Look, I don’t usually remember my dreams. They slip away like a politician’s campaign promises—vague, unreliable, and impossible to fact-check. But last night? Last night, my subconscious handed me an Oscar-worthy epic, a fever dream so absurdly wonderful that even Christopher Nolan would have trouble making sense of it. It was a love story, a tragedy, a comedy—one part A Star Is Born, two parts Looney Tunes.
It began at Canter’s Deli, of all places, because where else would one find true love at dawn? The air smelled of pastrami and ambition. The fluorescent lighting cast a glow best described as “early morning mugshot.” And there, across the room, stood Miley Cyrus, wearing an oversized leather jacket and a look of unmistakable destiny. Our eyes met over a plate of lox and bagels. Sparks flew. Probably crumbs, too.
“Miley?” I gasped.
“You,” she whispered.
Turns out, she had been following my work for years, obsessed with my new book, The Book of Marilyn. She loved it so much that she wanted to option it immediately, possibly star in it, maybe even direct.
“I was born to play Marilyn,” she declared, the words hanging in the air like the final note of Wrecking Ball.
Before I could so much as ask whether she wanted to split a side of coleslaw, we were madly in love. Not just any love. The kind of love that poets write about and reality shows exploit for ratings. A whirlwind, passionate, delirious, slightly dehydrated (because of all the pastrami) love.
Things escalated quickly. She introduced me onstage at her next nationally televised performance, dramatically pointing me out in the audience.
“The love of my life is here tonight!” she announced to millions.
The crowd went wild. The camera zoomed in. I panicked. The last time I had been put on the spot like this, it involved a surprise spelling bee in fifth grade, and let’s just say “onomatopoeia” still haunts me.
Miley blew me a kiss. I attempted to return the gesture but ended up knocking over a waiter’s tray of overpriced cocktails. The headlines the next day were brutal: Miley’s Mystery Man Makes a Mess! But it didn’t matter. We were in love, and love, I had been told, conquered all.
Suddenly, I was living like Dan Brown, if Dan Brown were significantly more handsome and had a pop superstar on his arm. Money? Endless. I bought things I didn’t even need. A solid gold typewriter. A yacht I named Plot Twist. A $250,000 diamond engagement ring from Tiffany’s that could double as a self-defense weapon if ever attacked by jewel thieves or aggressive pigeons.
Then came The Proposal.
Dodger Stadium. Opening Day. A perfect Los Angeles sunset painted the sky. Miley had just sung the national anthem, hitting a high note so powerful that a bald eagle shed a single tear in the distance. The moment was ripe.
I got down on one knee, the engagement ring sparkling like a tiny disco ball of eternal devotion.
“Miley Ray Cyrus,” I said, my voice trembling, “will you marry me?”
A hush fell over the stadium. Time itself seemed to pause.
And then…
She burst into tears.
Not the happy kind. Not the “oh my God, yes” kind. The “I need to tell you something but you’re not going to like it” kind.
“I just fell in love with one of the Dodgers,” she sobbed.
The stadium let out a collective gasp, the kind usually reserved for game-winning home runs and overpriced beer revelations.
“You… what?” I managed, my voice barely a whisper.
“I didn’t know how you really felt about me,” she wailed, dramatically clutching her chest like we were in the third act of a Lifetime movie.
I collapsed inside. My heart shattered into a million tiny pieces, each more embarrassing than the last. The stadium jumbotron caught every agonizing second. The announcer, bless his heart, tried to salvage the moment: “AND LET’S HEAR IT FOR LOVE, FOLKS! … No? Okay. Moving on.”
But the worst was yet to come.
Exiting Dodger Stadium that night was a nightmare. The media descended like seagulls on an abandoned French fry. Reporters, influencers, TikTokers with ring lights strapped to their faces—it was chaos.
“Sir! How does it feel to be publicly dumped on the biggest stage possible?”
“Would you say this was the worst proposal in baseball history, or just top five?”
A TMZ intern screamed, “CAN YOU CRY FOR THE CAMERA?”
The only thing worse than my heartbreak was the fact that I had to sit through traffic on the 110 afterward, marinating in my own humiliation for an extra two hours.
Days later, Miley posted a heartfelt Instagram story about how “love is complicated” and “sometimes the heart takes you to unexpected places.” The comments were brutal.
@CyrusStan4Ever: “Girl, how u gonna do him like that??”
@DiamondRingDebbie: “Can u return the ring tho? Asking for a friend.”
@DodgerDude99: “LMAO this is why I only propose at In-N-Out.”
I retreated from the public eye, spending my days watching reruns of The West Wing and trying to convince myself that at least I wasn’t Pete Davidson. But deep down, I knew the truth:
I had flown too close to the sun. And by sun, I mean Miley Cyrus at Canter’s Deli at an ungodly hour.
Will I ever love again? Maybe. Will I ever listen to Flowers without weeping? Absolutely not.
And so, dear reader, if you find yourself at Canter’s at dawn, staring into the eyes of someone who just might be the love of your life, beware. One minute, you’re splitting a bagel. The next, you’re alone in a stadium, a quarter-million dollars poorer, explaining to a YouTuber why your dreams have turned to dust.
Such is life. Such is love. And, apparently, such is baseball.
TONY CASTRO, the former award-winning Los Angeles columnist and author, is a writer-at-large and the national political writer for LAMonthly.org. He is the author of nine books, including his new debut novel, THE BOOK OF MARILYN. He can be reached at tony@tonycastro.com.
