item, that player lost. The restaurant to be opened by my friend quickly turned into a boozy bakery, serving solely sugary cocktails and decadent desserts. Menu items included Dutch Apple Pie, Eclairs, Fudge, Mango Margaritas, Sorbet, and Wine.  Exhausting the alphabet, we switched to Items We Can’t Forget for Our Vacation (“Jungle Safari Hats,” “X-ray Goggles,” and “Yellow Rubber Ducky Raincoats”). We were happily listing all of the qualities of Our Dream Guys (“Bulging Biceps,” “Cute Calves,” “Helps Me When Needed,” and, above all, “Quiet”) when I threw out my arm and grabbed her shoulder. “Hang on, there’s something moving up there.” Our current trail was meandering along the side of a steep cliff that descended into the river. Forrest covered our right side. We squinted through the forest. The trail bent to the right, and I couldn’t tell if the movement was coming from a fellow hiker, or something more sinister. Then its profile emerged from behind a tree one hundred feet in front of us. The most horrible profile imaginable. “Bear! Bear! Bear!” I whispered hysterically.  We each seized our bear spray, and retreated down the hill as far as we could before we hit the cliff. The bear sensed he had company, and crashed up the hill ahead of us. We watched the trees up the hill, frozen. The bear sashayed up over our heads, and then emerged from the trees, looking at us curiously. He started walking towards us. Hoisting our weapons high, we sidestepped to the left, as the bear continued his approach. Then, distracted for a moment, he looked off to his left, and we scrambled on through the trees, breaking into a run at the first opportunity. “Is he following us, is he following us, is he following us?” “No,” she said, putting the safety clip back on the cannister, and holstering her spray. “I think we are safe.” Knees and ankle wobbling, I put my weapon away, and the two of us abandoned the remaining qualities of our dream guys, and began shouting frantically. “Hey bear! Hey bear! Heeeeeeyyyyyy beeeeeaaaaaarrrrrr!” We were now within the Eagle River Nature Center, and all of my attention was single mindedly focused on getting out of here. Ankle sore and rickety, I began using my walking poles as crutches. More and more people were on the trail, and my friend cheerily reminded me that the more children we saw, the closer to the end we were; small people can’t hike too far.   By the time I saw toddlers, I escalated my walking pole crutch speed to as close to a run I could manage. A group of young mothers and babies were up ahead, and spotted our backpacks. “Where did you camp?” one mother asked curiously.  My friend stopped to chat.  I blew past them.  No time for moms. I was rocketing forwards by now, drawing heart from the sight of power lines in the distance. My friend, breathless, hurried to catch me. “Lesson learned, Sarah does not brake for moms! Admittedly, they were very chatty.” We burst out of the forest and into the parking lot. I began to cry quietly with relief, as my pace slowed to a shuffle, and I hobbled pitifully back to her car. The author, at left, managed a smile at the end of the hike from Girdwood to Eagle River. It was four in the afternoon, and too late for dinner in a restaurant before driving back to Girdwood to get my car. Instead, we went to Arby’s and wolfed down large sandwiches, curly fries, and chocolate milkshakes. We then trekked back to Girdwood, back to Anchorage and back to home. Upon arrival, I got into bed, and did not get out for two days. Sarah Brown periodically whimpers. Whisper soothingly to her on Twitter @BrownsClose1, or email her at [email protected] “Close” is a British term for alley or cul-de-sac. For more of Sarah’s musings, visit Browns-Close.com.

BROWN'S CLOSE: Backpacking, and Other Burdens Part 1

My friend took me on my first overnight backpacking trip last month. Via the Crow Pass trail, we were due to leave Girdwood early in the morning on Saturday and arrive at the Eagle River Nature Center parking lot late Sunday afternoon. I looked forward to this trip for months. I created a curated playlist of songs about walking. I perused Fred Meyer’s selection of freeze-dried instant foods, all set to expire in 2067. I bought a bladder. On the morning of the trip, she left her car in Eagle River, and I drove us to Girdwood. We snapped a fresh face “beginning of the trail selfie” (a tradition according to my friend) and began tottering along with our walking poles. Upon reflection, this would become the “before” shot, to be compared later with the “after” shot, of what shape my body would be in after finishing the trip. The trail began with a 3,500-foot elevation gain. My friend sprang along the trail like a jackrabbit, and I soon lost sight of her. The backpack, taller than my entire torso, made it difficult to balance, and I hobbled along waiting to twist my ankle. The shoulder and chest straps were so tight my breathing was restricted. I’d brought a small portable speaker, currently and fittingly tuned to “Dead Man Walking.” The music broadcasted my presence to my intended audience (bears), and all other collateral damage (any living being). I rounded a corner and found a small group of fellow hikers looking at me bemusedly. “We heard you coming!” they called. “We wondered who was bringing the party!” In the far distance, I saw my friend waiting patiently at the summit. I trudged slowly towards her. After an eternity of crawling uphill – “My backpack….” I sputtered between gasps. “It really…hurts…. Is it supposed…to hurt…like this?” “Well, that’s backpacking!” she sang delightedly. For the first time, I considered the possibility that my friend might be a lunatic. She voluntarily put herself through this pain, multiple times per summer… for fun? She suggested we sit down and have lunch, and I ate three large pieces of cold pizza in quick succession. They were the last pieces of food I could eat that would have had to know the insides of a refrigerator. My friend announced she hates cold pizza. Confirmed, she was a lunatic. I struggled back into my pack, requiring her help because I couldn’t get one arm through the strap; instead, I was hopping around like a chicken. Seeing me struggle, she stared at me quizzically. Then, without warning, she grabbed the shoulder straps, pulled two cords, and they loosened. Relief shot through my chest and shoulders. I took my first real breaths of the day. And then we were off again. I felt lighter than air for about seven minutes before the pack began pulling into my shoulders again as the weight of gravity took hold. I would spend the next day and a half periodically loosening and tightening straps, depending which part of my back was seizing up in that particular moment. Crow Pass covers dramatically different terrain throughout its full twenty-one miles. Starting with the stark elevation gain, hikers pass through snow, down shale coated mountains, through grass so tall and thick you can’t see bears coming, over boulders, through forests, and, of course, crossing Eagle River. Trudging through snow, I started to worry that my newly acquired “backpacking sleeping bag,” rated down to 47 degrees Fahrenheit, was going to be warm enough. Contemplating this chilly prospect, my foot slipped, and with an “Ummm…” by way of announcement to my friend, I tipped over and rolled down the hill. What with the weight of the backpack, I began to roll faster and faster. Ever gaining speed, I hurtled towards the bottom of the mountain, and the large rock wall waiting for me there. Growing up in Fairbanks, I knew the best way to slow down after bailing out on sledding hills was to increase your surface area as much as possible. I spread out my arms and legs and hoped I would slow down. As I passively pondered what life would be like with a spinal injury, I felt my momentum stall, and I stopped sliding about 15 feet from the wall. I sat up, took off the backpack, and looked at my friend, far up the top of the mountain. I’d lost a walking pole and my hat somewhere along my slide. At a loss for anything else to say, I called up to her, “Um, can you get my hat? And I think I lost one of your poles.” She shook her head. “No, let’s keep going. You don’t need them.” This was a moment of ratification on my status as a material girl. I hate losing things. Loath to leave any belonging behind, I stood up, and started climbing back up the hill, justifying my actions to my friend. “I need the pole for balance!” By now, it was mid-afternoon, and my friend was definitely fidgeting because we still had not made it to Eagle River. She wanted to camp at the river that night, and cross first thing Sunday morning when the water was at its lowest. Pole collected, hat on head, and backpack grudgingly placed on, I continued down the mountain, away from the snow. I was thrilled the temperature was warming, and we were seemingly once more in summertime. That’s when my friend cheerily reminded me to crank up the tunes again; we were back in bear country. We entered some tall grass, positively obliterating any potential bears from view. Knowing we were trying to make it to the river, I did my best to pick up the pace, though the ground was covered with giant boulders. If you took your eyes off of your feet for even a second to study the bear infested tall grass, for example, you’d trip and hit your head. Feet burning with new blisters, and my pack once again feeling like the weight of the entire universe on my shoulders, I pouted silently, wondering how I was ever going to make it back to my car by this time tomorrow. Amongst these gloomy thoughts, there was a rustling in the tall grass ahead of us, and we both stopped and seized our bear spray. Two young men emerged, looking mildly amused as they took in the site of us brandishing our weapons. As we lowered our arms, they happily announced that a woman on this side of Eagle River had just been removed from the trail by ambulance helicopter; she’d broken her ankle. Realizing it would take more time to finish the journey with a broken ankle, I decided to just go ahead and continue at my poky pace. My friend must have decided the same thing, because both of us began walking at a noticeably more leisurely rate thereafter. We sat down in the forest to have dinner around five. My friend had a nifty propane heater and a pot, in which we boiled water. We dumped the water into our freeze-dried food bags, and stirred the contents. My dinner was, ostensibly, spaghetti and meatballs; her's beef stroganoff. I eyed both gloopy messes suspiciously. When she told me about the food, I ventured that I would just bring some protein bars, or something. Having largely lived off of Lean Cuisine in college, I’d long since sworn off instant food of any kind. I’d eaten my entire lifetime’s worth over a four-year period, and my allotment was completely used up. My friend, however, insisted I would want hot food and that I really should buy these unique items, guaranteed fresh for 46 years! I stirred my spaghetti with a grimace and took a salty bite. The spaghetti tasted exactly like Lean Cuisine. It did, however, put some pep back into my very tired steps. We cleaned up from our meal, leaving no trace as good backpackers should. Naturally, and just my luck, I was beginning to regret bringing the cold pizza, as the leavings in the bag were beginning to stink. We hopped along, revived from the sodium ladened slop, avoiding tree roots precariously popping up throughout the forest. My friend confirmed we were almost to Eagle River, so we hurried along, trying to finish the day’s journey. With a crack, my left ankle twisted out, and I went down with a yelp. Stay tuned for Part 2. Sarah Brown suffers in silence. Feel free to pester her on Twitter @BrownsClose1, or email her at [email protected]; she rarely fights back. “Close” is a British term for alley or cul-de-sac. For more of Sarah’s musings, visit Browns-Close.com.

BROWN'S CLOSE: A study in horse racing

In honor of the upcoming Independence Day holiday, and as part of America’s newfound freedom from COVID-19, I went to Louisville, Kentucky, and met up with a longtime friend who lives on the East Coast. We spent a day at the racetrack at Churchill Downs on one of the last days of the season. If there is a sport with more specific forms of jargon than horse racing, I do not know what that sport is. Horses are measured in hands, tracks are measured in furloughs, and jockeys are measured in times in or out of the money. Guests are in turn judged by whether they know what it means to dress in “track casual,” and by whether they can distinguish between a Woodford Spire and an Oaks Lily. Upon arrival, spectators are welcomed to the stadium by a statue of Barbaro, a beloved Kentucky Derby winner. Unlike elite Triple Crown champions, however, Barbaro holds the distinction of being shot after he failed to win the Preakness Stakes. His demise solidified his legendary status to the point of inspiring an entire society, “The Friends of Barbaro.” Next, guests are presented with programs containing the daily facts and figures about the lengths of the various races, the jockeys, the horses, and the horses’ colors. Charts are detailed and include how much money the horse has won cumulatively over its career, when it last raced, how it races in dry conditions versus wet conditions, and its projected odds of winning. Given we were at the racetrack, we reasoned it was only logical that we start betting. Unfortunately, it is a moral failing of mine that I never carry cash. My friend, however, thoughtfully brought $23 to the track, and we amiably agreed to spend $10 of her money. We walked up confidently to the ticket machine and inserted the bill. After that, there was nothing for us to do but stare at the complex mix of buttons and blinking lights displayed on the screen. There were options for a horse to “Win,” “Place,” or “Show.” We could bet the “Daily Double,” “Exacta,” “Trifecta,” or “Superfecta.” And that does not even include the “Pick 3,” or “Pick 4.” We argued a bit, debating what each bet would mean. “Daily Double means we can bet on two things at once,” I pronounced, based on no evidence. “Pick 3 is that you can pick three horses in the same race,” she countered, sounding equally confident. In between assertions, we stared open mouthed at the screen. We spent so much time gawking that our session expired, and we received a ticket printout, but no $10. “Wait,” she asked. “But what did we bet on?” Nothing. We bet on nothing. We pulled the ticket out and gaped at that for a while. It most closely resembled the test print sheet when setting up a new printer. We looked around, wondering what to do with a $10 slip of paper tied to no discernable value. Behind us, there was a long line of desks where people could place bets, but there were signs reading, “$50 minimum.” We walked up to the nearest desk, where an old, stooped man looked at us curiously. “Hi,” my friend spoke loudly, and to the point. “We have this ticket here –” “Oh, did you win?” he twanged. “Well, no,” she laughed. “Our session expired.” “That’s alright.” He took the ticket and examined it. “It’s for $10,” she explained. “Can we exchange it for a bet on something else?” “Sure, sure,” he agreed. “But it says it’s $50 minimum. Can you help us?” He chuckled. “Ma’am, I can do anything I want.” “How would you bet?” she asked. Then, doubting her straightforwardness, “Or, are you not allowed to tell us?” He looked at her wryly. Yeah, yeah, we know, you can do anything you want. We opened the program, and together, the three of us poured over the nine or so races to take place. As we only had $10, we decided to bet on the next race only. Among others, we could choose from contestants known as Good Penny, Cuzzywuzzy, and Parking Ticket. “So, it’s $5 per bet, and you can bet on horses to win, come in second, or third, or you can bet on a horse to come in either first, or second, or third.” I wasn’t sure what the difference was, and apparently, neither was my friend. We looked back at the booklet. “Who do you want to bet on?” I asked. It was her $10, so it seemed only fair she should choose the horse. “Oh, I don’t care, whoever looks good to you.” I peered over the complicated rankings in tiny print with my nose pressed close to the page. Good Penny won the most money, was not the crowd favorite, and had the luckiest name. All of these seemed like good omens. “Can we put $5 on Good Penny to finish first?” The ticket agent’s expression told me what I needed to know. I could do anything I wanted. “You mean Number 11? You want to put $5 on Number 11?” “Uh, yeah that’s right.” He entered the information into his computer. “Alright, how about second?” She and I frowned. Appearing to be talking to the deeply dense, he spoke slower. “You can also bet on him to come in second. Do you want to do that?” Yeah, that sounded good. “Alright,” he nodded, “what’s the next bet?” Cuzzywuzzy had the same ranking as Good Penny. “$5 on Cuzzywuzzy to win?” He looked at me pityingly. “You mean $5 on Number 5?” “Uh, yeah, that’s what I mean.” He pulled our new tickets out of his machine. They were indistinguishable from the first ticket test printer page. “That will be $5.” My friend, who had been somewhat disinterested in the horse picking process, snapped back to attention. “We had $10 in credit.”  He was really looking at us like we were hopeless now.   “I know, that will be $5.” She and I squinched our faces. “I don’t understand,” she challenged. “If we paid you $10 for two $5 bets, then how do we owe you $5?” “When you bet on the same horse twice, that’s $10,” he rattled back impatiently. Feeling like those instructions had been less than clear at the beginning, we forked over another of her $5. Racing math ultimately proved to be its own entire field. In addition to the vagaries of paying $15 for a $10 bet, we eventually discovered that one can win $7 for a $30 bet. By the end of the afternoon, I was holding my head and muttering that I was never going to retire at this rate; gambling, by gosh, is just not a good investment. Still holding my head, I bought us each a round of mint juleps, and we went back to our seats to watch the respective fortunes of Bodacious Baby, Buy Me Candy, and Slim Slow Slider. Passing through the rows of fastidiously arranged green folding chairs – “What is that?” a scandalized voiced bellowed from our left. Another man, similar in advanced age to the ticket teller, pointed accusatorially at our drinks. While I am prone to ignore comments made about my food and beverage selections, my friend has never met a stranger. “Mint juleps!” she replied enthusiastically. He shook his head. “You two aren’t from around here, are you?” Well, this was obvious because my friend and I also didn’t know what it meant to be dressed in “track casual.” “I could tell because you’re drinking those,” he continued, nodding to our drinks. The mint was so voluminous, it looked like we were carrying around tiny gardens in commemorative Kentucky Derby glasses. “You don’t like them?” My friend sounded genuinely surprised. “Yeah, no locals like them,” he scoffed. Ah. “Well, what do the locals drink?” I asked. He held up a can of Budweiser. Honestly, though, the joke was on them. My friend won $74 on Good Penny, and I got three servings of my daily vegetable intake. Sarah Brown is straight edge. Feel free to invite her to things that are risky, hedonistic, or otherwise a good time, but honestly, she’ll just kill your buzz. Instead, find her on Twitter @BrownsClose1. “Close” is a British term for alley or cul-de-sac. For more of Sarah’s musings, visit Browns-Close.com.

BROWN'S CLOSE: Road Rage, Or Why All Other Drivers Should Be Annihilated

My name is Sarah, and I suffer from road rage. You’d think living in a state with relatively little traffic, like Alaska, would have cured me of this illness. Alaska has nothing but wide-open spaces, but even this, unfortunately, has not calmed me. If anything, it may be making my road rage worse. My fellow Alaskans are, by and large, a laidback bunch. In conjunction with this laissez-faire attitude towards life, drivers do not give much thought to when they will arrive at their destination, and instead toddle along, nary a care in the world. On the other hand, I care very much about my destination and would like to arrive there sometime this calendar year, people, please! I wasn’t always this frustrated. As a newly minted driver with a learner’s permit in Fairbanks, I was very intimidated by the rules of the road. All the other cars dwarfed my first car, a 1997 Nissan Maxima. It had once belonged to my grandmother, and much like my grandmother, the car offered shelter and comfort. Also much like my grandmother, the car was smaller than others of its kind in the wild. My grandmother topped off at a whopping five feet tall and would often complain that the world was not made for people her size. An early adopter of microaggressions, she maintained her whole life that the world discriminated against short people. I would hear her small voice muttering to herself when reaching for things in the cabinets, when climbing into cars, and when sitting in chairs. “Everyone is against us! The world hates short people!” As I scooted around Fairbanks in my grandmother’s car as a teenager, I too adopted my grandmother’s ethos. Trucks would loom over me, vans would steam by me, and I would clutch the steering wheel in a death grip. My dad, in his designated role as driving instructor, would sit stone-faced in the passenger seat beside me. Even though I could not bring myself to drive faster than 45 miles per hour, his foot would stamp the floor where the brake pedal would be so hard the car would rock side to side. As a baby driver, I would get lost in my miniature hometown, drive many miles under the speed limit, and freak out if I encountered a one-way street. I once took the wrong exit off the Johansen Expressway, could not figure out how to get back on the expressway, turned around, and drove the wrong way up the exit ramp. There was absolutely no traffic on the road (it was Fairbanks after all), but I was sure I would be arrested at any moment for the high crime of being a dingbat. As we all know, however, with practice comes confidence. As I matured in my driving, I had the temerity to approach the speed limit, make left turns, and choose a lane other than the right. Having mastered the art of the turn, my confidence blossomed into aggression. My fear of my fellow drivers had been replaced with a blind resentment. Who were these other vehicles taking over the road? This place was not big enough for me, my Nissan Maxima, and them too! This only got worse after I started driving in major metropolitan areas outside of Fairbanks. Drivers on the East Coast are not afraid to drive 80 miles per hour, merge aggressively, or block traffic so they can cut into a long line. Boston was the first place I saw taxi drivers run red lights more often than stop. Man, did those guys have game. I learned much from these driving giants, and my fellow Alaskans could stand some similar tutelage. For example, upon moving back to Anchorage, I was devastated by my fellow residents’ complete and utter inability to use the passing lane. Rather than passing the car on the right, and then dutifully moving back into the right-hand lane, drivers simply treated the passing lane as another lane. Two lines of cars, equal in length, meander along together, and I am back at the end of the line calling everyone around me a deadhead. But the crème-de-la-crème of triggering behavior: nothing sends me into a fury faster than a car which pulls into the left lane, speeds up to pass the car on the right, reaches the car, and then slows down to drive the exact same speed as the car next to it. People! I beg of you! There is no point in getting into the left lane, speeding up to the car in front of you, and then driving the exact same speed. For crying out loud, just drive the same speed behind them in the right lane. Don’t be a monster! I’ve spent many hours profiling my fellow drivers, trying to ascertain who amongst me is an obstacle, and who is a fellow traveler; an ally, if you will, merely trying to get to his appointed destination. For example, I always try to follow a truck; they go faster and drive with purpose. I avoid Subarus, as those drivers are nearly always overly cautious. Stay away from boats, buses, and gaggles of RVs. The worst of the worst drivers, however, is a very specific breed of truck driver who views being passed as an afront to his manhood. This driver will go out of his way to drive slowly on one-lane streets, block the sections of road where there is a passing lane, and then saunter back to the one lane once the passing lane is dispensed with, satisfied he has ruined everyone’s day. I will be driving south this weekend for Memorial Day. May those who cross my path be speedy. Sarah Brown takes many deep breaths. Write to her on pain of death at [email protected], and on Twitter @BrownsClose1. “Close” is a British term for alley or cul-de-sac. For more of Sarah’s musings, visit Browns-Close.com.

BROWN'S CLOSE: A Love Letter to Airplanes

Long standing readers of this column will recall there was a time when I was a frequent flyer and bona fide road warrior. Since February 2020, however, I largely stopped travelling due to the obvious complexities presented by a global pandemic. I spent a year without voluntarily giving up my civil liberties at Ted Stevens International Airport. I went 365 days sans random cavity searches by TSA. Twelve months lapsed since I last elbowed my fellow passengers while staking claim to overhead bin space. When it became obvious to everyone that we’d all been grounded for the foreseeable future, I thought, well, there is much to be gained here. My skin will clear up because it will not be exposed to that weird airplane air that always makes me breakout. I will not have to eye my seat prior to lighting for large, half chewed bits of cookie left lovingly behind by the previous passenger. No concern about the stale nose tissue that may, or may not, be lodged way, way, far down at the bottom of the seatback pouch in front of me. I will not have to look at the bathroom floor with trepidation, wondering if the puddles on the ground were caused by people who cannot neatly dry their hands, or by some other, more sinister, fluid. I was as shocked as anyone to discover after a while … that I missed it. Ironically, despite the ever-present and all-powerful weight of the Federal government, air travel struck me as, well, freedom. I looked back fondly on the stale smelling circulated air, the fiesta mix pretzels in tiny packets, and the unique taste of a Bloody Mary at 30,000 feet cruising altitude. I am pleased to report, however, that air travel is returning. Pandemic weary Americans are back to jamming themselves into these tiny cylindrical tubes and jettisoning themselves as far away from home as possible. Iceland is now open to vaccinated Americans, and the European Union is expected to follow suit shortly. Spring break travelers to Hawaii were treated to $1,000 per day car rentals, as demand surged despite companies having previously sold off inventory to stay afloat in 2020. Personally, I have completed my first pleasure trip post COVID and will begin travelling again for work in May. Expectedly, things have changed since I last flew. TSA now checks your driver’s license, and not your ticket. Masked passengers remove face coverings long enough for the security agents to verify passenger faces match passenger IDs. After a year in quarantine, I can’t imagine all faces look the same, and the agents studied a few of my fellow travelers for a while, trying to determine whether they were imposters, or had just been living life rough for the last 13 months. I am somewhat dourly resigned to looking like a demented bank robber forever, my baby blue disposable mask covering up the bottom half of my face, and my glasses the top half. One of the more disappointing changes to airline travel is the meal service. Previously a joyful activity on flights, meal service could be counted on to dependably absorb 20 minutes of flight time, followed by another seven minutes in the bathroom line, three minutes maneuvering in the bathroom itself, and a minute forty-seven seconds spent eyeing all the bathroom puddles. Then there was always the possibility of a bathroom surprise, like the time someone dangled a used Lipton tea bag from the inside bathroom door handle. These little diversions would necessitate me staring for another 52 seconds, at least! Altogether, such points of recreation would eat up over half an hour, which would be correspondingly deducted from the amount of time spent in bored silence. While I am nothing but sympathetic to an industry brought to the brink of extinction one year ago, it was a nevertheless disappointing meal service that brought me a cup of water, half a cracker, and a virtual pat on the head. Snack time lasted 38 seconds, and I swiveled around wildly wanting to know how I was going to burn up all this new quiet time. With a few accommodations, I was nevertheless thrilled to skip down the jetway for the first time in 2021. TSA, baggage crew, officious ticket checkers abundant… I love you! Sarah Brown is a Captain of Industry. You may pitch her at [email protected], and on Twitter @BrownsClose1. “Close” is a British term for alley or cul-de-sac. For more of Sarah’s musings, visit Browns-Close.com.

BROWN'S CLOSE: COVID Year in Review

March marks a full year that COVID-19 has moderately to significantly impacted my life. Rather than a “Calendar Year in Review” in December, I am opting for a “COVID Year in Review” in March. March: Anchorage is introduced to former Mayor Ethan Berkowitz’s “hunker down” order which, as summarized by Andrew Jensen, is “a stay-at-home order, but if you want to take a walk, they’ll allow it.” All of my usual activities are replaced with stockpiling paper products and canned soup, and eating chips and salsa. April: The chips and salsa snacking is replaced with consuming family-size packages of sour gummy worms. Knowing this will all inevitably catch up with me, I start exercising furiously. I delight in building muscles from scratch. What with all the restaurant closures, I figure now is the time to embrace learning to cook. I confirm a long-held suspicion that I hate cooking. I break down and order a pizza from Uncle Joe’s. It is the best pizza I’ve ever eaten in my entire life. May: I debut my COVID-perfected, knock you on your rear, margaritas. The recipe remains proprietary, such that I can keep friends around. Brown’s Close launches its website. We are immediately followed by fifty magnanimous Facebook friends, and three bots. June: I attempt to buy a new bike, as my current bike is 17 years old and wheezes whenever we round corners. Anchorage’s stores are completely sold out, as is Facebook Marketplace. I turn to Marketplace’s older, grungier associate, Craigslist. While there are bikes listed on Craigslist, they are all obviously stolen. Some of the inventory still has the broken bike locks on them in the pictures, and others, chains. One adult man is selling what he claims to be his bike. It is pink, floral, and large enough for a six-year-old girl. July: I go camping for the holiday. On the drive home, the car more or less calls it quits on life. I grind to a halt on the highway, walk a mile to cell phone service, and find one tow company open on the Sunday after the July 4th weekend. Given how busy the road is on the holiday weekend, and what with no offers of assistance from passing motorists, I am forced to conclude that chivalry is dead. August: The town erupts in very strong opinions on Kriner’s Diner, a restaurant that I can’t imagine has ever seen the kind of publicity that its standoff with the mayor garnered, not to mention those hefty $15,000/day fines. September: Learning my lesson from my bike-less summer, I purchase used cross-country skis at Play It Again Sports. The lettering on the skis is electric blue, and the boots are satin red and gold. The boots prove to ultimately give me blisters, but pain is weakness leaving the body. October: Photos of Anchorage Mayor, Ethan Berkowitz’s pimply back appear. Though meant to be seductive, they have more of a medical quality. November: I teach myself how to cross-country ski and become accomplished enough to participate in Alaska Ski for Women, and the Tour of Anchorage. Alas, I am dressed inappropriately for both events. My parka and snow pants are too bulky for the Tour of Anchorage, where current and former Olympians are dressed in spandex. My attire is similarly not bulky enough for Alaska Ski for Women, where participants are dressed as strawberries and blueberries, and wear neon pink wigs. The politics of masks come to a head when Alaska State Senator, Lora Reinbold, has a midair confrontation with the “Mask Bullies,” also known as Alaska Airlines. Senator Reinbold has not stopped there. A Google search of “Lora Reinbold masks,” yields 3,060 results as of the time of this writing. December: Our office Christmas party takes place virtually at ten in the morning. I annoy an entire Zoom breakout room with my passion for Die Hard. January: Capitol rioters reveal many Americans have closely held beliefs about the existence of Lizard People. February: Two men shoot Lady Gaga’s dog walker and make off with her French bulldogs. Most media coverage, and Lady Gaga’s reward offer, focus on the safe return of the dogs, and not so much on her critically wounded employee. March: Bitcoin reaches its highest value ever. I have friends who’ve sextupled their initial investment with Bitcoin. However, when the currency is explained to me, it just sounds made up. For example, there is what is called “The Halving,” which takes place at predetermined times. This ceremony “halves” the number of “Bitcoins” that “the Bitcoin Miners” receive when they “Mine a Block” after “solving a Hash Puzzle.” After that, there’s “The Reaping,” where teenagers are taken from their parents to fight to the death in service of “Bitcoin’s glorious future.” Only after both “The Halving” and “The Reaping,” can there be “The Quickening.” It is at this point that the “Final Bitcoin Miners” battle it out to ascertain who will become the “God of all Bitcoin.” April: Next month, I’ll get to see my brother for the first time in 16 months. We will use this precious time to catch up on an entire holiday seasons’ worth of family political debates. And thus, in the words of modern poet, Maria Athens, “Have a great Friday, you motherfu****!” Sarah Brown is a troubadour, specializing in chronicling local political life. You can reach her at [email protected], or on Twitter @BrownsClose1. “Close” is a British term for alley or cul-de-sac. For more of Sarah’s musings, visit Browns-Close.com.

BROWN'S CLOSE: Skiing and the Socratic Method

This COVID winter, all of my usual activities were indefinitely postponed. Typically, I spend the cold months indoors with friends. We go to events around town, the movies, and last winter got into a memorable altercation in a local wine bar with a woman who threw our coats on the floor. Faced with the prospect of nothing so exciting to do as that sort of direct communication, I taught myself to ski. I bought a pair of used classic cross country skis from Play It Again Sports in September, and in November I went to Hilltop and puttered around the flat landscape. It struck me as odd that the skiing destination known as “Hilltop” has the flattest land for skiing in the whole city. I was quickly distracted from this thought, however, by the sheer difficulty of cross country skiing. It takes some time to grow accustomed to the movement. One does not walk on cross country skis, or shuffle. One glides. Going straight from zero to glide proved challenging, but I picked up some tips from YouTube. Try to shuffle-shuffle-glide-shuffle. Move up to the shuffle-shuffle-glide-glide. By the time I graduated to the shuffle-glide-glide-glide-shuffle, I’d begun to notice some things about my fellow skiers. For example, the fastest way to annoy a gaggle of cross country skiers is to go the wrong way on the trail. Indeed, most loops are one way, and yet the direction is rarely marked. It’s up to the skier to know the direction. Sadly, as a novice, it is pretty much inevitable I am going the wrong way. Serious skiers, mind you, are not shy about informing you of your mistake, though their corrections could do with a bit more directness. Rather than throwing my coat on the floor, my fellow skiers want to teach me the error of my ways through the Socratic method, trying to get me to reach my own conclusions. One evening while happily skiing the wrong way, I was stopped by a female on skate skis. She was tall and thin, with her skis and poles making her legs and arms look even longer than they actually were. She flapped over. “Is there a moose back there?” Her voice went up at the end of the sentence, and she cocked her head. I frowned, puzzled. “No.” Did she expect there to be? “Oh. Well, like, you’re going the wrong way?” Her voice went up again, and she cocked her head in the other direction. I wondered why she didn’t make it a declarative statement. After all, I was either going the wrong way, or I wasn’t. In my defense, there really is no way to know whether one is going in the correct direction. Much like the skiers themselves, the ski signs communicate opaquely. Periodically, there will be one way signs with alarming stop signs beneath, clearly demonstrating the way. The trouble is, the stop signs are only at intersecting trails, which necessitate more signs with more arrows pointing to the new trails. Many of these arrows point in the direction of the stop sign, thereby instructing novices like me to disregard the one way. Like, do you see my problem? Clear, comprehensible directional signage is not important to the ski community, but signs telling non-skiers they are not welcome on the ski trails are very important. Around Anchorage, it is not uncommon to see trails labeled, “Ski Only in Winter.” While I do give kudos to the skiers for at least labeling these trails, the syntax is wrong; when else during the year would one be skiing? The first time I saw such a sign, I was on a walk in the fresh snow at Service High School. I had not yet attempted skiing myself, so I was not fully indoctrinated in the skiing ethos of restricting trails for skiers only. I read the sign, frowned in confusion, shrugged, and proceeded. I wasn’t sure why Service High School felt compelled to tell me not to bother skiing outside of winter. Perhaps some rogue student went haywire one year, tried to ski in the summer, and caused such mayhem the school administrators took extra steps to prevent similar chaos in the future. I was promptly accosted by a woman on skate skis. She, too, questioned me to show me the error of my ways. How else was I to learn? “Are you taking a walk?” She pulled the skier head cock. “Well…yeah.” “Like, you’re not supposed to walk here?” I frowned. “What do you mean I can’t walk here?” She pulled her head to the other side, and continued to look at me. The Socratic method was not working. Really, what could she do to me. This is America. I could walk on any trail I wished. “Are you telling me you don’t want me to walk here?” She shook her head piously. I waited for her to offer a bit of helpful information, such as, where she wanted me to walk instead. After we engaged in a standoff for several seconds, she motioned me to a different trail system. Many of Anchorage’s skiers are elite athletes, to be sure. Once the city reopens fully, however, they could stand a lesson in direct communication from any number of Anchorage’s bar patrons. Sarah Brown is direct. Write her at [email protected] Tweet her @BrownsClose1. Visit Browns-Close.com. “Close” is a British term for alley or cul-de-sac.

BROWN'S CLOSE: 2020 Redux

It’s the end of January. I gave it some time. I, like my 7.8 billion fellow Earthlings, looked forward to 2021 with good spirits. With the turn of the calendar, we all could usher out the most outlandish year in modern history. There’s an old Yiddish saying. It goes, “Man Plans, and God Laughs.” Once again, the joke is on us. 2021 is merely an extension of 2020. The year started off lamely enough with the announcement of the death of Bond Girl, Tanya Roberts. Normally, there would not be anything unusual about that, except that Tanya Roberts was very much alive. Once this was established, she died for real. Then there was the dissolution of the marriage of Kim Kardashian and Kanye West. As a lifelong follower of Kanye’s work, I was saddened, but not entirely surprised. The divorce was reported a scant two months after Kanye gave Kim a hologram of her deceased father, Robert Kardashian, as a birthday present. Kim and Kanye, however, were promptly upstaged. The next day, a mob of Trump supporters stormed the U.S. Capitol building, where they broke into Statuary Hall, and proceeded to march around in neat lines within the confines of the velvet dividers. Things descended into bedlam, however, when the invaders began pooping in the hallways. Out of this stinky rubble, we met a few characters who have since become national folk legends. Most notably, there’s “The QAnon Shaman,” (so dubbed by The Daily Mail) who after donning fur, horns, and face paint for the Capitol siege, has since refused prison food because it is not vegan. Learning this surprised me; if ever there were a group of people I assumed were big time meat eaters, it was the MAGA crowd. And speaking of QAnon, I’ve learned a lot about this society in recent weeks. Before, I was never entirely sure what the group believed, other than that it was a “loosely organized …community… who embrace a range of unsubstantiated beliefs” (per The Wall Street Journal). I’ve come a long way since this vague interpretation. I now know that QAnon thinks the Chinese military is massing at the Canadian border, and that furniture company Wayfair uses product listings to send secret messages concerning human trafficking. Supporters also maintain the closely held belief that Tom Hanks is a cannibal. At a more innocent time in my life, I would have thought all of this totally bonkers. But I now have to give it pause. As of mid-January, there is a celebrity who is a confirmed cannibal, it’s just not Tom Hanks. Multiple women have come forward accusing Hollywood A-List actor, Armie Hammer, of anthropophagy. One former flame claimed he used to suck her blood, another that he branded her, and still another that he designs his own bondage attire. Other screenshots of texts to paramours, allegedly from Armie Hammer, go into detail about wanting to eat them, and not in the traditional way. I’ve never had the pleasure of receiving a text message from Armie Hammer, or one of his famous requests to remove and barbeque my ribs. Instead, I must settle for my own peculiar correspondence. Not to be gainsaid, a stranger emailed me on Jan. 25 in response to this column, published over 14 months ago. The unsolicited message detailed the many years of life he’s spent in therapy because he likes to wear women’s underwear. Those of us who expected life to go back to normal at the stroke of midnight on Jan. 1 were sorely mistaken. It’s going to be a long hard road back to sanity. Sarah Brown resides in a bunker in Oklahoma. Only there can she find some godd*mn peace. Clearly, she is forced to check email occasionally, so, if you really must, you can reach her at [email protected], and on Twitter @BrownsClose1. “Close” is a British term for alley or cul-de-sac. For more of Sarah’s musings, visit Browns-Close.com.  

BROWN'S CLOSE: A Year in Cuffing Season

I first heard about “Cuffing Season” a few years ago from a friend. She described it as the period during the year when singles hysterically couple because they don’t want to be alone for the holidays. Originally, I accepted this; after all, everyone wants a date for New Year’s Eve. On Halloween that year, I received her happy text — “It’s Cuffing Season!” On Thanksgiving — “It’s Cuffing Season!” Shortly before Christmas — “It’s Cuffing Season!” That’s when it got excessive. On Groundhog Day — “It’s Cuffing Season!” On St. Patrick’s Day — “It’s Cuffing Season!” On Earth Day — “It’s Cuffing Season!” On Arbor Day — “It’s Cuffing Season!” When Memorial Day rolled around and it was still Cuffing Season, I began to seriously doubt the truth of this phenomenon. According to Merriam Webster, Cuffing Season is formally defined as inclusive of most cold months, beginning in October and concluding right after Valentine’s Day. While my friend may very well be practicing Cuffing Season up through National Mahjong Day (officially August 1), most singles will have moved onto other activities. However, I was forced to reevaluate the length of Cuffing Season this year with the onset of COVID-19. Faced with the insecurity of a pandemic, quarantine, and certain loneliness, singles were frantically trying to find mates well into April. According to surveys conducted by UK-based company OneBuy, a full one-third of singles reported receiving texts from their exes during quarantine. It seems lockdowns were enticing singles to behave in needy ways, which they would not do under normal circumstances. It should be noted, this phenomenon was summarized in an article published on tyla.com, a website which also features links to editorials entitled, “How to Entirely Empty Your Bowels Each Morning (1 Minute Routine).” Make of its contents what you will. That being said, tyla.com may have a point. Anecdotally, I have indeed noticed a distinct uptick in unsolicited Facebook friend requests from unknown men, and unsolicited messages from same. One, who dubbed himself “BananaMan,” sent me a Facebook friend request, followed by a Facebook message. “Hello, my name is BananaMan, how are you today?” BananaMan, I maintain a strict policy of only corresponding with people who have a space between their first and last names. Then there was my personal favorite, James Campbell (name changed to protect the guilty). James Campbell added me on Facebook, and proceeded to flood my newsfeed with posts, as he does with all of his Facebook friends. James Campbell would post 24 hours per day in 15-minute increments about one of five topics: His cheating, b**ch a** of a girlfriend who dumped him during COVID; His estranged relationship with his family; Photos of his tummy; His deep, personal relationship with God; Vaguely pornographic photos about how much he likes “thicc girls.”             James’ posts could take on any order in true stream of conscious fashion. Viewers were particularly prone to whiplash when the religious posts were immediately followed by the thicc girl posts.             While I never did meet James, I felt that I got to know him well through these five topics; they provided a firm window into his psyche. Thus, it was a surprisingly lonely day when James Campbell disappeared from my Facebook friends list, presumably because his minder took away his login credentials. As we round out the holiday season in short order, be on the lookout for new relationships. The couplings may surprise and delight you. Sarah Brown is an old romantic. She can be reached at [email protected], and on Twitter @BrownsClose1. “Close” is a British term for alley or cul-de-sac. For more of Sarah’s musings, visit Browns-Close.com.  

BROWN'S CLOSE: A Modest List of Things to be Thankful for in 2020

Off the top of my head, a list of catastrophes that have occurred in 2020 include: Global pandemics; Wildfires in Australia, California, Washington, and Oregon; Tornadoes in the Southern United States. These also struck roughly one month after COVID-19, which frightened everyone away from the designated tornado shelters; An invasion of murder hornets; A jet plane collided with a bear; And, of course, the death of James Bond. With all of this upheaval, Thanksgiving may be subdued. In such times of tribulation, will Americans feel gratitude? State and local governments might even prefer citizens not give thanks, taking it upon themselves to restrict the number of guests permitted per Thanksgiving feast. Enforcement measures remain unclear; it’s hard to imagine even the most officious mid-level bureaucrat will want to be the designated government representative to knock on neighborhood doors, verifying the number of approved party guests. On the other hand, Thanksgiving may be raucous; perhaps Americans may count their blessings more generously than usual. I believe we continue to be blessed, despite what President-elect Biden has dubbed “a dark winter” ahead. In a quest to prove the point, I conducted some market research. Based on an anonymous survey, respondents consider themselves thankful for many items: “I’m grateful for chips.” “I’ve forgotten what work pants feel like. I’m grateful for that.” “You know what I’m grateful for? I discovered I can still somehow manage to be late for work. Even though I don’t commute. Nothing is impossible for me!” “I’m thankful that Costco installed checkout lines for shoppers with only a few items. I only ever have a few items.” “I'm grateful for Grubhub. Not even a pandemic can get me to cook apparently.” “I'm grateful I am not married. Explaining 2020 to a Quaranteen would be rough.” While limiting Thanksgiving dinner sizes struck me as churlish—“I’m thankful that I have an excuse to not go to Thanksgiving dinner. I can’t stand listening to my family argue about the election.” “I’m thankful for masks. I like the anonymity.” “I’m grateful the toilet paper shortage is over.” “I’m grateful for the toilet paper shortage. I finally learned how to use my bidet.” I personally have much to be thankful for. The second season of Haunting of Hill House was released on time on Netflix without incident. Also, grown adults have finally learned how to wash their hands. I am also thankful for the endless insights into the lives of other people, which I can glean through Zoom. One particularly memorable Zoom meeting early in the pandemic featured a participant with chains hanging from his walls. He happily sat on a meeting with fifty strangers, seemingly unaware that his choice of decor could be considered a tad radical. I am grateful that the world has finally embraced the wonders of telemedicine. I’ve been a frequent user of Teladoc ever since I discovered that I no longer have to physically go to the doctor’s office to have my rashes examined, or pervasive pink eye diagnosed. I’m pleased to welcome everyone else to this new, glorious, shame-free reality. Finally, I am thankful for the downfall of makeup generally, and Big Lipstick specifically. I have not worn makeup in eight months, thus gaining hours cumulatively back into my life. For years I resented the extra minutes per morning I was expected to spend painting on a face. In particular, I found lipstick to be insidious in nature; the constant application causes your lips to become addicted to all of the added moisture. Without lipstick, your lips soon become egregiously chapped. No longer will my lips be slaves to Big Lipstick! I’ve broken my addiction lo these eight months, and will never go back. I’m not alone. A study from late July proclaimed the death of the “lipstick index,” an economics measure previously used to measure how women spend money during lean economic times. My fellow sisters in arms have also broken free. Count your blessings folks, including what may be the most significant blessing of all –  that it is almost 2021! Sarah Brown is a grateful person. She would be so thankful should you choose to contact her at [email protected], and on Twitter @BrownsClose1. “Close” is a British term for alley or cul-de-sac. For more of Sarah’s musings, visit Browns-Close.com.

BROWN'S CLOSE: Unmasking Halloween

As with every other extracurricular activity during the COVID-19 pandemic, Halloween will assuredly be dampened this year. I am not the first person to note the irony; Halloween is a holiday based entirely on the idea that everyone should wear a mask. Will Anchorage’s new mayor issue a municipal wide ban on live Halloween, as the old mayor did with live music? Will anyone host Halloween parties? Will anyone else attend? Will families go trick-or-treating? Is trick-or-treating a socially distanced activity? Should I just leave a basket of candy out on the porch and call it quits when one small marauder takes it all? Is bobbing for apples illegal? Should it be? Is the solution to wear masks underwater while bobbing for apples? Will people dress up in costume? What will be the top costume of choice? If we assume Halloween will not be stricken from the calendar, and that there will be costumes, and that people will dress up in them, below are the clear favorites for the Most Desirable Halloween Costume of 2020: For those who remained single before, during, and after quarantine –  Top Singles Costumes for Halloween 2020: The Karen – Karen, with bobbed hair, crow’s feet, and a bitter expression, has already been dubbed, “the scariest Halloween costume of 2020,” by Good Morning America; Hunter Biden – all you need is a crack pipe and a wire transfer. No shirt required; Mask-ed Vigilantes – no obligation to separate along party lines here. This costume can be applied to both pro, and anti, mask vigilantes. For those who managed to find love, despite quarantine Top Couples Costumes for Halloween 2020: Pilots and flight attendants; A pair of Sheeple; Donald Trump and Joe Biden; Amy Coney Barrett and Ruth Bader Ginsburg; Hydroxychloroquine and Remdesivir. And for the rarest life form of all, those who managed to maintain friendships despite quarantine, and subsequent highly charged political events– Top Group Costumes for Halloween 2020: The cast of Tiger King: Joe Exotic; Carole Baskin; Fraudster Jeff Lowe; Pony-tailed polygamist Bhagavan Antle; Stool pigeon Howard Baskin; Victim and tiger feed, Don Lewis. The cast of General Hospital: Doctors; Nurses; COVID virus; COVID vaccinations; Ventilators; N-95 Masks. The cast of former Anchorage Mayor, Ethan Berkowitz’s sex scandal: Ethan Berkowitz, dressed in a backless suit and carrying a selfie stick; Maria Athens; Molly Blakey, intermittently dispensing booze and cookies; The escort known as Rae – She’s mysterious, so costumes are open to interpretation. The cast of Current Events, not to exclude: Plague; Pestilence, Exodus (sometimes known as Brexit), The Apocalypse – This can be subdivided into the Four Horsemen, and One Woman, of the Apocalypse: Scott Atlas; Alex Azar; Deborah Birx; Anthony Fauci; Mike Pence. The cast of a Zoom meeting: A baby; A pet; A bra; A toilet; A thermos of vodka; The Mute Button. The cast of Cancel Culture: Woodrow Wilson; Teddy Roosevelt; J.K. Rowling; The New York Times; Mount Rushmore; Broadway show, Hamilton; And, of course, The Founders. I myself choose not to rank costumes, but shall instead dress up as everything. On Halloween, you will find me isolated indoors eating cookies and drinking vodka out of my favorite tiger mug. Photos of Mount Rushmore will cycle repeatedly on the television, and I will don my beloved pair of fluffy sheep slippers. I will then promptly miss the mute button as I talk on the phone while doing a highly personal activity. Every year, Sarah Brown celebrates Halloween with maximum enthusiasm. This year, she can be reached at [email protected], and on Twitter @BrownsClose1. “Close” is a British term for alley or cul-de-sac. For more of Sarah’s musings, visit Browns-Close.com.

BROWN'S CLOSE: Birthday Battle Royale

Back at a time in the distant past of October 2019, my friend’s son turned eight. He and I share a special bond; I once spent an afternoon helping him fold paper airplanes. At his instruction, I then threw said airplanes at him; he wanted to practice his ducking skills. We’ve been friends ever since. During that time, the citizens of Anchorage could mark such an occasion with a celebration. Thus, my friend threw him a “Harry Potter” themed birthday party, held at The Dome; she magnanimously offered me my pick of activities. I could make pizza, make butterbeer, make a pinata, make a cake, or referee Quidditch. Refereeing was most in line with my life goal of bullying humanity. I volunteered for this, under the condition that I could use a loud, high-pitched whistle. On the day of the party, I set out for The Dome for the first time in the history of my Anchorage residency. I drove around the neighborhood three times looking for the entrance, consistently getting pulled into that vortex known as the Changepoint parking lot. Once inside, it was obvious which section of The Dome was designated for the Harry Potter party. One of the soccer fields was cordoned off, with three Quidditch goal rings erected on either side. I walked over to my friend, easily spotted as a tall thin woman dressed as the Golden Snitch in a glittery jacket. “Can you round up the kids and start Quidditch?” she squawked by way of, “Hello.” “They need to burn off some energy,” she continued. “I’ve got a dad refereeing with you.” I bristled at relinquishing any portion of my power, and grumpily walked flat-footed over to The Dad. He smiled at me bemusedly. “Uh, you know the rules?” “Nope,” he grinned. “No idea!” My mood lifted. Now I had an adult to push around, in addition to thirty children. We strolled to the middle of the Quidditch pitch, where I picked up a white volleyball, and blew my whistle. Children looked up from wrestling matches, punching matches, and other rudely energetic forms of aggression. “Anyone who wants to play Quidditch, come to the middle of the field NOW!” I barked. Twenty-nine small people scampered to my side. “I need you to break into two teams!” Instead, everyone went back to wrestling a neighbor. I blew my whistle again. “Hey! Two teams! NOW! Let’s go!” A handful of obliging children splintered off into a second team. Everyone else stayed put, looking at me expectantly. “Uh, the teams need to be even. We need more of you to move.” All 29 children ran over to one side. The Dad walked over. “I think we should just count off, ‘One, two, one, two,’” he offered knowledgeably. I bowed to his wisdom; reasoning with children is a perpetual struggle for me. We counted off, and yet two-thirds of the kids were still magically on one team. I pointed. “You five over here. The rest of you, stay put!” Birthday Boy sidled up to me. “Can my mom play?” “No kiddo, she’s doing other things.” Birthday Boy’s lip quivered. “Can Zed be on my team?” No, we’ve only just got the teams even. “No, Zed has to stay where he is.” Birthday Boy looked completely crushed. “Can we be Gryffindor?” A blond boy with large eyeglasses blinked at me. “Uh, sure,” I agreed distractedly. “Wait, we want to be Gryffindor!” a tall gangly boy cried out, asserting his side’s rights. “Sure, you can be Gryffindor too.” I blew my whistle. “Alright, listen up! I need you to pick one person to be the Beater per side.” In Harry Potter, the Beaters have the enviable power of throwing balls at their fellow players. And, as in the books, this position proved popular amongst my 29 charges. Two boys from one team both declared themselves Beaters. “Uh, you’ll be a Beater first, and then you’ll switch,” I pronounced. Again, I made the mistake of ascribing utter reasonableness to school children. Beater No. Two turned an impressive shade of crimson in an even more impressively short period of time. “BUT I WANT TO BE A BEATER!” He threw himself onto the ground and began to pull out his hair. I looked at him, nonplussed. Even I had to admit, I was unequipped to deal with this total meltdown. I chose to ignore him, and turned away to blow my beloved whistle. “The rest of you, throw this volleyball through one of the rings on the other side. If a Beater hits you with one of their red balls, drop the volleyball and run back to your team’s rings. “On my whistle. One, two –” I blew the whistle and tossed the volleyball directly above my head. The outcome of the match was immediately certain. The big gangly kid scored twice in under a minute. Both sides’ Beaters watched their fellow teammates running joyfully around the field. Seemingly regretting their positions, each started tossing their red balls through the rings. “Goal! Goal!” they screamed helpfully. “No goal! No goal!” I waved my arms around maniacally. “Beaters, you have to throw your red balls at the other team!” Both Beaters ignored me, and continued to throw their balls through the rings, and not violently at their fellow players as J.K. Rowling intended. Gangly Kid scored four more times. My friend, the glittery Golden Snitch appeared, holding the hand of a very tiny girl dressed as Tinkerbell. “We have another player. Can she join the melee?” I puffed my chest out authoritatively and waved my hand dismissively. I had more important things to concern myself with than some small child dressed as a character from the wrong story. My friend directed Tinkerbell to join the game. Alas, she appeared to have very little actual interest in playing. Instead, Tinkerbell sauntered off and began hitting a punching bag. The volleyball fell to the ground, and was snatched up by Big Eyeglasses, who was promptly tackled by four other players. I contemplated breaking up the fight, but decided against it. It was high time these children learned the law of natural consequences. Gangly Kid yanked the ball away and scored three more times. I waved to my friend. As the Golden Snitch, she was the most desirable object in Quidditch; per standard rules, the first team to catch her won 150 points. I decided to simplify the scoring; I did not want to do complex addition. “We have now come to the final portion of the game!” I bellowed, blowing my whistle. “I need everyone to line up over here to my left. “This,” I gestured to my friend, who was now wiggling to and froe at the other end of the field, “is the Golden Snitch. The first player to tag her wins his team 10 points.” “She’s worth 150 points!” Birthday Boy corrected. Outsmarted again. “On my whistle. One, two—” On the whistle, 30 children ran forward. The Snitch was tagged by Gangly Kid within seconds. I trotted over to him. “You! Kid! Yeah, you kid! Which team were you on?” He looked momentarily confused. “Uh, that team!” he decided. “The team going that way!” He pointed. I blew my whistle. “The team going that way wins!” One of the moms walked up to me. “Wow, you really had those kids in line. You really made them hop-to!” My chest swelled with pride; kinder words were never said to me. “It’s all in the whistle,” I mumbled humbly. “All in the whistle.” Sarah Brown is training to be a world-class drill sergeant. In the meantime, she can be reached at [email protected], and on Twitter @BrownsClose1. “Close” is a British term for alley or cul-de-sac. For more of Sarah’s musings, visit Browns-Close.com.

BROWN'S CLOSE: Love in the Time of Corona

Dating behavior has changed due to the coronavirus. Singles are now encouraged to pursue socially distanced dating, be that virtually, or through wholesome, six foot spaced walks.  This phenomenon has been a boon to online dating platforms. Bumble, the dating app with the second highest userbase in the United States, saw more than a 20 percent increase in usage during the early days of the pandemic, and hit the 100 million user mark in July. The app is geared towards women, with females bearing the brunt of messaging matches first. Men have twenty-four hours to respond, or not. I am a veteran online dater, and have used Bumble specifically. The field of candidates on the app is endlessly fascinating, and the details men choose to put in their profiles is telling. Over the years, I’ve honed a fool proof vetting method for profiles, based on several cardinal offenses. For example, you must have all of your clothes on in all of your pictures. Possible exceptions can be made for beach pictures, but in that case, you cannot have more than one beach picture.             And then there are the Selfie Sins: One must never post selfies in bed; One must never post selfies in the bathroom; One must never post selfies in the car; If all of the photos in your profile are selfies, I am forced to assume you have no friends, or anyone else in your life who could take your picture. Bumble does appeal to female empowerment enthusiasts, and in keeping with this theme, users are encouraged to post information on their profile that traditionally would not be discussed in mixed company. Bumble asks users to disclose their political and religious affiliations, and whether or not the user votes. Singles can then filter out matches who do not conform to their preferred affiliations. You can also filter by the most important quality of all: the astrological sign. I’ve had dating success on Bumble, with “success” defined as dating people long term whom I met through the app. Those aren’t the fun stories, however. People just want to hear about the disasters. Not to disappoint, some dates were resoundingly painful. For example, I went out with a college educated, 6-foot-7 math major. He was a self-proclaimed Catholic opera lover and cello player, who now worked as a commercial fisherman. Reading all of these specifics in his profile piqued my curiosity; he sure seemed to have a lot going on. We had coffee at Starbucks for the requisite 47 minutes. I asked questions, and he took full 30 second pauses before he would answer each. He would drag on his drink, look off ponderously at some destination just above my right shoulder, and sigh, “You know, I never thought about that.” A few days after the date, he texted: “My brain hurts from your questioning. Are you always that intense?” To be fair, I did ask him a lot of questions. Those questions, however, were about deep topics like, “What’s your favorite movie?” After he sat silently for a time, and then announced he’d never thought about it, I downgraded to an easier level: “What’s your favorite color?” That too was a head scratcher. Among a few other life lessons, Bumble’s most persistent impact on me is to be skeptical of people I find on the Internet: People on the Internet may not be all there. I stopped seeing one man after he screamed about how much his genitalia hurt while we were at the Anchorage Symphony. People on the Internet do not waste time. Multiple men over the years have asked me to move in with them on the third date. One even asked me to move across state lines. And yet — People on the Internet are flaky. I once had a guy miss our date at 11 in the morning on a Saturday because he did not set his alarm. Willing to give him a second chance, I agreed to meet him for lunch the following week. He texted to confirm lunch plans that morning, and then later that he was on his way. The trouble was that he texted to say he was leaving his house in the suburbs 10 minutes after the date had already started, and it would take him another 27 minutes to arrive. Honestly, waiting around for another half-hour would have been the death knell to my dignity. People on the Internet are weird. One man’s profile had a photo of him completely nude, submerged in a bathtub full of royal blue paint. No other explanation or notation. Sure, online dating can be fun. It can also be the source of a stellar headache. Good luck to all the Single Ladies. Sarah Brown is the Love Doctor. Write to her at [email protected], and on Twitter @BrownsClose1. “Close” is a British term for alley or cul-de-sac. For more of Sarah’s musings, visit Browns-Close.com.

BROWN'S CLOSE: Canceling Summer

As we look forward to what promises to be an unusual back-to-school season, we can reflect on what was certainly a unique summer. 2020 proved the summer of canceling, and on both sides of the political aisle. In May, Mat-Su School District attempted (unsuccessfully) to cancel The Great Gatsby, I know Why the Caged Bird Sings, The Things They Carried, Invisible Man, and Catch-22. Since then, progressives have taken up the canceling mantle; they attempted (successfully) to cancel Woodrow Wilson, Cops, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Teddy Roosevelt, Kriner’s Diner, and, for a hot minute, Gone with the Wind. Hamilton and Mount Rushmore still await their fates.                         For the free speech advocates out there, cancel culture is a threat. For those of us harboring dictatorial tendencies, however, it’s an opportunity. I hereby participate in cancel culture, seize complete power, and you all can consider the following books, movies, and other entities officially banned: Iron Man, sometimes known as Tony Stark: He’s too beloved. I cancel him first as a show of my power. Les Misérables: Thanks to Broadway and Hollywood, this story is well-known. Those of you who did not read the unabridged version in 10th grade English, however, missed all of the real misery found in “The Miserable Ones.” The novel is overly long – nearly 1,500 pages. A significant portion of these pages bear no resemblance to a plot. For example, there is a 100-page tangent describing the Battle of Waterloo in detail. The battle takes place well before any incident in the story and has absolutely no impact on subsequent events. There is yet another 100-page tangent on the history of the Parisian sewers. The first 100 pages of the novel take a deep dive into the background of a character who appears early in the book and is never seen again. Finally, central, beloved character, Fantine, croaks on page 200, making it through just over 10 percent of the page count; realistically, Fantine has an outsized influence on pop culture, considering just how little of the story she endures. To this day, I resent the fact that we read this particular opus, as opposed to say, a different Victor Hugo vehicle. If we really must, why couldn’t we read The Hunchback of Notre Dame, at a tightly paced 900 pages?  And why, oh why, did we have to read such a massive, meandering, French novel in a class entitled, “English Literature?” Martin Van Buren: As a gal who prefers more of a clean cut look, I find Van Buren’s choice of hair stylings personally offensive. I am triggered by all photos of his shaggy, shaggy locks. Game of Thrones: I’ve tried. I’ve tried twice. Both times I made it through Season 1, Episode 5. I’ve never felt the need to go back for Episode 6. I tuned in for the last season just to triple confirm I wasn’t missing out on anything. Confirmed.             And while we are at it— Dragons: All images, iconography, or other interpretations of dragons must go. Their fire breathing ways are out of touch with our currently warming planet. The Gatekeepers: Every year in high school, we read a requisitely depressing bit of non-fiction. The Hot Zone, Nickle and Dimed, Fast Food Nation, Into the Wild, and Into Thin Air to name a few cheery tomes. The Gatekeepers was about how unlikely it is any student will be accepted into the college of his or her choice. As an anxiety prone eleventh grader who lived my life under intense self-imposed grade-related pressure, my school telling me I was never getting into college was not psychologically beneficial. Given the Great College Admissions Scandal of 2019, I hazard a guess this academic mania has only increased in the last 15 years; ambitious young zealots are being driven to further extremes by their teachers telling them they will never amount to anything. Oh, the Places You’ll Go: The fact that children are being taught they can go anywhere in life except to their first-choice college is cruel. Dune: Locations are called names like, “The Minor Erg.” I’m out. Zachary Taylor: For such a tough guy, his death was unceremonious. He was taken out by food poisoning courtesy of a bunch of cherries and a glass of milk. Such a weakling must be struck from the annals of our glorious history. Puppies: The intrusive little buggers steal all of the attention at parties when people should otherwise be listening to me with rapt, undivided, attention. Romeo and Juliet: Talk about your teenage hormones. The cringe inducing moments were augmented when my teacher specifically called on me to read the sexy bits aloud during English class. We did get to watch the 1968 film version after we finished reading the play. Juliet has a topless scene. That got the ninth grade’s attention. Any book where the protagonist speaks at length about his or her changing body. Given the oodles of media I’d leap at the chance to ban, I look forward gleefully to my career with the FCC. Sarah Brown sometimes goes by YDL (“Your Dear Leader”). Should you care to reach her, prostrate yourself on the floor, and summon her politely at [email protected], and on Twitter @BrownsClose1. “Close” is a British term for alley or cul-de-sac. For more of Sarah’s musings, visit Browns-Close.com.

BROWN'S CLOSE: Groundhog Days

There is a Facebook prompt going around that brought me a welcome respite from the otherwise angry political, mask, and/or election messages. “Can you describe your favorite movie in as boring a way as possible?” Responses were admirable: “A group of short men spend a long time walking. They end up throwing away a piece of jewelry.” (The Lord of the Rings) “A teenage boy doesn’t want to go to school, so he picks up his girlfriend and hypochondriac friend, and they drive around Chicago.” (Ferris Bueller’s Day Off) “A number of people go to an amusement park where the attractions are not working as intended. The power goes out, and after a day or so the people leave.” (Jurassic Park) “A woman falls for her boss and his kids. They go for a hike.” (The Sound of Music) And my personal contribution – “A guy drives south and is arrested for murder. He’s saved by his cousin.” (My Cousin Vinny) This got me thinking. In a year where every day seems to be a repetition of the previous day (Groundhog Day), why don’t we reflect on our daily activities in as exciting a way as possible? For example, my days were always action packed, and COVID-19 has only heightened the mayhem. The day starts when I bound down the hallway, fire up my computer, and glance through my work emails. There is an offer for me to appear in CEO Today Magazine, for the scant price of 1,500 British pounds. This is the fifth such offer in two weeks. I am not a CEO, and I am not British. My gaze shifts to one of my many other browser windows currently open, where I read about the recent Twitter hackings of high-profile accounts. Such victims include former President Barack Obama, former Vice President Joe Biden, probable 2020 President-elect Kanye West, and likely alien Elon Musk. I am elated I have not yet fallen victim to Twitter Hacker, Cozy Bear, or his associate, Fancy Bear. Fancy Bear is now what I call my mother when I wish to annoy her. An Outlook Calendar Reminder pops up; it’s Five-Minutes-to-Zoom. I dial in, and am admitted to a meeting with other industry professionals around the nation. One company’s representative does not realize his mic is on. He is speaking to someone off camera. “Go in the corner and clean up that poop. That poop. That poop there in the corner. We can’t have this place looking like a garbage dump.” His pets, presumably, were at it again. At noon, I step onto my front porch for a breath of fresh air. My neighborhood is often a source of whimsy, and today is no different. One of my neighbors is painting bloody handprints across the front of her house. She completes this pastiche with a giant red “X” on her front door, and then drags a seven-foot-tall red-rimmed cross for display next to the street. A line of cars starts to congregate outside of her house. The neighbors all get out to gawk at her handywork, and whisper to each other. A middle-aged woman on a bicycle wearing a helmet and backpack begins taking frantic photos from the opposite side of the road. The posse of neighbors confronts the woman. While her initial reaction is to shout back at them in an even louder voice, she eventually recognizes she is outnumbered. She backs down and drags the cross back into her garage. She leans it gingerly against the wall, and then hurls the entire contents of her municipal garbage can out onto her front lawn and into her driveway. In a final crescendo, she places a giant handwritten sign in her front window. It reads, “We love.” The “o” in “love” is a smiley face. I watch the property value of my home evaporate. Chased away from the fresh air out front, I return to my home office, where I open my window. Perhaps I can enjoy the breeze from out back. I am immediately treated to the high-pitched shouting of the man who lives next door. “I am triggered whenever I watch The Shining!” (“A family moves to a hotel in the off season, but goes back to Denver in the middle of winter.”) “That’s when it happened! It was at the chalet in Switzerland when I was two! That’s why I stopped eating fruits and vegetables!” Whatever made Next Door Man forever forsake plant-based food products must assuredly be traumatic. Feeling ethically compelled to respect his privacy, I begrudgingly shut the window, and finish out the day working in a stuffy, hot room. At the close of the workday, I sit on my couch and look for something to watch on television. Crimson Peak is running (“A girl falls in love with a guy and moves to his house. The house is condemned, but she gets some help from its prior residents”). I stare at the screen hypnotically until the credits roll.  That night, I have a number of nightmares about living in a sinking house in the middle of nowhere. In one dream, I wander around the house, watching red matter seep out of the walls. I don’t really panic, however, until I put all of my clothes into one of the house closets. I am unable to locate the closet again, and thereby lose all of my clothes. I wake up sweating, and turn on the fan in my room. It was a thrilling day indeed. Sarah Brown is a folk hero. She can be reached at [email protected], and on Twitter @BrownsClose1. “Close” is a British term for alley or cul-de-sac. For more of Sarah’s musings, visit Browns-Close.com.

BROWN'S CLOSE: For the Love of Kanye

I love Kanye West. He is my favorite celebrity. That is, I will take time out of my day to read any news story, or watch any television clip, in which he features. Given all the cumulative hours I’ve spent researching Kanye, I know a bit about him. For example: Kanye once spoke uninterrupted on Ellen for nearly eight minutes. Topics included Picasso, bone density machines, shoes, Leonardo DiCaprio, bullying, being likeable, and the universe. He concluded by apologizing “to daytime television for the realness.” Ellen watched on the sidelines.   Kanye once asked Mark Zuckerberg to give him $50 million. Mark Zuckerberg did not respond.   Former President Barack Obama has called Kanye West “a jackass” at least twice.   Kim Kardashian suggested Kanye (her husband) hire a Board of Directors to approve his Tweets. To my knowledge, said Board was never hired.   In a ranking of 1 to 100, Kanye West once rated his own album 100.   Kanye invented leather jogging pants.   Kanye famously protested Taylor Swift’s win for the best video award at the 2009 MTV Video Music Awards on stage in the middle of her acceptance speech. Following his public demonstration, he wrote her an apology song and issued a series of apology Tweets. As far as I know, while Taylor Swift did accept his apology, she never performed the apology song. He later took back all of these apologies in 2010.   I confess, I don’t know why he sometimes goes by Yeezy.   Kanye was, at one time, perhaps the world’s unlikeliest Trump supporter. The two, he said, “are both dragon energy.” Kanye has long been featured on many of my dating profiles. In the world of dating apps, conversation starters can be tricky. But Kanye has never failed me with this classic: “Who is more outrageous? Kanye West or Charlie Sheen?” Healthy, sometimes even heated, arguments would break out. Rarely would they result in dates, but they have certainly enabled me to hone my debate skills. I always knew I found a kindred spirit when they would give my question the intellectual consideration it justly deserved. “Did you know that Kanye once spoke uninterrupted on national television for eight minutes?” “That’s… just damned impressive.” “When was the last time you spoke on national television for eight minutes?” “I blacked it out.” “Ever watch the tape?” “No, it’s like when you’re drunk. Best not know what was said.” Of course, this week we all know that Kanye announced he is running for president in a scant four months. Kanye made the announcement via Twitter in a historic virtual mic drop. But, much like a mic drop, he has not quite followed through. For example, he does not appear to understand, or otherwise care, that he must file to run as president with individual states in order to appear on their respective ballots as an independent candidate. The deadline for much of this has already passed. But perhaps I’m wrong to count him out; Elon Musk has already endorsed him, along with a minister from Wyoming. Should Kanye run and presumably vote for himself, it will be his first time voting. Expected to file as a candidate for the “Birthday Party,” he recently announced that he decided to run for president while taking a shower. He went on the record as planning to use “the Wakanda management model” to run the White House. I cannot weigh in on the practicality of the Wakanda model as a leadership theory because I slept through Black Panther. I can confirm I have a storied history of falling asleep through a number of similarly loud movies, including Thor: Ragnarok, Doctor Strange, and Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. And, yes, these were all on dates. I don’t know Kanye West. I don’t know whether he is a good person. I don’t know whether he is faithful to Kim Kardashian, or a decent father to his four children, North West, Saint West, Chicago West, and Psalm West. But I can unequivocally say I am glad someone like him exists, and he lives life unabashedly as himself. Sarah Brown is a narcoleptic Fan Girl. She can be reached at [email protected], and on Twitter @brownsclose1. “Close” is a British term for alley or cul-de-sac. For more of Sarah’s musings, visit Browns-Close.com.

BROWN'S CLOSE: Northern Exposure

Since the onset of the coronavirus, families have lost jobs, childcare, and all semblance of schedule. Barriers are broken, boundaries eviscerated. Days bleed into one another. Friends earnestly text each other, “Happy Friday,” and then ask whether Friday is something we still celebrate. Most of my fellow Americans have given up decorum. Kids burst into the room and enthusiastically participate in client Zoom meetings. Women pick their feet and noses in the virtual presence of friends. Men pee on conference calls. All of this, I suppose, was to be expected. Societal structure evaporated overnight. I am certainly not immune. I’ve worn pants with snaps exactly four times in the past three months. Instead, I now do laundry loads consisting only of gym shorts, sports bras, and sweatshirts. I was mentally prepared for my new casual life. I’ve worked from home for several years as it is, and I live on a quiet cul-de-sac in West Anchorage. The location is perfect. I’m seven minutes from either the airport or Kincaid Park. New houses spring up regularly. There’s talk of another school someday and a fire station. Aside from jet airplanes seemingly landing on my roof every Thursday at 2:30 in the morning, it’s really idyllic. As quarantine and hunker down recommendations have persisted, however, I’ve noticed distinct changes in my neighborhood; my fellow residents have not taken well to quarantine. Unaccustomed to working from home, they have not built up the discipline to maintain societal codes of conduct during a pandemic. My first hint that something was off was on my daily stroll to the mailbox at eleven in the morning. I approached the duplex seven doors down from mine. A large man with a lot of wild hair was standing naked on his balcony holding a chihuahua under his arm. If the stark contrast of the size difference between the dog and his master didn’t complete the astounding sight, the man was attempting to flirt with the hot mom next door. She was at street level, fully clothed, walking her large yellow lab, and gazing up at him with wide, concerned eyes. “Aren’t we a funny pair?” he grinned hopefully. “I’m a big man with a tiny dog, and you’re a tiny woman with a big dog.” I hated to break it to him, but in no universe would he and the hot mom ever be a pair. I assumed this particular gentleman just had no sense whatsoever of propriety. I shrugged off the encounter as a unique story of life in my cul-de-sac. That was until the second incident: – the lady in the house across from mine began regularly parading around topless. She’s flagrant about it, leaving all of the interior lights ablaze. She lives with a baby and a husband, and neither seem to mind. I wish I could be that free. As March faded into April, April into May, and now May into June, I noticed this behavior more and more. There’s one guy who now rubs his nipples vigorously every time he mows his lawn. Another runs around outside his property in his bathrobe and underpants every week on trash day; everything from his clothes on down to his body parts flaps enthusiastically. I reached my breaking point the day the couple a few doors down threw a wild, and very noisy, party at midnight on a Tuesday. Having reached peak curmudgeon status, I pulled on my jacket and my mask, and tramped angrily down the street in my pink pajama bottoms, giant eyeglasses, and my hair teased on top of my head. The door was wide open, and I burst in. “Hey! Who owns this place?” I shouted over the music. I received glowering looks from several young women dressed in heavy eye makeup and nothing but their underwear. More guests flitted through the entryway, similarly undressed. We all regarded each other for a few moments, me in my oversized clothes, and the party goers in their undersized ones. “Sup?” One young man greeted me insolently. “Look, I have to work in the morning. I have –” I paused and spoke the word reverently. “—A job.” “Sorry, we’ll keep it down,” he muttered, and turned the stereo down three-tenths of a decibel. I clumped home, and prepared to relocate to my parents' house. Their neighbors were all over 65 years old, and had long since stopped seeing the fun in parties where all you wear is your underwear. I went up to their house the following evening for dinner, and sat outside on their deck, bathing in the luxury of peace and quiet. The only other humans around were my parents’ neighbor and her friend, both sitting in a hot tub on the neighbor’s deck. It was a hot evening, and the neighbor reached her hot tub limit in short order. She stood up, hopped out of the tub, and wiggled around the deck looking for her towel. She was completely naked, and in full view of all of the residents of my parents' street. She grabbed her towel, and began pulling it vigorously back and forth, drying her nether regions. I stared, dumbstruck, for perhaps longer than was polite. What was most perplexing however, was not the prancing naked neighbor, but her friend. The friend was dressed modestly in a bathing suit, and hot tubbing with her nude friend. I tore myself away, walked inside, and rinsed my eyes out with chlorine. God willing, COVID subsides this summer. Else, the Municipality may have to declare itself an official nudist colony. Granted, this would give me a legitimate reason to finally live out my fantasy of bunker life in Oklahoma. Sarah Brown is a Never Nude. She can be reached at [email protected], and on Twitter @brownsclose1. “Close” is a British term for alley or cul-de-sac. For more of Sarah’s musings, visit Browns-Close.com.

BROWN'S CLOSE: In defense of females over 'fur babies'

Unlike our forefathers, Millennials do not get married or have children. Rather, we move in with our significant others, eventually move out again, and engage in brutal custody battles over our pets.  Indeed, in evaluating potential mates, Millennials skip over having human children, and jump right into establishing pet relationship history. On dating apps, the questions came daily.  “Tell me about your fur children.”  “Do you have any fur babies?”  No, no, I do not. And unless you have supersonic genetic material which instills a freakish level of hair on your offspring’s person, neither do you.  Dogs are treated better than humans in other ways too. Coffee shops offer free dog treats. Where’s my free treat? I actually spent my hard earned wages on the coffee. Dogs poop with wild abandon on the sidewalks. Their owners fastidiously encase the poop in a delicate plastic bag and leave it by the side of the path, ensuring it is protected forever from the elements. Where’s my caretaker to gift wrap my poop as such, gleefully leaving it as a present for my fellow joggers? I am allergic to dogs. I am also a Millennial. In today’s dating climate, being allergic to dogs is treated with the equivalent level of skepticism as someone with five children from previous relationships, all from different men.  My would-be suitors rub it in.  “I couldn’t live without Georgie! Georgie is life!” To emphasize the point, Georgie would inevitably be brought on the date. Granted, this wasn’t always a bad thing. If the conversation stalled, we could just watch Georgie bother our fellow patrons at the appointed coffee shop. My suitors sometimes take my dog allergy as a personal attack. One portentous sweetheart leaned towards me and looked me earnestly in the eye.  “Rocky and I are a package deal. Rocky and I were together long before I met you,” he spat accusatorily.  What this man did not realize was I had no intention whatsoever of separating him from Rocky. Instead, I was actively seeking a means of separating myself from the date. “Well, of course. Isn’t that nice,” I looked around wildly for a route of escape. “Aren’t dogs the best?” We were in the parking lot, and I inched backwards towards my car. “Rocky’s in my truck! We go everywhere together. Wanna meet him?” Not really. “Why of course!”  Date opened the door to his truck, Rocky jumped out, jumped up on Date, then jumped up on me, his tail wagging frantically. The man pronounced the whole performance a test. “I want to see how you do with Rocky. Rocky and I are a package deal!” I didn’t know what to say. Rocky and I are a mutually exclusive deal. My allergy to dogs frequently outweighs my positive attributes as a partner in life. I have impeccable hygiene. I have nice hair. I’m a sparkling conversationalist. But alas, being allergic to dogs trumps all. My potential matches eventually move along. Having extensive experience navigating this particular deficiency, I hereby offer moral support and courting tips to my fellow animal allergy ridden sisters at arms: Make your affliction known as early as possible in the dating process. On your dating profile, put the words “MASSIVE BAGGAGE” IN ALL CAPITAL LETTERS – “PROCEED WITH CAUTION. DAMAGED GOODS. DOG ALLERGY. CAN NEVER LIVE WITH A DOG.” That way, any dog fanatic matches can move along to other, better, girls. You will inevitably earn fewer matches on apps, but your heart will be protected from the ultimate break of being sidelined in favor of an animal. Play up your weak nature. Alas, as a fragile female, your poor sickly lungs cannot abide being exposed to dog allergens on a constant basis. Your body is such a finely tuned machine, one alien particle throws it off its usual ticker. Surely you need a big strong man to help you navigate your daily existence. Launch a social movement. The dog people have been winning the public relations battle for years. It is time we invalids assert our rights. The next wave of feminism must avow the value of a human woman over the value of an animal. A dog, while loveable, is unable to bring home the bacon, unless such bacon has been stolen from a neighbor’s porch. Some portion of the glory we have afforded to dogs must be reinstated to more productive beings.  Sarah Brown is a social pariah. She can be reached at [email protected], and on Twitter @brownsclose1. “Close” is a British term for alley or cul-de-sac. For more of Sarah’s musings, visit Browns-Close.com.

BROWN'S CLOSE: The Young and the Redemption

While I was hoping the next report would be from the other side, alas, I’ve enjoyed eight full weeks of quarantine here in West Anchorage. This is largely due to my own sense of caution; the Municipality of Anchorage is well into Phase 2 of reopening. On the first day that restaurants were open, I stepped out onto my front porch and into the brilliant sunshine. I took a tentative step forward, breathing in the fresh air. As detailed in Episode 1, my main source of entertainment over the last eight weeks has been my daily hour-long walk through my neighborhood; my cardio stints come from the quick weaves and dodges to avoid my neighbors. But the day restaurants opened, well that porch stepping had the added significance of being the possible first move into the world beyond my neighborhood. I could actually go to some destination, should I so choose. The man in the next driveway was climbing into his car, and I cheerily waved at him. While not one to normally greet anyone, least of all my neighbors, I was overflowing with the spirit of goodwill for my fellow man. He waved back, and promptly coughed. I dropped my hand, scandalized, and scuttled back into the dim recesses behind me. Every day now, I peer eagerly out of my windows, awaiting news of either devastation or recovery. Nevertheless, this is the third installment of series sponsored by COVID-19, preceded by "The Young and the Restless" and "2 Young 2 Restless: Covid Drift." Updates to key dramatic subplots are included below for your convenience: Workouts – I've joined three fitness challenges through work. I’ve got seven blisters and two biceps to show for it. Karate – Someone circulated a rumor that my karate sensei trained the Karate Kid. This story soon evolved into he trained the guy who trained the Karate Kid. Latest version is that he may have seen the Karate Kid once. Bottom line, the sensei’s life continues to remain shrouded in mystery. Speaking of karate – I am due to test for my “yellow-orange” belt at the end of the month. Logistics remain uncertain and I am not sure whether a virtual test will be easier or harder than an in-person test. Most students advance to black belt (i.e. master ten belts) in three years. At my rate, I can expect to become a black belt in twice that time. I advance through life at half the speed of a nine-year old. Television – I determined it was time to tackle a movie with slightly more gravitas than Alice and Wonderland (the last feature film I watched in quarantine). Netflix had The Shawshank Redemption on rotation. I’d never seen it, had no idea what the plot was, and sat down to watch it with no advance research. Upon viewing, I became unduly morose, and spent 48 hours worried about whether there was any reasonable likelihood I would one day have to stage a prison break through a hole in the sewage piping. After a few comforting episodes of Parks and Recreation, I started Hollywood on Netflix, thinking it would be a cheerful cartoonish reimagining of post-war California. It is not; I’d say the early tone of the show is cynical at best. I watched the central character’s employment struggles for about fifteen minutes, became unduly morose, and went back to Parks and Recreation. I thought a third venture was warranted, and went back to that tried and true genre of British period soap operas. Julian Fellows of Downtown Abbey fame debuted a new show over the Easter weekend and I tuned in. Sure enough, the first episode had a surprisingly affecting death scene, after which I became unduly morose and swore off new content for the foreseeable future. Reports from the front lines both locally and nationally are promising, but with an added dose of whimsy. Women can return to beauty parlors, but cannot have their hair blown dry. Nail salons may take customers, but manicurists must wear the equivalent of a moon suit to protect themselves and their customers. Gyms can hold classes, but only outside. In a nutshell: businesses may take customers, but customers should stay home. Drawing courage from the relatively tame scene locally, I stepped onto my front porch for the second time a few weeks following my neighbor’s assault. Again, I blinked my eyes against all that new bright May light, and glanced down at my phone. Per the news, giant murder hornets have arrived in the United States. I retreated again. The Egyptians understood plagues, and darned if I wasn’t going to follow their hunker down example. Sarah Brown delights in the outdoors. When she is not frolicking in nature, she can be reached at [email protected], and on Twitter @mesarahjb. “Close” is a British term for alley or cul-de-sac. For more of Sarah’s musings, visit Browns-Close.com.

BROWN'S CLOSE Presents 2 Young 2 Restless: COVID-19 Drift

Today we view "2 Young 2 Restless: COVID-19 Drift," the sequel to “The Young and the Restless.” In case you missed Episode One, you can catch up here, and view updates to key plot points below: As described in our first installment, I am unable to consume any television shows with even a modicum more plot than a typical twenty-minute sitcom. The one exception to this rule is Tiger King. Tiger King has every possible plot mashed together into one show. So far, I count polygamy, cults, murder, animal rights, arson, blood feuds, a woman with a mysterious past, magic, illicit drug smuggling, and illicit animal smuggling. Granted there may be more; after all, I’m only on Episode Four. I stopped watching The Office towards the end of Season Five. It is at this point that layoffs become an all too real plot point. I was watching The Office for the express purpose that nothing bad happens, and no character’s actions have any material consequences. Layoffs, however, are bad and are real consequences. I started watching Parks and Recreation in place of The Office. I’ve never watched it before and am halfway through Season Two. The show is about local government. This guarantees there are no layoffs, and no consequences. And now, we continue with "2 Young 2 Restless: COVID-19 Drift" I’ve consumed more chips and salsa in the last three weeks than I have in the last five years combined. Sodium intake is reaching medically concerning levels. For about two hours, I contemplated doing my first ever juice cleanse. Before this pandemic, a juice cleanse never sounded remotely appealing. These days, however, a juice cleanse would just be another new activity.  I began researching any steps and needed materials to embark on a juice cleanse. It turns out, juice cleanses are either very expensive, very labor intensive, or both. I went back to eating chips and salsa.  I find myself fantasizing about the other forms of self-improvement I will be able to do post-quarantine. Waxing my legs suddenly seems like an excellent use of time. Much like a juice cleanse, waxing my legs has never held any pull before now. It always appeared time consuming, costly, and painful. Also, much like a juice cleanse, now it’s an activity. I’m grateful for my foresight in obtaining a quarantine haircut prior to the Municipality of Anchorage shutting down. Else, I would be mightily tempted to experiment with giving myself a haircut. My brother got a puppy. Now I want a puppy. This is new as I am allergic to dogs. I’ve added thirty minutes of daily internet puppy video viewing to my schedule.  When I am feeling otherwise bored, I take my temperature. Clearly, in my nearly four weeks of isolation I’ve formed many bad habits. I have, however, also made a few notable improvements. For the first time in my life, I am cooking every day. My weekly menu consists of a rotating schedule of scrambled eggs, tuna salad, oatmeal, fruit and cheese, and frozen salmon. Much like my sodium intake, my mercury, cholesterol, and omega fatty acid levels are unsurpassed. In addition to cooking, I’m now exercising. My usual fitness classes are broadcast via Zoom, and all have added daily sessions. I am now not only working out every day, I’m working out every day, twice a day. My Pure Barre classes with other Millennial women via Zoom are significantly more orderly than my beginners’ karate classes with children. None of the children know how to mute the microphones on their parents’ computers, so the classes are conducted amid loud shrieks of delight, making it difficult to hear the instructor. Periodically, a noisy family squabble breaks out in the background. During the last session, one girl tripped over her dog. The instructor more or less gave up on teaching us new material and instead had us kick at the wall for a few minutes. While we Alaskans share much anxiety about the future, we also share a stalwart commitment to an isolated misanthropic lifestyle. Stay safe fellow cabin people.  Sarah Brown is still a shut-in, but not a hoarder. If you must, she can be reached at [email protected], and on Twitter @mesarahjb. “Close” is a British term for alley or cul-de-sac.

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