THERE'S A CASTLE behind a strawberry field on Anaheim’s La Palma A venue. It's a sad, stubby brown thing whose eerie glow barely peeks out against the starless suburban sky, and whose back leans against the fenced-off shoulder of the westbound 91 F reeway. A pair of weather-beaten stone knights guards the castle's entrance while an asphalt moat separates it from a neighboring parking lot.
It’s 4:30 p.m. on a Thursday afternoon and everything around feels so ridiculously “Los Angeles.”. For starters, it’s just the second week of August and already we’ve had not one, not two, but four not-insignificant earthquakes in the past three days. I had to beast it through at least an hour of traffic just to get here.
I don’t want to graduate college, though it’s probably not for the reason you’re thinking. No, as exciting as the job market looks for journalism majors, the truth is, I just don’t want to sit through the ceremony. I have a whole mountain’s worth of things I would rather do than sit through that god-awful ceremony.
