Talking Story with Arlo |
From Beach Bum to Surfer Mag Superstar
Hey there, cats and kittens! It’s your ol’ pal Arlo, the most insightful 58-year-old beatnik this side of the Pacific, spinning a yarn so wild it’ll make your flip-flops fly off!
Hey there, cats and kittens! It’s your ol’ pal Arlo, the most insightful 58-year-old beatnik this side of the Pacific, spinning a yarn so wild it’ll make your flip-flops fly off!
Before I became the king of coffee and tea—y’know, slingin’ the finest brews and blends to keep your soul buzzin’—
I was a full-on beach bum, livin’ the dream at Huntington Beach, lifeguard tower 17, right smack next to that rockin’ SeaLegs concert joint.
Life was a sandy symphony of sun, surf, and pure, unfiltered good vibes. And lemme tell ya, it was a trip worth takin’!
Back in those golden days, I was a free spirit with salt in my beard and sand between my toes. My RV was parked like a palace on wheels, my faithful dog Tex ridin’ shotgun, and my trusty electric bike was my chariot to paradise.
Back in those golden days, I was a free spirit with salt in my beard and sand between my toes. My RV was parked like a palace on wheels, my faithful dog Tex ridin’ shotgun, and my trusty electric bike was my chariot to paradise.
Picture this: me, zippin’ up and down the coast, the wind whippin’ through my mop, ridin’ from Huntington all the way down to Newport Beach.
I’d pull up to Blackie’s, grab a cold beer, tip my shades to the bartender, and soak in the flora and fauna like some kinda beatnik botanist on wheels.
The crashing waves, the squawkin’ seagulls, the palm trees swayin’—man, it was like Mother Nature was jammin’ just for me!
One fateful day, I’m cruisin’ along when I spot a posse of silver-haired surfer cats, all 55-plus, decked out with their own electric bikes.
One fateful day, I’m cruisin’ along when I spot a posse of silver-haired surfer cats, all 55-plus, decked out with their own electric bikes.
These weren’t your average grandpas—these were the raddest old dudes this side of a Beach Boys record! They’re Peelin’ out, tires hummin’, and one of ‘em hollers, “Hey guy, come ride with us!” Well, I ain’t one to turn down a good time, so I kick my bike into gear and join the pack.
Turns out, they’d seen me around—the dude in the RV with the electric plug, always ready to juice up their rides. We bonded fast, a crew of old souls ridin’ the coastal breeze, laughin’ like kids who’d just dodged curfew.
Now, this gang had a habit, see. We’d roll along, 25 strong, and whenever a lovely lady strutted by in her bikini—pow!—we’d turn into a chorus of ding-a-ling bells.
Now, this gang had a habit, see. We’d roll along, 25 strong, and whenever a lovely lady strutted by in her bikini—pow!—we’d turn into a chorus of ding-a-ling bells.
Ding ding ding ding ding! Little bells on our bikes, ringin’ out our appreciation. We were too old and too cool to catcall—nah, that’s for squares—so we let the bells do the talkin’.
The prettier the gal, the louder the dings, especially for those smokin’ chick cops in their tight uniforms and shorts. Ding-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling!
The local fuzz caught wind and dubbed us “The Dingalings”—a name we wore like a badge of honor. We were the grooviest gang on two wheels, and the beach was our kingdom.
Then, one day, the universe threw us a curveball bigger than a tsunami. Me and my Ding-A-Ling buddies are chillin’ by the RV, bikes plugged in, Tex snoozin’ in the shade, when—bam!—ten super-luxurious buses roll up like somethin’ outta a Hollywood blockbuster.
Then, one day, the universe threw us a curveball bigger than a tsunami. Me and my Ding-A-Ling buddies are chillin’ by the RV, bikes plugged in, Tex snoozin’ in the shade, when—bam!—ten super-luxurious buses roll up like somethin’ outta a Hollywood blockbuster.
We’re sittin’ there, jaws dropped, when who steps out but Ryan freakin’ Seacrest! Mr. TV himself, all smiles and slick hair, strolls over and starts shootin’ the breeze with us.
We’re ding-a-lingin’ like crazy, half-laughin’, half-stunned, and next thing you know, he’s hirin’ ten of us—me included—to be waterboys for a Miss America beach shoot. Waterboys! Us! A bunch of salty old surf dogs haulin’ H2O for the prettiest gals in the land!
Yup!
So there we are, hoofin’ it across the sand, deliverin’ water, settin’ up props, and sneakin’ into a few background shots. They wanted “authentic surf dudes” for the pics—old ones, mind you—and we delivered.
Picture this: me and the boys, weathered faces and sun-bleached hair, posin’ with boards we hadn’t ridden in years, lookin’ like we just paddled in from Pipeline.
The Miss America girls are struttin’ their stuff, the cameras are snappin’, and we’re just soakin’ it all in, bells jinglin’ softly in the breeze. It was a day for the ages, man—a righteous, groovy blast!
When the shoot wrapped, we’re back at the RV, kickin’ back with some cold iced teas, when a gaggle of those pageant queens wander over. They’re laughin’, chattin’, and hangin’ with us Dingalings like we’re the coolest cats on the beach.
When the shoot wrapped, we’re back at the RV, kickin’ back with some cold iced teas, when a gaggle of those pageant queens wander over. They’re laughin’, chattin’, and hangin’ with us Dingalings like we’re the coolest cats on the beach.
Naturally, we crank up the bells—ding ding ding ding ding!—and some hotshot photographer snaps the shot of a lifetime: ten old surf dudes, me front and center, bells in hand, Tex pokin’ his head out the RV window, and a dozen beauty queens smilin’ wide.
We’re all holdin’ tall glasses of my signature iced tea (yeah, I was brewin’ even back then!), and the vibe is pure magic.
I didn’t think much of it—another wild day in Arlo’s world, right? But a month later, I’m strollin’ by the newsstand, and—holy mackerel!—there we are, plastered on the cover of Surfer Magazine! “
I didn’t think much of it—another wild day in Arlo’s world, right? But a month later, I’m strollin’ by the newsstand, and—holy mackerel!—there we are, plastered on the cover of Surfer Magazine! “
"The Dingalings of Huntington Beach,” the headline screams, with me, Arlo, front and center, my grizzled mug grinnin’ like a Cheshire cat.
Tex is stealin’ the show behind the wheel, my boys are clustered around, and those iced teas are glistening’ in the sun. The thrill, man—the thrill of seein’ yourself on the cover of Surfer! It’s like ridin’ the biggest wave of your life and stickin’ the landing with a double ding-a-ling!
That day, that picture—it was the spark, y’know? I started thinkin’, “Arlo, you’ve got somethin’ here.” The iced tea, the good vibes, the groovy spirit—it all clicked. It has been awhile since I traded the beach bum life for a coffee and tea business, slingin’ brews that keep the world buzzin’.
That day, that picture—it was the spark, y’know? I started thinkin’, “Arlo, you’ve got somethin’ here.” The iced tea, the good vibes, the groovy spirit—it all clicked. It has been awhile since I traded the beach bum life for a coffee and tea business, slingin’ brews that keep the world buzzin’.
But I’ll never forget my Ding-A-Ling days, rollin’ with the crew, ringin’ those bells, and livin’ life like every day was a beach party.
So here’s to the flora, the fauna, and the funky fun of Huntington Beach—keep it mello, cats, and maybe I’ll see ya on the coast with a tall glass of Arlo’s finest!
Groove is in the Heart. - Arlo
