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| Taking Story with Arlo |
Growing Up on the Eve of Destruction
Picture this, cats and kittens: it’s the 1960s, and I’m a scrawny kid with a mop of hair and a head full of dreams, growing up in a small town where the radio blares Elvis one minute and air-raid sirens the next.
The Eastern world, it is explodin’—violence flarin’, bullets loadin’—and every night, the TV glows with images of jungles burning in Vietnam, politicians in suits preaching war like it’s gospel, and body bags piling up faster than you can say “draft notice.
” I’m barely old enough to shave, but I’m old enough to kill, though not for votin’, as Barry McGuire’s gravelly voice croons through my transistor radio, warning us we’re on the eve of destruction. And me? I’m terrified it’s all true.
See, back in the ‘60s and ‘70s, the world felt like a pressure cooker with a busted valve. The government was pro-war, the older generation was pro-“shut up and salute,” and the planet seemed to be spinning toward a showdown where nuclear bombs were as likely as rain.
Don’t you understand what I’m trying to say? Can’t you feel the fears I’m feeling today?
That song wasn’t just a hit—it was a mirror. Every time I heard it, I’d peek out my window, half-expecting to see mushroom clouds blooming over the horizon.
The draft loomed like a guillotine, and I’d lie awake imagining some slick-haired senator pushing a button—If the button is pushed, there’s no runnin’ away—and boom, no one left to save, just a world in a grave.
The older folks, though? They’d scoff. “Arlo,” they’d say, puffing their pipes, “you’re too young to get it. We’re not on the eve of anything but progress.”
Progress? Tell that to the kids shipping off to ‘Nam, or the ones marching in Selma, Alabama, while hate festered like a fever.
Think of all the hate there is in Red China, then take a look around—same old disgrace, just a different ZIP code. I’d see the newsreels—bodies floatin’ in the Jordan River, riots in the streets—and my blood’d feel like coagulatin’, thick with dread.
The pride and disgrace pounded like war drums, and I couldn’t shake the thought: this whole crazy world is just too frustratin’.
Fast-forward to today, 2025, and I’m 58, a seasoned traveler with a beatnik soul, sipping espresso in some funky café, watching the world spin its same old tune. Ukraine’s a battlefield, China’s flexing its military muscle, America’s pumping cash into bigger guns, and Europe’s rattling sabers like it’s 1964 all over again.
The suits in power still love war more than peace, and the air’s thick with that eve-of-destruction vibe. You can bury your dead, but don’t leave a trace—except now it’s drones and cyberattacks instead of napalm.
Same song, new verse. And I wonder: haven’t we learned a thing?
But here’s where the story takes a wild turn, dig? I’m Arlo Agogo, and I’ve got a tale so groovy it’ll make your head spin like a 45 on a turntable.
See, I’ve been around—done business in Bangkok, haggled in Havana, danced in Dakar—and everywhere I go, I spread a little happiness, a little comedy, with a wink and a wild exaggeration. Life’s too short for gloom, man.
And lately, I’ve been dreaming of the Groovatrons—quantum-entangled, dimension-hopping critters from the planet Funkadelia, sliding into human souls to sprinkle some chill vibes on this mad, mad world.
Picture this: it’s a tense night in 2025, and the news is bleating about missiles and troop movements. I’m strumming my guitar, humming McGuire’s tune—You don’t believe we’re on the eve of destruction—when a shimmer ripples through the room.
Suddenly, there they are: the Groovatrons, glowing like lava lamps, kazoo solos buzzing from their funky little forms. “Arlo, daddy-o,” they say in voices smoother than Gordon Lightfoot, “this planet’s got the blues, but we’re here to flip the script.
The world’ll survive—if only y’all get groovier.”
I laugh, because it’s absurd, right? But there’s a seriousness in their glittery eyes. They’ve seen the ‘60s, the ‘70s, the Cold War’s brink, and now this—they know the stakes. “War’s the ungrooviest trip,” they tell me.
“Back in your day, you feared the draft, the bombs, the end. Today’s the same gig, just with better tech. But dig this: peace ain’t weak. It’s the ultimate jam.”
And they’re right. Growing up, I saw marches that couldn’t twist the truth or pass legislation—handful of senators too stubborn to budge—but they planted seeds.
Human respect was disintegratin’, sure, but every flower child, every protest song, was a step toward something better.
The Groovatrons take it further. They zap into souls—mine, yours, maybe even that hawkish politician’s—and crank up the love, the laughter, the positivity.
Suddenly, I’m picturing world leaders dropping their pens, kicking off their shoes, and grooving to a cosmic beat instead of plotting the next strike.
So here’s the deal, cats: I spent my youth scared of Vietnam, of nukes, of a world too proud to say grace over its hate. Now, at 58, I see 2025 teetering on that same edge. But I’m not sweating it like I used to.
The Groovatrons, silly as they sound, are my beatnik beacon. They’re telling us—telling you—to chill, to love, to laugh. This ain’t about burying the dead or hiding the scars. It’s about turning the volume up on peace until the war drums fade out.
Yeah, the Eastern world’s still explodin’, and the fear’s still real. But I’m Arlo Agogo, and I’ve got a story to tell—a wild, exaggerated, funky little yarn that ends with hope.
The Groovatrons are out there, man, quantum-tangling their way through the chaos, whispering: “You don’t have to believe we’re on the eve of destruction.
Believe we’re on the eve of something groovier instead.”
Groove is in the Heart - Arlo
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