The Friday Morning Listen: Tragedy - We Rock Sweet Balls And Can Do No Wrong
It was called The Park, or as we said in central Maine, “The Pahk.” I only went there once, and I’d have to say that attendance was semi-voluntary. There were the competing factors of teen boy hormones and a professed hatred of disco music.
Yes, it was 1978. I was sixteen years old and I wanted to go out with Dori. The fact that I would put myself through the misery of a real disco gives you all the evidence necessary to prove my level of desperation.
The Park was the real thing — leisure suits, ultra-amped bass, and flashing lights embedded in the dance floor.
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