 |
| Talking Story with Arlo |
The Slalom-Skiing Stud of Parker’s Fever Dream
Hold onto your flip-flops, river rats and barstool bards, because we’re diving into a sun-scorched saga of Arlo, the 58-year-old beatnik businessman who once ruled the Colorado River like a water-skiing Zeus.
This ain’t just a yarn—it’s a beer-fueled story of a guy chasing his youth in Parker, Arizona.
Picture Arlo, once a 20-something. with hair like a rockstar and moves so smooth they made the river swoon, now a silver-haired dreamer with a creaky back and a heart full of nostalgia.
Grab a cold one, crank jukebox to "Daydream Believer" by the Monkees and let’s rip into this.
Oh, what can it mean
To a Daydream Beliver
And a Homecoming King🎵
Back in ’85, Arlo was the undisputed king of Parker’s river scene. He was a 20-something stud with a mop of sun-bleached curls, abs you could bounce quarters off, and a single-ski slalom game so slick it had fish taking notes.
He’d hitch rides on blower boats—those chrome-plated beasts with engines roaring like a Metallica concert—and carve wakes like a sculptor chiseling marble.
Deep cuts, elbow-dragging turns, jumps so high he swore he saw UFOs over Nevada.
The ladies at the Sundance Bar and Grill?
They were all over him like seagulls on a dropped hot dog. “Arlo, you’re a freak” they’d squeal, batting lashes and passing him frosty Budweisers.
River babes in neon bikinis hung on his every word as he spun tales of skiing so fast he outran a speedboat—twice. “I swear, I lapped a jet ski and waved at the governor!” he’d brag, and they’d swoon harder than a soap opera star.
Fast-forward to July 2025, and Arlo’s 58, with knees that crackle like a campfire.
His dune buggy, "Daisy", is a rusted heap held together by duct tape, dreams, and a faint whiff of patchouli. But the man’s got a fire in his soul, an itch to relive those glory days when he was Parker’s golden boy.
So, on a sweltering afternoon, he cranks Daisy's engine (which coughs like a chain-smoking uncle), blasts some Creedence, and rolls into Parker—the land of high-octane boats, party-hard river rats, and bars that smell like sunscreen, tequila, and regret.
Arlo pulls into the Sundance Bar and Grill, the neon sign buzzing like a hungover firefly. The place is a circus: speedboats with flames painted on the sides bob at the marina, growling like caged tigers; sunburned dudes in tank tops chug beers and argue over whose boat’s faster;
--and the 55-plus crowd of river-rat ladies—tanned to leather, with laughs like car alarms—rule the roost.
Arlo’s decked out in a Hawaiian shirt so loud it could wake a coma patient, aviators that scream “I’m still cool, dammit,” and flip-flops that’ve seen better days.
His plan? Charm the heck out of these sassy queens and prove he’s still got the juice to make hearts race and bar tabs soar.
He grabs a frosty IPA, plops into a lawn chair by the river, and lets the sun and suds weave their magic.
“Man, I used to own this river,” he mutters, squinting at the water. “One ski, one rope, one Arlo—nobody could touch me!”
The beer’s hitting like a sledgehammer, the sun’s frying his brain like an egg, and soon he’s slipping into a
--dream so vivid it feels like he’s 20 again.
In his head, he’s back on the river, ski strapped on, ready to reclaim his throne as Parker’s slalom-skiing stud.
The Dream Kicks Into High Gear.
Arlo’s knee-deep in the Colorado, thumb out like he’s hitching a ride to a Grateful Dead show. His hair’s long again, his abs are jacked, and his grin’s so bright it could guide a boat through fog.
“Yo, river cats, toss me a rope!” he hollers, striking a pose like a surf god in a cheesy ‘80s flick.
A monstrous speedboat—flames on the sides, blower stack taller than a saguaro, engine snarling like a hungover dragon—screeches to a halt.
The captain’s a 60-something firecracker named Wanda, with a tan like a baseball glove and a bikini that says,
“I’ve got stories that’d curl your toes. Climb aboard, hotshot!”
Wanda cackles, tossing him a tow rope. “Let’s see if you’re as good as your big mouth says!” Arlo grabs it, and WHOOSH—he’s off, slicing the water like a ninja with a grudge.
He’s dragging elbows, spinning 720s, and—holy guacamole—doing a double backflip so wild he swears he high-fived a passing eagle.
The shore crowd loses it.
“That’s ARLO!” they scream, as if he’s Elvis, Springsteen, and Aquaman rolled into one. “Go, you crazy hippie!” some dude in a mullet yells, spilling his beer.
Back at the Sundance, Arlo’s the king of the bar. He saunters in, ski-tanned skin glowing like he’s radioactive,
--and the 55-plus river queens swarm him like moths to a tiki torch.
There’s Sandy, 57, with a laugh like a foghorn and a margarita in each hand: “Arlo, you ski like a damn rockstar! Marry me, you lunatic!” Mandy, 59, with silver hair like a lion’s mane, slips him her number on a napkin:
“Call me, stud—I got a boat, a hot tub, and a Costco card!”
Brandy, 62, winks so hard her fake lashes nearly launch into orbit: “I bet you could ski circles around my ex, and he’s a pro bass fisherman!”
Arlo’s eating it up, chugging beers and spinning tales taller than a river bluff.
“Ladies, I once skied so fast I lapped a jet ski—three times!” he boasts, flexing biceps that, in his dream, are still jacked. “Then I jumped a wake so high I saw Area 51!” The gals are howling, clinking glasses, and begging for more.
“Oh, Arlo, you’re the grooviest cat on the river!”
Sandy purrs, fanning herself with a bar menu. Wanda chimes in, leaning so close her sunscreen scent chokes him:
“Kid, you’re so hot you’re melting my margarita!”
Even the bartender, a grizzled dude named Chet, gets in on it: “Arlo, you keep talkin’ like that, I’m gonna need a bigger tip jar!”
Arlo’s on cloud nine, flirting like it’s 1985.
The jukebox blares “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” the boats roar outside, and he’s dreaming he’s Parker’s golden boy again.
He hops another boat—this one with a blower stack so tall it blocks the sun—and goes for the ride of his life. He’s carving, leaping, practically moonwalking on water—until CRASH!
His ancient ski splinters like a cheap chopstick, a rogue wave smacks him, and he’s tumbling into the river like a soggy burrito. “Not again!” he yells, flailing as the boat roars off, leaving him bobbing like a dazed buoy.
The Wake-Up Splash. The world spins.
Arlo’s floating, dreaming of bikinis and blower boats, when—BLAM—he snaps awake.
He’s not in the river.
He’s sprawled in his lawn chair by the Sundance, sunburned to a crisp, three empty IPA cans rolling at his feet. His Hawaiian shirt’s stuck to his back, his aviators are crooked, and a seagull’s eyeing him like he’s a buffet.
“What the…?” he groans, touching his face. Wrinkles. Creaky knees. A beer gut that jiggles when he moves.
He’s 58, not 20.
Sandy, Mandy, and Brandy are still there, but they’re not swooning—they’re cackling like a pack of hyenas.
“Yo, Arlo, you were out cold!”
Sandy snorts, tossing him a bottle of water. “Muttering about skiing and babes—thought you were gonna propose to the damn chair!”
Mandy’s doubled over, wiping tears: “Man, you were snoring so loud we thought you were a boat motor!
Scared the fish away!” Brandy hands him a tube of aloe vera, smirking: “You’re still cute for an old fart, but maybe stick to dreaming, not skiing, ‘kay?” Wanda, leaning on her golf cart, laughs so hard her sunglasses fall off:
“Kid, you’re a legend in your own head!
Come back tomorrow, and I’ll let you ride my pontoon—nice and slow, no flips, you’ll break a hip!”
Arlo rubs his temples, his head pounding like a blown engine. “I was a stud, wasn’t I?” he croaks, squinting at the river. Chet the bartender wanders over, grinning:
“Arlo, you’re a stud at storytelling, I’ll give ya that.
But next time, maybe switch to light beer!” The ladies howl, clinking their margaritas, and even the seagull seems to laugh, squawking as it steals a fry from a nearby table.
Arlo limps back to "Daisy", his sunburn glowing like a neon sign. He’s no 20-year-old heartthrob, but he’s got charm, a bar tab longer than a boat launch, and stories that’ll keep the river rats giggling for weeks.
The 55-plus queens wave as he drives off, shouting, Arlo! Don’t fry yourself next time!”
He grins at the sunset, muttering, “I still got it… kinda.”
Groove is in the Heart - Arlo
