Rand McNally is also a relic of the past. How else to explain the drab, two-color cartoon map of the Golden State, crappily stitched-together stock footage from the '80s and stereotypical background music utilized for varying ethnic and social groups throughout California's excruciating 30-minute running time? Case in point: California spends all of ten seconds on San Francisco's robust boy-meets-boy population, wherein a doughy, conservatively dressed Reagan-era fag gently scratches his "buddy's" upper back while walking through Castro as a horrendous disco riff plays in the background. Please -- everyone knows all gay dudes have six-pack abs, place their hands in one another's back pockets and dress exclusively in leather boy-shorts while flamboyantly Rollerblading through city streets with their headphones set to Whitney Houston's remix album. Be realer, Rand.
It is worth noting that there are no domed stadiums in California. If Death Valley obtains a professional sports franchise, this might change. But odds are it won't: Weather in California's major cities is just too perfect -- as is the state itself. California, like domed stadiums, is a grand delusion. Both should be avoided like the plague, or a line of cocaine.
Each week the author treks to the Schlafly branch of the St. Louis Public Library, where a staff member blindfolds him and escorts him to the movie shelves. After selecting a film at random, Seely checks it out and reviews it.
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