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| Talking Story with Arlo |
Dune Buggy Time Machine
By Arlo Agogo
“Yo, Deadhead! Groovatrons here.
We’re trippin’ on the Grateful Dead and wanna catch ‘em live at the Hollywood Bowl, 1974. You down?”
I nearly spilled my iced tea berry bash all over my paisley sheets. The Groovatrons—those funky, interdimensional critters from the planet Funkadelia—were at it again.
Every time they text, it’s a wild ride, but time travel to see the Dead at the Hollywood Bowl in ’74? That’s the kind of dream that makes a lifetime Deadhead’s heart skip a beat.
I’ve chased the Grateful Dead across California—San Francisco, San Diego, Santa Barbara—but the Bowl? That’s my mecca, a starlit amphitheater where the Dead’s wall of sound could rearrange your soul. I grabbed my phone, fingers trembling with excitement, and texted back:
“Hell yeah, man, let’s do it! I’ll be ready in the morning.”
My mind was already racing. The Groovatrons were multiverse-hopping pros, zipping through dimensions like it was a Sunday drive in one of their tiny VW buses.
But time travel? That was new.
Still, if anyone could pull it off, it was these billion-strong, tie-dye-wearing weirdos. Their next text had me grinning: “We’ve been jamming to American Beauty on Funkadelia, and we’re all in—tie-dye shirts, Stealies, dancing bears, the works."
"Deadhead life’s got us hooked!”
I could picture them, a billion specks of psychedelic glee, decked out in bandanas and Grateful Dead logos, ready to groove. Morning came, the Arizona sun painting the desert gold.
I stepped out to my dune buggy, Daisy, parked in my sandy driveway. There they were—a billion Groovatrons, no bigger than neutrinos, swarming my dashboard like a miniature Woodstock.
Their tie-dye shirts shimmered in every color of the rainbow, tiny Stealies and dancing bears embroidered on their chests. Some were cruising in VW buses, honking microscopic horns.
I’d packed for the adventure: a cooler stuffed with sandwiches, fruit, and a gallon of frozen tea berry bash—my go-to for desert road trips. Climbing into my 1968 VW Dune Buggy "Daisy", I gripped the steering wheel, its worn leather familiar under my calloused hands, and texted:
“Alright, how’s this gonna work? It’s 2025, and the Dead played the Bowl right after my high school graduation in ’74.”Their reply pinged instantly:
"We rigged Daisy with a Time Discombobulator."
She’s a time machine now. Put her in reverse.”
Reverse? I raised an eyebrow but trusted the funky little freaks. I shifted Daisy into reverse, floored the gas, and—whoosh—we screamed backward down the street, tires kicking up a dust storm.
The desert blurred into streaks of sand and sagebrush, and I swear we hit 900 miles an hour. My watch started spinning counterclockwise, its hands a frantic blur.
My iPhone went nuts, the clock flipping backward faster and faster, notifications piling up in reverse.
The Groovatrons had programmed the Hollywood Bowl’s coordinates into the Discombobulator, and Daisy knew where to go. Reality went cuckoo—colors swirled, the air shimmered, and time itself felt like it was doing a cosmic cartwheel.
Then, bam! We slid into the Hollywood Bowl Parking lot
Daisy’s tires screeching as she spun a couple of 360s for good measure. The sun was setting, painting the sky in purples and oranges, the summer of ’74 wrapping around us like a warm blanket.
The air was thick with patchouli, weed, and the buzz of Deadheads converging on the Bowl. A backstage pass materialized on my dash, labeled “Hydrator.” My job? Push a cart loaded with Arlo’s iced teas—peach, hibiscus, lemon, you name it—serving the band and crew.
The Dead had a rule: no booze, no drugs on show day. Jerry Garcia always said fans paid good money for the real deal, not some half-baked, liquored-up jam. I admired that.
Their shows weren’t a stoner fest—they were a music fest, a five-hour pilgrimage into sound and soul. I grabbed my cart, the Groovatrons buzzing around me like a tie-dye tornado, and headed backstage.
The Bowl was electric—Deadheads in bell-bottoms and tie-dye swaying under the stars, their laughter mingling with the hum of anticipation.
The Groovatrons, true to their mischievous nature, dispersed into the crowd, planning to “nudge” everyone into an extra-happy vibe.
But Deadheads? They’re already there.
High on the music, the community, the whole damn scene. Trouble was, it was ’74, and the air was a haze of marijuana smoke. My phone buzzed with a Groovatron text: “
Yo, dude, we’re getting contact highs out here!
But it’s cool, we’re diggin’ the Dead!” I laughed, imagining a billion tiny hippies, stoned out of their interdimensional minds, grooving to Truckin’.
The show kicked off, and I parked my cart stage-side, the wall of sound hitting like a cosmic tidal wave. Jerry’s guitar sang through Sugar Magnolia, Bobby Weir’s voice soaring, Phil Lesh’s bass thumping in my chest. Bill Kreutzmann’s drums danced in my bones, and Donna Jean’s harmonies lifted the whole scene to another plane.
I poured teas for the crew, keeping everyone hydrated, but my eyes were glued to the band. The music was alive, each note a brushstroke on a psychedelic canvas.
During a break, I spotted celebrities in the crowd—Mick Jagger, George Harrison, Bob Dylan, Gordon Lightfoot, all vibing like regular Deadheads. The Stones and Beatles wandered backstage, chatting with Jerry and Bobby.
I handed Mick a peach iced tea, and he flashed a grin. “Cheers, mate,” he said, raising the glass. George took a hibiscus tea, nodding thoughtfully as he sipped. Man, what a night.The Groovatrons were in heaven, their tiny voices buzzing with excitement.
They’d hooked up some quantum gizmo to broadcast the show back to Funkadelia, where their elders were reportedly bobbing their heads to Eyes of the World.
The Dead played three sets, stretching past five hours. Dark Star melted into a 20-minute jam that felt like it rewired the universe, stars above the Bowl twinkling in sync with Jerry’s riffs. Casey Jones roared, Ripple soothed, and Uncle John’s Band had everyone singing as one.
My cart ran low on ice, but I kept pouring, keeping the band cool as they poured their souls into the music. The Groovatrons, still buzzing from their contact high, darted through the crowd, their tie-dye shirts glowing like fireflies.
As midnight struck, the Dead closed with Not Fade Away, the crowd roaring, a sea of tie-dye swaying under the stars. Mick grabbed one last tea, Jerry gave me a nod, and Bobby tossed me a smile as he wiped sweat from his brow.
I headed back to Daisy, the Groovatrons already piling in, buzzing with stoned glee.
“That was righteous!” their text read. “Funkadelia’s freaking out!”
I climbed into Daisy, shifted into forward, and we peeled out, Groovatron-style. The desert materialized in a blur, Daisy sliding sideways into my driveway like a stunt driver’s dream.
My watch clicked back to 2025, the Time Discombobulator humming softly under Daisy’s hood. I sat in Daisy, catching my breath, the desert night quiet around me. Was it a dream? My phone buzzed:
“Dude, that was epic. Let’s do it again soon!
I looked up, and a streak of light shot across the sky—the Groovatrons, zooming back to Funkadelia. Daisy purred, her new time-traveling powers a secret between us.
I patted her dash. “Good girl,” I whispered. A billion tie-dye-wearing pals, a time-warping dune buggy, and the Grateful Dead at the Hollywood Bowl in ’74.
Life doesn’t get much groovier than that.
Groove is in the Heart - Arlo
