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Patty Templeton’s articles

Yo, Durango, I’m Patty!

Imagine a low, dilapidated stage. A fog machine is workin’ overtime and there’s a knee-deep mist. A disco ball creaks as it spins. For some reason, the room smells like corndogs. A green glitter curtain rustles as a hand reaches to a side-tabled iPod. Motörhead’s “Ace of Spades” roars into the room. The curtain rustles...

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