Where the World’s Most Horrible Crap Comes From
I am a man well versed in tacky shit; I spent the lion’s share of my formative years in Tucson, Arizona. If you haven’t been there, Tucson—like most mid-sized touristy cities with a lot of retirees—is filled to the top of its cacti with the kind of poorly made trinkets old people love to vomit all over their houses and vacationers love to pick up on the cheap to take back home as gifts.
In nearly every corner store in Tucson, the thrifty shopper can find posters that read, “Arizona: It’s a dry heat!” above a drawing of two skeletons roasting in a desert; keychains in the shape of saguaros; roadrunner magnets; and, for the true desert memorabilia connoisseur, a dreamcatcher adorned with a kokopelli, an American Indian fertility god that’s about as prevalent in certain parts of the Southwest as meth.
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