"The Rockers" Desert Romp -- VW Dune Buggy Lore - Talking Story with Arlo

 Talking Story with Arlo 

The Rockers’ Desert Romp: A Whimsical Tale of Respect, Rocks, and Ridiculous Luck

Picture this: a gaggle of gray-haired thrill-seekers, calling themselves the Rockers, revving up their VW Bajas and Dune Buggies at the crack of dawn outside the local Starbucks. 

It’s barely 6 a.m. in the dusty little town of Sagebrush Springs, and the air smells like burnt espresso and anticipation. The Rockers—average age 68, average enthusiasm of a toddler on a sugar high—are gearing up for their weekly pilgrimage to the edge of the Rocky Mountains. 

Their mission? To hunt for shiny treasures like turquoise, silver, and the --

Holy Grail of rockhounding: gold. 

But this ain’t about striking it rich. Oh no, these folks are in it for the vibes, the camaraderie, and the chance to poke around in the dirt like kids at a  sandbox.

This particular Saturday, the crew’s buzzing with extra zest. There’s Mabel, the unofficial queen of the Rockers, sporting a tie-dye bandana and a bumper sticker that reads “Geology Rocks!” Her dune buggy, affectionately named “The Pebble Prowler,” is loaded with shovels, sifters, and a cooler of kombucha. 

Then there’s Gus, a retired accountant with a mustache that could double as a broom, riding high in his monster-truck-wannabe VW Baja. 

And me, Arlo the guy with the Iced Tea and Biscuits with a VW Dune Buggy named "Daisy"

Don’t forget Clara, who claims she once arm-wrestled a coyote (and won), and sweet old Bernie, whose RV is decked out with solar panels and a disco ball for “emergency dance parties.” These folks aren’t just senior citizens—they’re a roving circus of heart and hilarity.

As the sun peeks over the horizon, painting the desert in shades of pink and gold, the Rockers convoy out to the foothills where the Rockies start flexing their muscles. The terrain’s rugged, all craggy cliffs and sneaky crevices, but the Rockers treat it like sacred ground. 

You see, they’ve got mad respect for the land, knowing it’s tied to the heritage of the local tribes who’ve called these parts home for centuries. Mabel always says, 

“We’re just borrowing this dirt. Gotta leave it better than we found it.” 

So they tread lightly, picking up any stray soda cans or candy wrappers, muttering apologies to the spirits for the litterbug sins of others.

Today’s plan is simple: set up camp, fire up the barbecues, and scatter for short hikes to sniff out sparkly rocks. By noon, they’ve got a proper base camp going

— think less “survivalist outpost” and more “Coachella for seniors.” 

There’s a folding table piled with potato salad, hot dogs, and Gus’s infamous “Desert Dust Salsa” (nobody asks what’s in it). Clara’s strumming a ukulele, belting out a slightly off-key version of “Sweet Caroline,” while Bernie’s teaching everyone how to moonwalk in hiking boots. 

It’s chaos, it’s glorious, and it’s peak Rocker energy.

After lunch, the crew splits up to explore. Mabel leads a squad toward a dry riverbed, her trusty rock hammer swinging like Excalibur. 

Gus, muttering about “geological anomalies,” heads for a shady crevice that looks promising. Clara and Bernie, meanwhile, are poking around a pile of boulders, debating whether a shiny pebble is turquoise or just a really fancy piece of glass. 

That’s when Gus lets out a holler that could wake a hibernating bear. 

“Folks, get over here! We hit the motherlode!”

The Rockers scramble over, expecting maybe a nice chunk of turquoise or a glint of silver. Instead, they find a scene straight out of an Indiana Jones flick. 

Nestled in a natural alcove is a pile of treasures: arrowheads sharper than Clara’s wit, turquoise beads that shimmer like mermaid tears, and—holy moly—actual gold nuggets, winking in the sunlight. 

It’s not just a find; it’s a Find with a capital F. Mabel’s jaw drops so low her bandana nearly slips off. “This ain’t no ordinary rock pile,” she whispers. 

“This is somebody’s stash.”

At first, the Rockers are giddy, high-fiving like they’ve won the geological lottery. Bernie’s already planning a victory dance involving glow sticks. But then Clara, ever the skeptic, squints at the arrangement. 

“Hold up, y’all. This don’t look random. These arrowheads are laid out like a star. And that gold? 

It’s in a perfect circle. 

This ain’t a treasure—it’s a shrine.

The mood shifts faster than a tumbleweed in a windstorm. Gus, who once read half a book on ancient history, nods sagely. “Could be a memorial. Maybe centuries old. Maybe sacred.”

Now, the Rockers aren’t in this for the money. Sure, gold’s nice, but they’re more about the thrill of the hunt and the stories they’ll tell over coffee next week. 

So when Mabel suggests they leave the find untouched, nobody argues. “This belongs to the land,” she says, her voice soft but firm. “Let’s cover it back up, make it safe from looters.”

And so, with the reverence of a church choir, they carefully rebury the treasures, piling dirt and rocks over the site until it blends back into the desert. 

Bernie even says a little prayer, though it’s mostly him thanking the universe for “cool rocks and cooler friends.”

As they pack up camp, the sun’s dipping low, casting long shadows that make the desert look like a painting. The Rockers are tired, a little dusty, but content. They pile into their vehicles. 

Clara blasting “Born to Be Wild” as they rumble back to Sagebrush Springs. Nobody mentions the find again, but there’s a quiet agreement: some things are worth more than gold.

Fast-forward to the next Saturday, and the Rockers are back at Starbucks, sipping oat milk lattes and swapping stories. 

But something’s… weird. 

Gus, usually grumpier than a cactus with a hangover, is grinning like he just won a pie-eating contest. 

“My wife’s cancer scan came back clean,” he announces, tears in his eyes. 

Mabel chimes in: “

I sold three big orders this week—new clients outta nowhere!” 

Clara, not to be outdone, brags that she won $500 on a scratch-off ticket, “and I ain’t even scratched it that hard!” 

Bernie’s practically glowing, talking about his new grandkid, born healthy as a horse.

Even the barista, who’s heard their stories a hundred times, leans in. “Y’all got a lucky horseshoe up your sleeves or what?”

The Rockers exchange glances, and it hits them like a rogue tumbleweed. “The shrine,” Mabel whispers. “We respected the land, and now the spirits are throwing us a cosmic high-five.” 

Gus, who’s allergic to anything too woo-woo, snorts but doesn’t disagree. Clara, never one to miss a punchline, declares, 

“We didn’t strike gold—we struck good karma!” 

The table erupts in laughter, coffee cups clinking in a toast to the desert spirits, the Rockers, and the sheer absurdity of it all.

From that day on, the Rockers’ outings take on a new flavor. They still hunt for rocks, but they’re extra careful to honor the land—leaving offerings of wildflowers, picking up litter, and occasionally moonwalking in gratitude. 

And the luck? It keeps coming. Mabel lands a contract with a fancy crystal shop. Gus’s salsa wins a local food contest (nobody’s more shocked than him). Clara swears she saw that coyote she arm-wrestled, and it winked at her. As for Bernie, he’s planning a disco-themed RV road trip, claiming the spirits told him to “keep the groove alive.”

The Rockers learned something out there in the desert:

It’s not about the shiny stuff you take home, but the respect you leave behind. 

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

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Exquisite Teas for Discerning Clientele

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Wild Strawberry Herbal Tea

Sparkling Tea

Dig This Scene: Craftin’ Sparkling Tea Like a Cool Cat Mixologist

By Arlo Agogo

Hey there, hip cats and kittens, it’s your ol’ pal Arlo, slippin’ into the groove to lay down some righteous vibes about a far-out potion—sparkling tea. Now, I ain’t talkin’ no ordinary cuppa. This is the kind of brew that swings, a fizzy, jazzy concoction that’ll make your 4:00 p.m. tea time feel like a poetry slam in a Greenwich Village basement. 

With my five-gram tea bag—bigger than any other cat’s got, dig?—and a stash of over 50 flavors, I’m gonna show you how to mix tea with sparkling water, fruit, herbs, and a whole lotta soul to create a drink that’s part cocktail, part revolution. 

Whether you’re chillin’ at home or pourin’ for a high-class business meetin’, this is how you make tea the star of the afternoon scene.

The Lowdown on Sparkling Tea

Picture this: it’s late afternoon, the sun’s dippin’ low, and you’re lookin’ to shake up the usual routine. Coffee’s too heavy, soda’s too sweet, and water? Man, that’s just square. 

Enter sparkling tea—a drink that’s cool, crisp, and got more personality than a beat poet with a typewriter. It’s tea, but it’s got bubbles, baby, and you can dress it up like a cocktail without the booze. Perfect for sippin’ solo, sharin’ with your crew, or servin’ at a boardroom table to make those suits loosen their ties and dig the vibe.

I’m workin’ with a five-gram tea bag, packed with more flavor than a Coltrane solo, and I’ve got 50-plus varieties to play with—black, green, herbal, you name it. 

This ain’t just about mixin’ tea with seltzer; it’s about craftin’ a drink that’s as smooth as a saxophone and as bold as a Kerouac verse. Let’s get to it.

How to Brew the Scene

First, you gotta lay the foundation with a strong tea. None of that weak, watery stuff—think of this as the bassline of your drink, deep and rich. 

Take that five-gram tea bag (and trust me, nobody’s slingin’ bags this hefty but yours truly) and steep it in half the water you’d normally use for a cup. For a single serving, boil about four ounces of water, let it cool just a touch (don’t burn the leaves, man), and let that bag steep for 4-5 minutes. 

You want it concentrated, like a poet’s manifesto in a single stanza.

Once it’s brewed, let it cool to room temp. Hot tea and cold seltzer don’t mix—they’ll kill the fizz faster than a heckler kills a vibe. Stick it in the fridge if you’re in a hurry, but don’t rush the groove. 

Patience is part of the art.

Now, grab some chilled seltzer water—plain or flavored, your call. Mix it with your cooled tea, aimin’ for a 50/50 split to start. Want it stronger? Dial up the tea. Want more sparkle? Lean on the seltzer. Pour it over a glass of ice, and you’re halfway to nirvana.

Jazzin’ It Up: The Mixologist’s Touch

Here’s where you get to play like a true mixologist, man. You’re not just pourin’ a drink; you’re creatin’ a masterpiece. Let’s talk add-ins to make this sparkling tea look and taste like it belongs in a speakeasy or a swanky boardroom.

Fruit, Baby, Fruit: Slice up some citrus—lemon, lime, or orange—for a zesty kick. Muddle some berries—raspberries, blackberries, or strawberries—for a sweet, tangy vibe. Got peaches or mangoes? Dice ‘em up and let ‘em swim in the glass. 

The fruit ain’t just for looks; it infuses flavor and makes every sip a little wild.

Herbs for the Soul: 

Toss in a sprig of mint for cool, crisp freshness. Basil’s got that earthy, unexpected edge. Rosemary? Now you’re talkin’ bold. Bruise the herbs lightly to release their oils, and let ‘em float like little green poets in your glass.

Sweetness, If You Dig: 

If you’re feelin’ a touch of sweetness, stir in some honey or simple syrup while the tea’s still warm (it blends better that way). Agave’s cool too, especially with green or herbal teas. Keep it light—you don’t want to drown the flavor.

Fancy It Up: 

Serve it in a chilled highball glass or a mason jar for that rustic beatnik charm. Add a citrus twist or a skewer of fruit for garnish. If you’re feelin’ extra, rim the glass with a little sugar or edible flowers. Yeah, man, edible flowers—go full-on avant-garde.

Tea Time at 4:00—Swingin’ Solo or Social

Come 4:00 p.m., when the day’s draggin’ and you need a pick-me-up, sparkling tea is your ticket to transcendence. At home, it’s your moment to sip slow, maybe with a book of Ginsberg poems or some Coltrane on the hi-fi. 

Mix a black tea with lemon seltzer, toss in some muddled raspberries and a sprig of mint, and you’ve got a drink that’s half cocktail, half meditation.
But let’s say you’re hostin’ friends or runnin’ a business meetin’. Sparkling tea can steal the show. 

Set up a DIY tea bar.

—lay out a few tea flavors (my five-gram bags got you covered), a couple of seltzer options, and bowls of sliced fruit, herbs, and sweeteners. Let folks mix their own, like they’re paintin’ their own canvas. 

For a boardroom, pre-make a pitcher of green tea with cucumber and lime seltzer—cool, professional, and a million miles from boring water or stale coffee. Serve it in clear glasses so everyone can see the bubbles dancin’. It’s a power move that says, “I’m sharp, but I got soul.”

The Health Kick (Without Losin’ the Cool)

Now, I ain’t one to preach, but sparkling tea’s got some health chops worth noddin’ to. Tea’s loaded with antioxidants—black and green especially—keepin’ your body tuned like a well-strung guitar. The bubbles? They’re not just for show; carbonation can help with digestion, settlin’ your stomach after a heavy lunch.

Some say it even gives calcium absorption a boost. Plus, you’re ditchin’ the sugary sodas and energy drinks, so you’re keepin’ it clean without losin’ the flavor. It’s a drink that’s good for the body and the soul, man.

Tips to Keep It Groovy, Quality’s King: 

Use top-shelf tea. My five-gram bags are packed with premium leaves, givin’ you a bold base to work with. Weak tea makes a weak drink, and that’s a drag.

Keep It Cold: 

Chill your tea and seltzer before mixin’. Warm seltzer goes flat faster than a bad joke.
Ice, But Smart: Don’t let ice dilute your masterpiece. Freeze some tea into ice cubes or use big cubes that melt slow.

Play with Flavors: 

Mix black tea with berry seltzer for a fruity punch. Green tea with cucumber seltzer screams cool. Herbal teas like chamomile or hibiscus with plain seltzer? Pure poetry.

50+ Flavors, Infinite Vibes

With over 50 flavors in my stash, the possibilities are endless. Try a smoky lapsang souchong with orange seltzer for a bold, citrusy twist. Go floral with jasmine tea and plain seltzer, garnished with edible flowers. Or lean tropical with a mango black tea and passionfruit seltzer, topped with a pineapple slice. 

Every combo’s a new riff, a new poem, a new groove.

The Final Sip

Sparkling tea ain’t just a drink—it’s a statement. It’s takin’ something ancient, like tea, and givin’ it a modern, bubbly soul. 

Whether you’re sippin’ solo at 4:00 p.m., sharin’ with your beatnik brothers and sisters, or servin’ it up in a boardroom to shake things up, this is how you make tea cool again. 

Grab a five-gram bag, pick a flavor from my 50-plus lineup, and start mixin’. Add fruit, herbs, or a touch of sweetness, and serve it with style. You’re not just makin’ a drink—you’re craftin’ a moment. 

So go on, cool cat, make it sparkle.

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

Sponsored by,

Exquisite Teas for Discerning Clientele

ArloTeas.com

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Sugar Free Drink: add a Tea Bag to Seltzer Water

Seltzer Water and Tea

Sugar Free Drink: add a Tea Bag to Seltzer Water

Let the Fizz Flow: 

Unleashing the Magic of Tea-Seltzer

Forget the sugary sodas and the artificially flavored seltzers. It's time to tap into a world of vibrant flavors and gentle fizz with a simple, bohemian twist: tea-infused seltzer water. 

This isn't just about ditching the sugar (although that's a beautiful bonus). It's about embracing a ritual, a connection to nature's bounty, and a symphony of taste on your tongue.

Think of it as a liquid mandala. 

Seltzer, the clear, invigorating base, represents openness and potential. 

The tea bag, a burst of botanical magic, brings in the colors – the earthy notes of black tea, the sunshine citrus of lemon, the calming lavender whispers. 

Steeping the tea is a dance of patience, the anticipation building as the colors and aromas bloom. 

Each sip becomes a mindful exploration, a journey through the essence of the chosen herb.

But why stop there? 

Spice Up Your Seltzer:Herbal Oasis: 

Go beyond the classic black tea. Explore the calming properties of chamomile, the invigorating zing of peppermint, or the digestive magic of ginger. 

Chai Tea Bags and Fizzy Sugar Free Seltzer Water

Feeling adventurous? 

Try a blend like "Chai Tea" or "Minty Comfort Tea"
" for a functional twist.

Fruity Fusion: 

Let loose your inner alchemist! Steep a hibiscus tea bag for a deep ruby red and a tart punch.

Muddle fresh berries like strawberries or blueberries for a burst of sweetness and color. Don't be afraid to experiment with citrus fruits or tropical slices.

Sugar Free Seltzer Iced Tea made with Papaya Tea

Spice Symphony: 

Feeling adventurous? Add a sprinkle of cinnamon, cardamom, or even a pinch of cayenne pepper for a truly unique experience. 

Just remember, a little goes a long way with these potent spices.

Beyond the Basics:

This isn't just a drink; it's an artistic expression. Here's how to elevate your tea-seltzer experience:Ice Molds on Fire: Freeze edible flowers, berries, or citrus slices into ice cubes for a visually stunning and flavorful experience.

Garnish with Gusto: 

Fresh herbs like mint, basil, or rosemary add a touch of whimsy and a delightful aroma.

Sweeten Naturally: 

Ditch the refined sugar and explore the world of natural sweeteners. A squeeze of honey, a few drops of stevia, or even a touch of pure maple syrup can add a touch of sweetness without the guilt.

Sugar Free for Diabetics

The Ritual of Tea-Seltzer:

Here's the beauty of this drink – it's as simple or elaborate as you make it. Take a moment to slow down, put on some calming music, or light your favorite incense. 

Steep your tea, breathe in the aroma, and pour it over ice. 

As the bubbles dance, visualize the positive energy you're infusing into your body.

Tea-seltzer is more than just hydration; it's a celebration of self-care, a connection to nature, and a journey of flavor exploration. 

So, ditch the artificial and embrace the magic of the leaf and the fizz. 

Let your inner shine, and create a symphony of taste that nourishes your body and soul.

ArloTeas.com

Rodeo Rumble in Laughlin - Talking Story with Arlo

Talking Story with Arlo

The Grooviest Rodeo Rumble in Laughlin: 

A Cosmic Critter Carnival!

Yee-haw, you cosmic cowpokes and interstellar trailblazers! Strap on your ten-gallon hats and polish your sparkliest spurs, because the rodeo’s galloping back to Laughlin, Nevada, and it’s a galactic hoedown that’s got the whole tri-state area buzzing like a beehive on a sugar high! 

The Avi Resort & Casino is lassoing the CINCH World’s Toughest Rodeo into town on April 12-13, 2025, the first since COVID sent the bulls into social-distancing siestas. 

Picture me, a 58-year-old beatnik with a paisley scarf and a dune buggy named Daisy, getting swept into a whirlwind of bucking broncos, cotton-candy clouds, and a herd of animals grooving to the funky wisdom of the Groovatrons—those quantum-entangled, dimension-hopping pranksters from Funkadelia who turned me into the Cosmic Critter Whisperer! 

With the poem Rodeo Magic! as my guide, I’m spinning a 1,000-word yarn that’s wilder than a bull on a pogo stick, drenched in whimsy and the transcendental smell of steer

Cruising through Laughlin on a Sunday, my dune buggy rattling like a maraca in a mariachi band, I spotted the Mojave Crossing Event Center transforming into a rodeo wonderland. 

Carnival rides spun like UFOs, deep-fried Oreos sizzled like meteors, and the air hummed with the “excitement in the air” from the poem. The tri-state folks—Nevada, Arizona, and California—were practically tap-dancing with glee, their “Western hats atop all those heads” bobbing like a sea of Stetsons. 

Kids clutched cotton candy fluffier than a Funkadelian cloud, while cowboys in boots with “unique design” swaggered like they owned the Colorado River. I parked Daisy, sniffed that glorious steer-scented breeze, and thought, 

--“This is gonna be rodeo magic!”

As I wandered the stockyard, marveling at “saddles of every size and color,” a promoter in a cowboy hat the size of a satellite dish strutted up. 

“Hey, paisley dude,” he drawled, “wanna wrangle critters for the week?” 

My heart did a backflip—me, a desert beatnik, tending rodeo beasts? “Heck yeah!” I hollered, and before I could say “quantum kazoo,” I was knee-deep in hay, feeding horses, bulls, and a sassy goat who eyed my scarf like it was lunch. 

That’s when the Groovatrons, those funky neutrinos from Funkadelia, zapped into my soul with a cosmic giggle. “Arlo,” they buzzed,

 “These critters ain’t groovin’ yet." 

"Teach ’em the Funkadelian way!"

Now, these animals weren’t your average barnyard crew. The horses, who “just know that it’s time to strut and prance,” were prancing, sure, but they lacked soul. 

The bulls, “scary and tough and mean” on the surface, were just misunderstood grumps who’d never heard a kazoo solo. And don’t get me started on the chickens—they clucked like they were stuck in a country ballad. 

So, I channeled the Groovatrons’ interstellar wisdom, grabbed my kazoo, and launched a transcendental animal dance party. Picture this: me, surrounded by a herd of wide-eyed critters, tooting a funky rendition of “Twinkle, Twinkle” under a sky sparkling like a disco ball. 

The poem’s right—there’s “so much excitement in the air,” but I was about to crank it to eleven!
First up, the horses. These majestic beasts, decked in saddles shinier than a supernova, were born to “show off,” but they were stiff as a board. I whispered, “Groovatrons say: loosen those hooves, babies!” 

I twirled my scarf like a cosmic baton, and soon, they were moonwalking through the straw, neighing in harmony like a barbershop quartet. One chestnut mare, who I named Stardust, did a pirouette that would’ve made a Vegas showgirl jealous. 

The crowd gathering at the stockyard fence gasped, thinking I was some horse-whispering wizard. Nope—just a beatnik with a Groovatron hotline!

Then came the bulls, the poem’s “scary and tough” crew who “aren’t the way they seem.” These guys were snorting like grumpy uncles at a family reunion. 

I sat cross-legged in their pen, kazoo humming, and shared the Groovatrons’ secret: joy’s quantum-entangled across dimensions. 

“You’re not just bulls,” I said, “you’re cosmic groovers!” 

One bull, dubbed Funky McHornface, blinked, then bobbed his head like he was at a Grateful Dead show. By sunset, the whole herd was swaying, their hooves tapping a beat that echoed across the tri-state.

A kid with a cowboy hat yelled, “Mister, you got them bulls dancing!” I winked, “That’s the Groovatron groove, lil’ pardner!”

The goats? Oh, they were the wild card. One billy goat, with a beard rivaling my own, chewed my scarf and bleated like he was dissing my vibe. I told him, “Groovatrons don’t judge, but you gotta chill, dude.” I tossed him a deep-fried Oreo (don’t tell the promoter), and he started 

-- head-banging like a metalhead at a rodeo rave. 

Soon, the goats were leaping over hay bales, doing backflips like they’d enrolled in Funkadelia’s gymnastics academy. The poem’s “clear your calendar” vibe was real—nobody could resist this critter carnival!

The tri-state community was electric, just like the poem’s call to “get ready, folks.” X posts lit up with hashtags like #LaughlinRodeoRumble and #GroovyCritters, as folks shared videos of my animal dance party. 

One viral clip showed me teaching a chicken to cluck in sync with my kazoo—1,000 likes in an hour! 

The carnival rides whirled, kids scarfed cotton candy, and the “horsy sound” mixed with the scent of steer and fried treats to create a sensory explosion. I even caught a grandma in a rhinestone cowboy hat trying to moonwalk with Stardust. 

The Groovatrons were right: joy’s infinite, and Laughlin was proof.

By day, April 12, the Mojave Crossing Event Center was a cosmic circus. Gates opened at 5 p.m., with bucking broncos and bull riders kicking off at 7 p.m. (Sunday’s show started at noon, for you early risers). 

I was still wrangling critters, now groovier than a Funkadelian festival. The horses pranced with swagger, the bulls boogied before charging, and the goats? They stole the show, leaping into the arena like furry acrobats. 

The crowd roared, thinking it was part of the act. 

I just grinned, knowing the Groovatrons had quantum-zapped these beasts with pure funk.

As the poem says, “whether you’re city or country hick,” this rodeo was for everyone. I saw crypto bros in cowboy boots, Vegas showgirls in spurs, and kids waving glow sticks like they were at a rave. 

The Groovatrons whispered, “Arlo, your soul’s trousering into eternity, and these critters are coming along!” At 58, I’m not slowing down—I’m grooving harder, kazoo blazing, teaching every steer and stallion to dance through life. 

So, gallop to Laughlin, grab a deep-fried Oreo, and join the rodeo rave. 

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

Sponsored by,

Exquisite Teas for Discerning Clientele

ArloTeas.com

Select Artisanal Teas Responsibly Sourced Worldwide

Wild Strawberry Herbal Tea

That Arizona Sky Burnin' in Your Eyes - Talking Story with Arlo

Talking Story with Arlo

Arlo’s Desert Daze:

When Memories Bail and the Sky’s the Real.

Arlo’s perched on a wobbly lawn chair outside his Arizona RV, a beer with a lime wedge sweating faster than a tourist in a Mohave Valley Walmart.

The sky’s doing its nightly circus act—pinks, purples, and oranges swirling like a tie-dye shirt in a blender.

Lady Gaga’s Always Remember Us This Way is stuck in his head, that line about the Arizona sky burnin’ in your eyes hitting like a cactus to the heart.

At 78, Arlo’s memory’s gone AWOL, like a beatnik at a tax audit.

Names, faces, entire decades—they’re all playing hide-and-seek in his brain, and his brain’s a lousy seeker.

Back in his Southern California glory days, he was a surf-rat Casanova, chasing waves and women with equal gusto. Now? He’s out here in the desert, half-convinced his past loves are just mirages, and honestly, he’s too busy laughing at himself to care.

Back in the ‘60s, Arlo was a lean, mean, love-chasing machine. Picture him: shaggy hair, board shorts, a VW Bus named Dolores painted with enough peace signs to make a hawk blush.

He fell for every girl with a flower in her hair and a smile that screamed trouble.

There was… Linda? Brenda? Glenda? Hell, let’s call her Moonbeam, who danced like a possessed fairy at a Beach Boys gig in ‘67. Then there was the poet chick in Santa Cruz—Starlight? Starfish?—who wrote sonnets on his arm in Sharpie and ditched him for a guy with a better weed hookup.

Forever girls that weren't.

Arlo tries to conjure their faces, but it’s like his brain’s running Windows 95—slow, glitchy, and prone to crashing. “Who were you, darlin’?” he mutters, squinting at the horizon like it’s got the answers. Spoiler: it doesn’t.

“Getting old’s like losing your keys in a sandstorm,”

The Arizona desert’s his home now, a big ol’ sandbox of nothing and everything, where the past gets buried under red dust and epic sunsets.

He traded the Pacific’s roar for this quiet sprawl a decade ago, after his sandal shop in Newport Beach got swallowed by a yoga studio.

Now he’s got a dune buggy named Daisy—think Mad Max meets a clown car—and he tears through the desert like a kid who just discovered Red Bull. It’s not surfing, but when he’s fishtailing through a wash, hollering like a banshee, it’s close enough to make his dentures rattle.

Still, every now and then, when the sun dips and Gaga’s lyrics hum in his head—When the sun goes down, and the band won’t play—Arlo gets a pang.

Not a cry-in-your-beer pang, but a “damn, what was her name?” pang. He’ll be scrubbing a plate, staring at the desert like it’s a magic 8-ball, and a memory’ll sneak up: a laugh, a kiss, the way a girl’s hair smelled like coconut and freedom.

He chases it, but it’s like trying to catch a coyote with a butterfly net. “Brain, you’re fired,” he’ll say, chuckling. His doc calls it “senior moments with a side of maybe-mild-something-or-other.” Arlo calls it “my noggin’s on a permanent siesta.”

Back in California, they were the ones egging him on—Kiss her, dude! Strum that guitar like you mean it! Now, out here, they’re his desert wingmen, whispering, “Forget the names, Arlo. Check out that sky! Ain’t it a hoot?”

He imagines them throwing raves in his head, complete with a funk bassline and a light show to rival Vegas. It’s nuts, but it keeps him grinning, and at his age, a grin’s worth more than a six pack of Coronas.

The desert’s got a way of making you let go. It’s not like California, where every palm tree’s got a memory clinging to it like a clingy ex. Out here, it’s just you, the cacti, and a sky that’s basically showing off.

Arlo’s learned to love the now.

—the way Daisy's engine sputters like an old man laughing, the way a cold beer tastes like victory after a day in the sun.

He leans back, the chair groaning like it’s auditioning for a horror flick, and takes a swig. The lime’s tart, the beer’s cold, and the stars are starting their nightly twinkle-off.

Gaga’s song loops in his mind—I’ll always remember us this way—and he gets it. It’s not about nailing down names or faces. It’s about the vibe, the buzz, the way love felt when he was young and dumb.

And the world was a wave he could ride.

Those girls, those nights, they’re woven into him, even if his brain’s a sieve. And now? Now he’s got the desert, Daisy, and a sky that’s basically winking at him.

“To the chicks,” he toasts, raising his bottle to the void. The desert laughs back, a warm breeze that smells like sage and second chances.

Arlo’s not just a memory, and neither are those loves. They’re in the dust, the stars, the way he cackles when Daisy hits a bump and his hat flies off.

He’s living for the now, and the now’s pretty damn groovy.

So he kicks back, and decides the Arizona sky’s the best date he’s had in years.

And like Moonbeam or Starfish or Whoever-She-Was, it’ goes forever.

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

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