Aspiring filmmakers take note, a major production studio is looking for production assistants!

Candidates must have a four-year degree from an Ivy League school (Penn and Brown graduates are eligible, but not encouraged to apply) and must be willing to work 60-80 hours a week doing menial tasks while being constantly chastised by the person that had the job last year. 

“This is a great stepping stone into the entertainment industry,” said Bradford Michael Whitney III, an assistant editor on Amazon’s I Am The Night shortly before excusing himself to really lay into 23-year-old P.A. Amanda Palmer for getting him the wrong type of scone. “Do you know how fucking lucky you are to be here?” he asked rhetorically before telling her “Make this mistake again and you’ll find yourself back at Cambridge before you can say ‘Phoebe Waller-Bridge Is A Genius.'”

The position’s pay is competitive with sweatshops in mainland China, but the ideal applicant’s focus should be motivated by the opportunity and not pay.

We want our assistants to be motivated by the desire to support our storytellers and not the need to afford rent and food,” said producer Davita Harrison in between back-to-back-to-back-to-back interviews with recent college graduates at a Studio City Starbucks. “Ideally, we like our production assistants to be independently wealthy enough to be able to work for nothing,” said Ms. Harrison before reiterating her commitment to giving opportunities to diverse and underrepresented applicants.  

Gavin Newsom reportedly spent the weekend trapped inside Madame Tussauds wax museum in Hollywood after a janitor mistook the Governor for his wax replica. “It’s an unfortunate mistake, but one which is ultimately a testament to the talents of our wax sculpturists,” a Tussauds spokesperson told The Avocado in a statement. 

The Governor was in Los Angeles for the unveiling of his wax likeness and also to tour the damage of last week’s wildfires if there is time. Unfortunately, as the ceremony began to wind down, a member of the museum’s custodial staff mistook the Governor for a wax figurine and locked him inside. 

“His hair was perfect, and his skin was flawless, and he never stopped smiling. How could I not assume he was a wax figure?” said janitor Hector Camacho. When asked whether the Governor verbally objected as he was being locked inside the museum, Mr. Camacho confirmed he did, but assumed it was a Night at the Museum type of situation. “Do you know how much trouble I’d be in if I let every wax figure I saw come to life just walk out into the world?” said Mr. Camacho, a Tommy Chong type who used to take a lot of LSD and also still does

The Avocado spoke to Governor Newsom, who was still shaken up after his three-day stint in the wax museum. “It was terrible,” the Governor explained, noting that to survive he had to eat a wax figure version of the Rock and fight off a rabid Gary Busey. We assumed he meant he attacked a wax replica of Gary Busey that he confused for the actor in a stress-induced delusion, but now understand it was actually Gary Busey, an old LSD buddy of Mr. Camacho who occasionally takes shelter in the museum. “WAX REPLICA means We Are eXisting Royals Entertaining Prayers Lie In Celebration, Alan,” Gary Busey told us after we asked about his injuries. 

For its part, Governor Newsom’s wax figure had a productive weekend. After being mistaken for the real Governor, it was inadvertently shipped to Sacramento where it signed new immigrant protections into law before celebrating Gavin Newsom’s wedding anniversary to his wife, Jennifer. 

“Gavin has never listened to me so attentively or felt so present,” wept Jennifer after learning that wax Gavin would be returned to Los Angeles. “I’ll never forget him.”

October 10 is World Mental Health Day, and mental health advocates around the world are applauding President Donald Trump for his work as a spokesperson for the mentally ill. “I’m basically the Obama for mentally ill and completely unstable presidents,” Trump gloated to a photoshopped image of himself as a much younger and thinner man that he keeps around because mirrors are biased and completely unfair. 

“It’s so wonderful that the general public gets to see someone actively suffering from a serious mental health condition in a position of such great authority,” said Cal State Northridge psychologist Dr. Abraham Bunsendof (with an umlaut over the first “u” but I don’t know how to add that one in WordPress). “Donald Trump is a textbook example of someone with Narcissistic Personality Disorder and his success will surely be an inspiration to other narcissists all over the world.”

The clinical criteria for diagnosing Narcissistic Personality Disorder are described in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, the primary taxonomic publication for diagnosing psychological conditions that, yes, used to call homosexuality a mental health disorder, but forget about that for the time being as I make fun of Trump. The DSM defines Narcissistic Personality as:

A pervasive pattern of grandiosity (in fantasy or behavior), need for admiration, and lack of empathy, beginning by early adulthood and present in a variety of contexts, as indicated by five (or more) of the following:

(1) Has a grandiose sense of self-importance (e.g., exaggerates achievements and talents, expects to be recognized as superior without commensurate achievements);

(2) Is preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty, or ideal love;

(3) Believes that he or she is “special” and unique and can only be understood by, or should associate with, other special or high-status people (or institutions);

(4) Requires excessive admiration;

(5) Has a sense of entitlement, i.e., unreasonable expectations of especially favorable treatment or automatic compliance with his or her expectations;

(6) Is interpersonally exploitative, i.e., takes advantage of others to achieve his or her own ends;

(7) Lacks empathy: is unwilling to recognize or identify with the feelings and needs of others;

(8) Is often envious of others or believes that others are envious of him or her;

(9) Shows arrogant, haughty behaviors or attitudes.

When presented with the criteria, Trump was impressed. “You know, it says you only need five or more of those factors to get Narcissistic Personality Disorder, but I have all nine factors and probably more, so I guess you can say I am the greatest narcissist in the entire world, probably in the history of the world if you’re gonna be honest, and anyone who says otherwise is probably a spy,” Trump told the photoshopped picture of himself, which upon further inspection was just a photo of Alec Baldwin from the 1980s.

The reboot trend continues in Hollywood with the cult 90s drama My So-Called Life becoming the latest popular television show to find a new so-called life. The teen drama is in pre-production and will debut next year on Disney’s new streaming service.

My So-Called Life was a pivotal show for an entire generation,” said Disney CEO Bob Iger, who was reportedly involved in greenlighting the series. “The show meant a lot to me when I was a young man in my mid-40s and I think the day-to-day dramas of suburban Pennsylvanian teenagers will be just as relevant to today’s forty-somethings.”

The reboot will center around the multi-ethnic adopted children of Angela Chase (Claire Danes) and Brian Krakow (Devon Gummersall) as they attend Liberty City High. The original cast will reprise their roles, with the notable exception of Jared Leto’s heartthrob character Jordan Catalano, who will now be played by Joaquin Phoenix.

“The decision to recast an iconic character is never easy, but when an actor of Joaquin Phoenix’s quality becomes available you do what you need to do to make it happen,” said Joaquin Phoenix before sort of mumbling to himself for a while and then walking away.

This isn’t the first character Jared Leto has played that has been recast to Joaquin Phoenix. Earlier this year Leto expressed frustration that Phoenix was picked to play the titular villain in the wildly acclaimed film Joker only a few years after Leto played the character in the wildly panned Suicide Squad film.

When asked about Disney’s decision to recast his Catalano character, Leto was decidedly upset.

“I don’t understand why everyone thinks Joaquin Phoenix is a better actor than I am. I have an Oscar and he doesn’t!” complained Mr. Leto. To be honest, we didn’t think that sounded right, but Googled it and it turns out that Leto won the Academy Award for playing a transgender woman in the 2013 film Dallas Buyers Club, the last possible year where a CIS man could get away with that shit. I also guess I thought Phoenix won the Oscar for playing Johnny Cash, but he lost to Philip Seymour Hoffman which I guess I’m okay with because R.I.P. Phil. 

When asked what drew him to Catalano’s character, Joaquin Phoenix explained that he is always looking for roles that upset Jared Leto.

“He’s too good looking, you know what I mean? I don’t know, I just don’t trust it,” mumbled the actor before he walked away. I somehow understood exactly what he meant.

Westwood staple Diddy Riese has been serving fresh cookies to UCLA students since 1983. “At only 50 cents a cookie, it’s the best deal in town,” said UCLA student Amanda Baumgardner, trying not to think about the $300,000 in student loans she took on to be able to live in Westwood as she obtains an undergraduate degree in acting.

For the second year in a row, Westwood is the most expensive neighborhood for renters in California, with an average rental price of $4,944. “That may sound expensive, but it is actually totally worth it,” said Ms. Baumgardner, who loves Westwood’s proximity to campus and its abundance of medical clothing stores and vape lounges. “Why would I want to live 10 minutes away from campus on the beach in Santa Monica for somehow less money when I can live in Westwood where there is a Chick-Fil-A?” she asked rhetorically. “I mean, where else am I going to see a drunk Asian girl throw up at least twice a night?”

For students attending UCLA, and other metropolitan universities, the reality of becoming saddled with a lifetime of crippling debt for a liberal arts degree that will almost certainly not provide them with the earning potential to ever pay back their loans has become a core characteristic of the modern “college experience.”

“These are the most important years of my life. I know the cost is high, but it is going to be worth it in the long run,” said Jeremy Spokan, a UCLA student studying sculpting that is considering enrolling in law school when he graduates, even though doing so will cause him to take an additional $200,000 of debt and eventually force him to work at a large law firm defending insurance companies for the next thirty years.

When asked why he would be willing to take on so much additional debt and enter into a field he is not passionate about, Mr. Spokan was practical: “I need a job that will help me pay off the $140,000 I already took out to get my sculpting degree,” he said. “But when I’m in my sixties and retired from my law career, I will have the freedom and financial stability to sculpt throughout retirement,” said Mr. Spokan, who will die of a heart attack at the age of 57, having spent his entire adult life working on annuities litigations, whatever that means. “But at least I’m saving money by eating those delicious Diddy Riese ice cream sandwiches for dinner every night!”

Since its opening in 1955, Disneyland has been the destination of choice for children across the country and a surefire way for parents to create lasting memories with their family. But with the cost of a single day’s entry now over $100.00 per person and a youth population dispassionate about Disney’s antiquated brand of wholesome, non-virtual entertainment, the Park has been forced to cater to a once-fringe group of visitors: nostalgic adult couples without children.

“For years we tolerated, but never really encouraged, adults without children to visit our parks. In truth, we were always very suspicious about the 20 and 30-somethings who wanted to walk around a theme park designed to entertain 5-year-olds. But now, God-bless-them, those millennial yuppies make up more than half of our daily visitors,” said Disney CEO Bob Iger. “We’re working very hard to make sure these adult visitors have an enjoyable experience and continue to come back to our parks.”

Disney has several new attractions in the works that it believes will appeal to nostalgic millennials, including reviving several “retro” attractions like the perpetually dull Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride and Figment’s Journey into Imagination. The Park has also entered into licensing agreements with non-Disney owned movie studios to create new attractions for its childless visitors, including a Wes Anderson inspired Christmas parade titled “The Royal Tenenbaum’s Tannenbaum” and a Donnie Darko themed space-time adventure called “Donnie Darko’s Cellar Door.” The Park will also completely replace Adventureland with a new themed area called “Portland.”

“I have so many great memories of coming to Disneyland as a kid,” said 31-year-old season ticket holder Dr. Elise Hodgeman as she and her husband waited in a two-hour line at the new Craft Beer Pavilion. “I just wish there weren’t so many children around,” said the Santa Barbara-based medical records specialist after witnessing a nearby six year old cry in fear from meeting a Disney employee dressed as “The Dude” from The Big Lebowski. “Ugh, can’t its parents shut it up?” whispered Dr. Hodgeman to her husband. “I’d cry too if my parents put me on a leash,” he answered.

Responding to demands from couples like the Hodgemans, Disney will begin implementing age restricted weekends with the hope of attracting more childless visitors to its parks. “Today’s young adults are really uncomfortable around children. We want to eliminate that as a reason not to enjoy our timeless brand of childhood entertainment,” said Mr. Iger.

The Avocado interviewed 10-year-old twins Kevin and Melissa Dubrow as they left the Park with their parents, and asked whether they enjoyed themselves or were upset about the Park’s planned age-restrictions. “Our parents really overhyped this place,” said Kevin listlessly. “It was really hot and crowded and took like two hours to get on each ride. We were here all day and only got to go on like three things.”

“Yeah, and the reception inside the Park was really terrible,” added Melissa without looking up from her phone, unaware of the sadness on her parents’ faces, both of whom had a great day and couldn’t wait to come back without the kids.

Dominic Swank, a 37-year father of four, was arrested and promptly executed Tuesday afternoon after asking a waitress for a single-use plastic straw.

The request occurred at a now-defunct Third Street cafe where Mr. Swank was eating while visiting Los Angeles with his family from Ohio. The Avocado was not able to reach the cafe for comment on account that it had gone out of business and was replaced by an Apple store, but eyewitnesses report that Mr. Swank flagged down a waitress after being presented with an iced tea and asked for a straw. Police confirm that Mr. Swank was initially handed a paper straw, but upon placing it into his drink and noticing it immediately disintegrated because paper straws don’t make sense or work, Mr. Swank asked the waitress for a “regular straw.” That, according to witnesses, is when all hell broke loose.

“The waitress began screaming at the top of her lungs for help,” said Matt Damon, an oil lobbyist of no relation to the other Matt Damon, who happened to be eating at a nearby restaurant. Within seconds, LA police officers arrested Mr. Swank and escorted him to Tongva Park, where he was publicly executed.

“It’s harsh, but how else are people going to learn that plastic straws are literally the worst thing you can do to the environment,” said Matt Damon, who is a proponent of Santa Monica’s straw ban.

“The oil industry cares tremendously about the environment, and these straws are definitely what we should focus our time and attention on,” said Matt Damon. “That’s our straw argument.”

But not everyone is happy with Mr. Swank’s public execution. Mary Swank, Dominic’s widow, was briefly grief stricken by the whole ordeal before agreeing to become engaged to the Venezuelan cousin of the waitress that caused her husband’s death. “My children need a father and Fernando needs his papers. It’s a win-win,” said Mary Swank-Ferreyra.

Director Kevin Smith had his mouth enshrined in cement during a star-studded ceremony in front of the TIL Chinese Theater. The director, best known for his Silent Bob character and directing the hit Clerks, as well as his inability to answer a question in less than 45 minutes, will be enshrined alongside other legends of the silver screen like Raoul Walsh, William Lundigan, and Dennis Quaid. 

The Avocado ran into Mr. Smith shortly after the ceremony and asked the director if he knew where we could find a bathroom. As Mr. Smith wiped the fast-drying concrete off of his face, he answered:

“Yeah, yeah, I do know where the bathroom is, and, if I may, I’ll tell you how I know.”

“Uh, okay, but I really need to poo–” I said, but he had already begun his story. 

“Alright, hip this: When I was growing up in New Jersey, I never dreamed of being a fucking Hollywood director. Long before all of this, before Silent Bob, before my face being enshrined in fucking cement, before Affleck or any of this Hollywood shit, I was just little Kev Smith, a comic book nerd that liked telling stories. 

Now, when I was nine years old, my father, who was by no means a rich man, but who loved his family and wanted to make us happy, he took us out to Los Angeles on vacation and brought us right here to the Chinese Theater. And little Kev Smith got to stand right here, at this very spot, and got to see the cement imprints of his idols like R2D2, C3P0, and Raoul Walsh. Well, check this out, as I was standing here I, not unlike you, had to take a poo. But it wasn’t just any poo. I needed to take a fucking sinking of the Titanic type of poo–“

“So, you know where the bathroom is?” I interrupted, feeling my own movement start to fester. 

“Don’t interrupt,” said the director. “So I go up to my dad, who had worked real hard to bring us all to Los Angeles, and I watch as he proudly watched me and my siblings put our hands in the handprints of our favorite actors and I can see that this cat, my old man, he had a tear in his eye and was having himself a nice little emotional reaction to seeing his family so happy. And as he is having this moment to himself, I go up to him, fucking obliviously, and I tug on his shirt, and I say: “Dad, I need to poop!” 

“So, where did he take you?” I asked again, getting more desperate. 

“Don’t interrupt,” Kevin said. “So cut to fucking 30 years later, and I am a pretty big deal in Hollywood. Mallrats didn’t do so well, but it had its fans and allowed me to meet Stan Lee. Cop Out hadn’t come out yet, so I was on a pretty nice upward trajectory and feeling pretty cocky. So I take my daughter, Harley Quinn, and my wife–who is way out of my league but, you know what they say kids, it pays to be in the movies–and I take them right to this very spot and I start to tell them the story about my dad that I just told you. Now you have to remember that at the time my father was getting pretty up there in age, so as I told them about how he took my siblings and me to see the handprints when we were kids and how it inspired me and shit, I had my own little tear forming because I’m thinking about how life is fucking impermanent and shit and how we have children to replace ourselves in the Universe, which is a pretty trippy thing to realize and I wasn’t even a stoner at that point, that wouldn’t happen until years later thanks to Seth Rogan, but that’s a different story. 

So, I’m having this emotional moment to myself, and just as the tears are about to start fucking waterfalling down my face, my daughter Harley comes up to me and tugs on my–at the time I was wearing hockey jerseys every day–she tugs on my hockey jersey, and looks up at me and says: “Dad, I need to go poopy.'”

“So, you took her to the bathroom? Where was it?” I asked, not knowing how much longer I would be able to hold it in without at least some seepage. 

“Don’t interrupt,” he said. “So cut to fucking 10 years after that and my dad, God rest his soul, is no longer with us and my daughter is all grown up and I, little Kev from fucking New Jersey, am told that the fucking Hollywood Illuminati or whatever for whatever reason have decided that I would get to place my face headfirst into cement and become permanently enshrined in front of what I still call it Grauman’s Chinese Theater in fucking Hollywood, Cali-for-ni-a.

Now look, I’ve had a pretty unbelievable life. It hasn’t been all roses, but certainly above average. And this might be the most unbelievable thing to happen to me: I’m enshrined next to my idols, the same cats that inspired me when I was nine and, by extension, inspired my own daughter to join her dad in the movies. Who knows, maybe 100 years from now Harley’s great-grandchildren will still be in the family business, and it will all be traced back to my dad taking me here to see the handprints of the stars when I was a kid. And look, I know I can be an emotional guy, but I can’t help but think back to how my dad must have felt as he was looking out at his children playing among these handprints and how it must have just pulled him out of that moment when I tugged on his shirt and asked him to take me to the bathroom because I had to poo. 

Then I remember how I felt standing right here, thinking about that memory of my dad and forming new memories as I watched my own daughter playing along the dried cement handprints and how it felt being pulled out of that moment when my tugged on my jersey because she had to poo. 

And finally, now I’ll remember that at this grand, intergenerational fucking cosmic culmination of my improbable life as a real-deal Hollywood director, as I stood here thinking back at my own late father who never got to see his son receive this omprobable honor, and see my daughter who I’m telling you grew up fast, and think about, as corny as it sounds, how future Smiths will be able to come here and say “that’s my great, great, great, however many great grandpa’s mouth imprint, he directed Jersey Girl,” and, who knows, maybe my daughter will get one of these too someday, as I think about all of that I’ll remember how it felt to be pulled out of that moment to be asked by a stranger who needed to poo if I knew where to find a bathroom.”

“Oh, so you don’t want to bothered?” I asked.

“You’re missing the point, man. Look, do you have kids?”

I told him I didn’t.

“Well, maybe you’ll understand this one day. It’s okay for you to be taken out of these special moments when it’s your kid needing something because they are your fucking kids. Every moment, even just taking them to go potty, is a special moment because, as I said before, it goes by fast, a lot faster than you think it will. The important thing to remember is–uch, why does it smell like shit?”

I told Kevin Smith that I couldn’t hold it anymore but wanted to hear the end of the story because it seems like he was building up to something important. 

“No, it’s, it’s alright. There is a bathroom at the Hardrock Cafe next door. Go clean yourself up.” 

“I waited this long. What is the lesson?” I asked. 

“It’s fuckin’ Ferris Bueller, man. Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it. Now, please, go clean yourself up before Affleck thinks its me.” 

As I started to waddle down Hollywood Blvd toward the bathroom at the Hardrock I thought about the lessons I could glean from the overlong story I just heard, and about how a young Kevin Smith placed his hands in the impressions of Hollywood’s biggest stars and realized that they were just hands, and thought to himself that with some hardwork and luck he too could improbably be enshrined at the Chinese Theater. And maybe that’s why Kevin Smith now has his own mouth imprinted in front of the Chinese Theater, not because he is the best director, but because he is a director. He inspires us to work toward our dreams, no matter how improbable.

As the poo continued to drip down my leg, I realized that maybe Kevin’s story contained the lesson that I needed to give myself permission to focus on achieving all of the things I wanted to do with my own life but felt too afraid to try. If Kevin Smith can do it, maybe anyone can. It was a valuable realization, I thought, but probably not one worth shitting my pants in front of Ben Affleck. 

Southwest Airlines will begin offering routes between Burbank and LAX next month. The 32-mile flight will take six minutes and cost travelers $250, a price many Valley residents flying out of LAX to other cities say is worth avoiding the commute and long security lines at LAX.

“When we were first presented with the idea of a Burbank to LAX flight, we thought it was like, hella stupid,” said Southwest spokesperson Mohammad Al-Quarim Benhamo. “But then we realized that if you live in the Valley and can get through security at Burbank in like ten minutes, then it actually makes a ton of sense to fly over to El Segundo and then connect to your final destination from LAX.”

“Holy shit, that does make sense,” said me, having just recently spent an hour and a half driving from North Hollywood to LAX to catch a flight to Baltimore. “I have to get to LAX two hours early to make sure I get through security with enough time, which means I had to leave my house four hours before my flight. I think Southwest may actually be on to something,” I wrote, now realizing that the Article I began to write as a joke may actually be the best development in air travel since deciding to cancel your trip at the last minute and doing nothing. “Too bad it’s on Southwest.”

Paul Merrick is reportedly still trying to catch his breath after a visit to the Griffith Park Observatory yesterday resulted in the 32-year-old driving up, and then back down, the mountain in search of parking for a full hour before giving up and walking his out-of-shape ass to the top of the summit.

“Why isn’t there, ah, any, ah– hold on, just give me a minute,” said the pudgy accountant while his girlfriend, Elizabeth, looked on with a mixture of concern and embarrassment usually reserved for their monthly sex night. “They should, ah, ah, really add more parking, ah, excuse me. Parking spots, or at least a tram,” said Mr. Merrick immediately before throwing up a little and then frantically drinking half a bottle of water with a sense of urgency usually reserved for decathletes or the nearly drowned.

Mr. Merrick intended to bring Elizabeth to the Griffith Observatory to propose to the 28-year-old production assistant. “I know her, give me a second,” said Mr. Merrick. “Her favorite movie is Rebel…ah, I’m so out of breath, Rebel Without A Cause, so, love, me and her, engage.” But the romantic gesture was foisted, which may or may not be the right word, by his inability to climb the slight incline.

“It wasn’t meant to happen today,” Paul wrote on his phone and then showed me, the strain of talking while this out of breath just too much for him. “But I know when I do ask she’ll say ‘Yes.'”

UPDATE: Paul fucking died. I know, it’s horrible. Apparently, he had an undiagnosed respiratory illness which is why it was so difficult for him to catch his breath and not just because he was a fat piece of shit who ate In-N-Out twice a week as previously suspected.

“Paul was a really sweet man,” Elizabeth said in a statement to The Avocado, volunteering that she is still interested in dating if I know anyone. “I don’t want to sound callous, but I’m not getting any younger.”

UPDATE: Elizabeth and I are dating. As a reporter, I have been reprimanded by my editors for what they refer to as “a stunning lack of professionalism and tact,” but as a man, a man in love, a man in love with a woman, I apologize for nothing.

I met with Elizabeth days after Paul’s funeral to share my condolences and also get an update for our story. We usually wouldn’t write an update on a story like this, but our editors felt bad because internally we had made a lot of jokes about Paul prior to learning the cause of his death and felt we owed it to him. Elizabeth was devastated, obviously, and was surprised to learn that Paul had planned to ask her for her hand that day at Griffith Park.

“I had no idea he wanted to get married,” she told me. I asked her what her answer would be, to which she responded: “I would have definitely said yes.”

“The two of you must have really been in love?” I offered. But she said nothing.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. Sorry. I was just–I was just thinking that I would have said yes, but I don’t know if, God, if I’m going to be honest, I don’t know if I would have been happy married to Paul. How awful is that to say?”

“It’s not awful if it’s honest,” I told her. She explained to me that Paul had been a perfectly nice boyfriend and was the kind of guy any girl would be lucky to marry. “But Paul dying has made me realize that life is so short and I don’t know if the life I always thought I wanted, settling down and moving to Burbank, having babies, giving up my independence – if that’s what I truly want. Maybe I don’t need to get married to be happy. Maybe I should just be single for a while,” she said moments before agreeing to go out with me that night on a date.

UPDATE: Elizabeth and I are engaged. While we have only been dating for two months, which I’ll admit is quick, it feels right. When you know you know. I asked her to marry me at the top of Griffith Observatory, the site of the climax of her favorite movie, Rebel Without A Cause, and less romantically also the site of her ex-boyfriend’s death. We took a Lyft to the top so we didn’t have to walk too far and I got down on my knee with the Hollywood sign and several other couples getting engaged in the background. It was the happiest day of my life.