Sunday, July 20, 2025

Pointy Rockets - Talking Story with Arlo

peach tea
Talking Story with Arlo

Creation Over Decay:A Dance of Starships, Groovatrons, and Love
By Arlo Agogo, Starbase Texas
Here I am, parked in my 40-foot Diesel Pusher RV, sipping Earl Grey Bravo tea, staring at the towering Starships at SpaceX’s Starbase in Texas. 
These gleaming giants, pointed toward the heavens, are more than rockets—they’re monuments to creation.
A thousand engineers swarm like ants with a purpose, wrenching, coding, dreaming, all to hurl humanity toward the Moon, Mars, and beyond. It’s creation in its purest form: ideas sparking, metal bending, futures unfolding. 
As I watch, I can’t help but think about the eternal tug-of-war in life—creation versus decay. And let me tell you, creation always wins, even if it takes a while to see it.
In my 58 years of wandering this wild planet—often in my souped-up dune buggy with quantum entanglement hubcaps (more on that later)—I’ve learned one thing: you’re either building or breaking.
You’re growing or rotting. 
There’s no middle ground. These Starships? They’re growth incarnate. They’re humanity saying, “We’re not done yet.” But this isn’t just about rockets. It’s about you, me, and the groovatrons—those funky forces of creation that zoom through the universe, nudging us toward joy.The Groovatrons: Cosmic Cheerleaders of CreationIf you’ve been reading my blog, you know about the groovatrons. For the uninitiated, picture this: a few months back, I’m cruising the Arizona desert in my dune buggy when I spot these shimmering, Funkadelian entities—half disco ball, half cosmic hitchhiker. 
They were in a pickle, stranded by some quantum snafu. I helped them out, and in return, they jazzed up my buggy with hubcaps that let me zip at light speed (don’t tell the highway patrol). They also left me with a gift: a little entanglement with their essence, a spark of creation that hums in my soul.
Now, some of you chuckle at my groovatron tales, and I get it. They sound like something out of a late-night sci-fi flick. But here’s the deal: groovatrons aren’t just glittery desert buddies. 
They’re a force—a universal vibe that pushes creation over decay. They slip into your heart, find the sadness, and flip it into happiness. They’re the opposite of rust, the antidote to despair. They’re why I believe creation always trumps decay, whether it’s in the stars, a rocket, or a smile shared over coffee.Creation and Decay: The Universal DanceLook around, and you’ll see this dance everywhere. Stars are born in fiery nebulae, but they also burn out, collapsing into black holes. Planets form from cosmic dust, but asteroids can smash them to bits. Particles decay in a flash, yet new ones spark into existence. It’s the same in our lives. Creation and decay aren’t just physical—they’re emotional, spiritual, even relational.
In the world of business, creation shines when you craft a quality product and back it with service that makes customers feel valued. Picture a company pouring heart and soul into every detail—whether it’s a handcrafted chair, a cutting-edge app, or a cup of coffee brewed just right. 
That’s creation at work: solving problems, delighting people, building trust. But it doesn’t stop there. When you pay your employees well, you’re not just handing out paychecks—you’re empowering them to create their own lives. 
A fair wage means they can raise families, chase dreams, buy homes, or take that vacation they’ve always wanted. It’s a cycle of creation: a thriving business lifts up its people, and those people, in turn, pour their passion into making the business even better.
Contrast that with decay—the businesses that cut corners, churn out shoddy products, or treat customers like numbers. They might save a buck today, but they’re eroding trust, losing loyalty, and inviting collapse. 
Or consider the companies that underpay their workers, leaving them stressed, disengaged, and barely scraping by. That’s decay, too—a slow rot that saps morale and stifles innovation. 
But when a business chooses creation, it grows. Employees who are fairly paid show up with energy, pride, and ideas. They’re not just clocking in; they’re building something together, knowing their work supports their own families and futures. That’s the groovatron vibe in action—a business that creates not just profit but possibility, sparking a ripple effect of growth and joy.

I see it in the world, too. 
The internet’s buzzing with riots, looting, and folks smashing windows just because they can. That’s decay—mindless destruction that leaves nothing but rubble.
Political tribalism? Same deal. When people argue just to win, not to understand, they’re tearing down instead of building up. 
But then I look at Starbase, at these engineers pouring their hearts into something bigger than themselves, and I’m reminded: creation is stronger. It’s the spark that lights up the dark.Starships and Souls: Building Toward the StarsThese Starships aren’t just machines—they’re dreams made solid. Each weld, each line of code, is a step toward a Moon base, a Martian colony, a future where humanity dances among the stars. 
It’s creation on a cosmic scale, and it’s not just SpaceX doing it. Look at modern communications—fiber optics, 5G, satellites beaming internet to every corner of the globe. 
We’re connecting, sharing, building bridges across continents. That’s creation, too, binding us together in ways our ancestors couldn’t imagine.
Even religion, at its best, is about creation. Whether you’re praying in a church, meditating in a temple, or finding God in the desert’s silence, faith is about building a connection to something bigger. It’s about hope, love, and the belief that tomorrow can be better. 
That’s the groovatron vibe—finding light in the dark, turning chaos into meaning.The Groovatron Way: Choosing Creation Every DaySo how do we live the groovatron way? How do we choose creation over decay? It’s simpler than you think, and it starts with the little things. Write a letter to a friend, paint a picture, plant a garden—create something that wasn’t there before.
Smile at a stranger, forgive a friend, laugh at your own mistakes. These are acts of creation, tiny sparks that ripple outward. Even when the world feels heavy—when the news is all riots and rage—remember that every act of kindness, every moment of joy, is a victory for creation.
In my own life, I try to live this way. 
Writing these blogs is my creation, a way to share the groovatron spark with you. Complaining? That’s decay, and I’ve got no time for it. When I’m zipping through the desert in my buggy, quantum hubcaps gleaming, I feel the groovatrons cheering me on. They’re reminding me that life is about building, growing, loving—not tearing down.A Happy Ending: Creation Always WinsAs I finish my tea and watch the Starships gleam under the Texas sun, I’m filled with hope. These rockets, these dreams, these groovatrons—they’re proof that creation is the stronger force. 
Decay might make noise—riots, arguments, entropy—but it’s fleeting. Creation endures. It’s the Starship soaring to Mars, the couple laughing through a fight, the blog post that makes you smile. 
It’s the groovatrons zooming through the universe, spreading joy like cosmic confetti.
So, my friends, choose creation. Build something today—a friendship, a dream, a moment of happiness. Let the groovatrons guide you. 
And when you see a Starship pierce the sky, know that it’s carrying more than metal—it’s carrying the human spirit, the unstoppable force of creation.
Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

Saturday, July 12, 2025

Finding My Room: - Talking Story with Arlo

Storytelling
Talking Story with Arlo


Finding My Room:

A Lighthearted Journey to the Colorado River.

By Arlo Agogo

It’s Saturday morning, my official cheat day, when the diet gods look the other way and I can indulge in all the glorious calories I’ve been dodging all week. 

Today, I decided to take my trusty dune buggy, Daisy, for a spin down to one of my favorite spots on the Colorado River. 

Picture this: a sun-soaked morning, the wind whipping through my thinning hair, and the promise of a chile verde burrito waiting to make my taste buds sing. 

This, my friends, is what the last quarter of life is all about—finding your room, your happy place, where it’s just you, a majestic river, a couple of lizards, and the echoes of centuries past.

I grabbed my gear—sunglasses, a beat-up cooler, and my favorite Beach Boys playlist—and headed south on Highway 95. First stop? The local carnicería, a Mexican supermarket where the air smells like spices and secrets. 

I snagged a pound of chile verde, cooked to perfection by a local Mexican native with some sort of ancient Indian heritage woven into her culinary magic. This wasn’t just food; it was a cultural masterpiece, a burrito destined to be savored in the shadow of the Needle Mountains. 

I also grabbed a quart of diet root beer (because I’m cheating, but I’m not that wild), some ice for my bucket, and off I went, Daisy’s engine humming like a contented bumblebee.

The drive to my spot is a 25-mile pilgrimage through the Arizona desert, a place where time feels like it’s taken a permanent siesta. After the cutoff to Lake Havasu, you hit a dirt road that snakes through the Needle Mountains—rugged, timeless, and just a little bit mystical. 

The road twists and turns, kicking up dust that dances in the sunlight, until you reach this one overlook above the Colorado River. It’s not just a view; it’s a full-on experience. The river sparkles like it’s showing off, the mountains stand tall like they’ve seen it all, and the silence? It’s so deep you can hear your own heartbeat. 

This, my fellow middle-aged and senior wanderers, is my room.

Now, let’s talk about that Beach Boys classic, In My Room. You know the one:

🎵“There’s a world where I can go and tell my secrets to, in my room, in my room…” ðŸŽµ

Those lyrics hit different when you’re in the last quarter of life. I’m 58, and I’ve come to terms with the fact that I can’t slalom waterski like I’m auditioning for a Baywatch reboot. 

I’m not jumping off rooftops or chasing after every pretty smile that passes by. And you know what? That’s okay. 

Life isn’t about chasing anymore; it’s about savoring. 

It’s about finding that sacred space—your room—where you can just be. No expectations, no to-do lists, just you and your essence, maybe with a burrito in hand and a lizard eyeballing you from a nearby rock.

See, In My Room isn’t just about a physical space. It’s a state of mind, a little corner of your soul where you lock out the worries and fears.

For Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys, it was about dreaming, scheming, laughing at yesterday, and not being afraid when the world goes dark. 

For me, it’s this spot by the Colorado River, where I park Daisy, unwrap my chile verde burrito, and let the world melt away. The river’s been flowing here for millennia, watched over by these same mountains. 

There are petroglyphs etched into the rocks nearby—swirls and shapes that could’ve been carved by some ancient artist or a bored teenager in the ’70s. 

Either way, they’re a reminder that this place has been someone’s room for centuries. Wagon trains, native tribes, desert dreamers—they’ve all sat here, felt the breeze, and found their own kind of peace. Now, let’s not get too serious—nobody’s dying, nobody’s crying. 

This is cheat day, after all! 

Picture me, a slightly paunchy guy in a faded Hawaiian shirt, sprawled in Daisy’s driver’s seat, burrito in one hand, diet root beer in the other, humming In My Room like I’m auditioning for a Beach Boys cover band. 

The lizards are my only audience, and they’re unimpressed, scurrying off to do whatever lizards do on a Saturday morning. Maybe they’re chasing their own cheat-day snacks. The point is, I’m not out here trying to solve world hunger or climb Everest. I’m just here, and that’s enough.

This final quarter of life sneaks up on you, doesn’t it? One day you’re doing backflips off the dock, and the next, you’re creaking when you stand up and Googling “best knee brace for hiking.” But here’s the beauty of it: you don’t need to do backflips to find joy. 

You just need a place—a room—where you can be your truest self. 

For me, it’s this desert overlook, with Daisy’s engine cooling down and the river whispering stories of centuries past. I’m not out here brooding over what I can’t do anymore. 

I’m celebrating what I can do: eat a burrito that’s practically a religious experience, sip a root beer that’s probably 90% sugar despite the “diet” label, and let the desert wrap me in its quiet embrace.

And let’s talk about that quiet for a second. It’s not just the absence of noise—it’s the absence of pressure. No emails to answer, no deadlines to meet, no one expecting me to be anything other than a guy enjoying his cheat day. 

In my room, I’m not a businessman, a retiree, or a guy who’s maybe a little too attached to his dune buggy. The Colorado River doesn’t care about my 401(k) or whether I forgot to take out the trash. 

I’m just me, and that’s plenty. 

The Needle Mountains aren’t judging my life choices. And those lizards? They’re too busy sunbathing to give a hoot. So, to my fellow seniors and middle-aged dreamers, here’s my advice: find your room. It doesn’t have to be a literal place, though I highly recommend a spot with a view and a good burrito.

Maybe it’s a park bench, a cozy armchair, or even just a moment when you close your eyes and let the world fade away. It’s where you can laugh at yesterday, dream about tomorrow, and not be afraid of the dark.

It’s where you realize that the last quarter of life isn’t about what you’ve lost—it’s about what you’ve found. For me, it’s the joy of a cheat day, the hum of Daisy’s engine, and the timeless beauty of a river that’s seen it all.

As I sit here, munching on my burrito and watching a particularly bold lizard eyeball my root beer, I’m reminded of those In My Room lyrics: 

🎵“Now it’s dark and I’m alone, but I won’t be afraid.” ðŸŽµ

I’m not afraid—not of getting older, not of slowing down, not of being just a regular guy in a dune buggy. 

This is my room, my slice of eternity, where the Colorado River flows, the Needle Mountains stand guard, and the lizards keep their secrets. 

Here’s to finding your room, wherever it may be, and making every cheat day a masterpiece.

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

Wednesday, July 2, 2025

Dune Buggy Road Trip Journey to Mammoth Mountain - Talking Story with Arlo

 
Talking Story with Arlo

A Journey to Mammoth Mountain

By Arlo Agogo

There’s nothing like the hum of my VW dune buggy, Daisy, slicing through the Mojave Desert at dawn, her tires kicking up a fine dust that sparkles in the first light. 

It’s a Sunday morning, and I’m bleary-eyed but buzzing with excitement, loading up a cooler with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a gallon of wild strawberry tea I froze the night before.

My phone lights up with a text from my billion tiny pals, the Groovatrons from Funkadelia, their iPhone flashlights strobing like a cosmic rave. 

“We’re here! Let’s roll!”

They beam, already sprawled across Daisy’s dashboard in their quantum-entangled lounge chairs, cowboy hats tilted, and tiny umbrellas twirling. 

These neutrino-sized extraterrestrials are my road trip crew, and today, we’re headed to my favorite spot on Earth: Mammoth Mountain, California, Chair 15, where I perch on a rock and lose myself in the vastness of the Owens Valley.

I met the Groovatrons earlier this year during a solo midnight ride through the Mojave. Daisy’s engine was purring, the desert air cool and sharp, when I spotted them—glowing specks with iPhones, looking for Earthly adventure. 

We clicked instantly, but not without a hitch. The feds and Border Patrol caught wind of our quantum-powered joyride, their lights flashing in my rearview. 

With Daisy’s grit and the Groovatrons’ tech wizardry—something about quantum entanglement hubcaps—we slipped away, laughing into the night. 

That escapade made me their official Earth contact, and we’ve been tearing up the roads ever since. We’ve hit Texas for smoky barbecue, Chicago for deep-dish pizza, Route 66 style, and now they want my personal paradise. 

When I meditate, I’m always at Mammoth, on that rock, gazing up and down the valley. So when they texted, “Where’s your favorite place?” I shot back, “Mammoth Mountain, Chair 15. Sunrise tomorrow.” 

They replied, “Let’s go!” with a digital fist bump.

I sent a and got to work.Sunday breaks, and Daisy’s ready, her Yellow paint gleaming. The Groovatrons “board” in their own way—a billion of them lounging on the dashboard with ice chests and shades, my dune buggies quantum hubcaps humming. 

They could zip us to Mammoth faster than light, but I wave them off. 

“This is a scenic drive,” I say, “three hours, human style.

Trust me, it’s worth it.” They flash their iPhones in agreement, and we peel out from Fort Mohave, cruising north on Highway 95 toward Death Valley. 

The Mojave Desert in spring is a painter’s dream—golden brittle bush, purple lupine, and scarlet Indian paintbrush dotting the sand. I pull over at a viewpoint, pointing out the flowers, and the Groovatrons go nuts, their iPhones strobing like a desert disco. 

They send me a pic: a billion tiny cowboys, Stetsons tipped, grinning at a cactus like it’s a movie star.

Death Valley is next, a surreal maze of salt flats and rugged canyons where Hollywood’s shot everything from Westerns to sci-fi epics. We weave through side roads, the kind where you half-expect a tumbleweed to roll by with a dramatic soundtrack. 

The Groovatrons, quantumly entangled with me, don’t eat, but they taste what I do—a perk of our cosmic connection. So when we hit Lone Pine on Highway 395, I pull into my favorite diner, the Alabama Hills Café, for a stack of fluffy pancakes, crispy bacon, eggs over easy, and a fruit bowl bursting with strawberries and melon. 

The Groovatrons lose it, their iPhones flashing as they “taste” the syrupy sweetness. They send another pic—same cowboy getup from our Texas trip, but now they’re posing with tiny forks, pretending to dig into my pancakes. 

I laugh so hard I nearly choke on a blueberry.

Back in Daisy, we roll up the Owens Valley at a leisurely 75 miles an hour. The Groovatrons, used to light-speed galactic jaunts, are surprisingly chill, lounging like they’re at a resort. 

The valley’s a stunner—flanked by the Sierra Nevada on one side and the White Mountains on the other, with sagebrush and wildflowers stretching out like a quilt. I detour to Convict Lake, a crystal-clear gem framed by jagged peaks. I park and find a smooth rock to sit on, the water lapping gently, reflecting the mountains like a mirror. 

The Groovatrons, ever the thrill-seekers, decide it’s swim time. I watch a billion tiny splashes as they dive in, their iPhones somehow waterproof. My phone pings with a picture: a rainbow trout, its iridescent scales shimmering like a psychedelic dream.

 “What’s this?!” they text, giggling. “A rainbow trout,” I reply. “Coolest fish around.” 

They’re obsessed, calling it a “masterpiece” and snapping selfies with it.

We push on to Mammoth Mountain, my sanctuary. It’s spring, so the ski slopes are bare, perfect for Daisy’s off-road skills. I take a service road up to Chair 15, about 9,000 feet, and park near my meditation rock—a weathered slab with a perfect view of the valley. 

The air’s crisp, scented with pine, and the world feels infinite. The Groovatrons scatter, their iPhones flashing as they snap pics of scampering squirrels, chirping pinyon jays, and a red-tailed hawk circling overhead. 

We kick back, sharing iced tea and PB&J sandwiches. They “taste” the creamy peanut butter and sweet strawberry jam, sending me a text: 

“Earth food is galactic!”

We hike a trail through pine groves, the ground soft with needles, the valley sprawling below like a green-and-gold ocean. As the afternoon sun dips, the mountains turn purple—Purple Mountain Majesty, just like the song. 

The Groovatrons’ iPhones go into overdrive, capturing the glow. Time to head home. We take a different route, looping through the Alabama Hills, where wind-sculpted rocks stand like ancient sentinels and desert flowers bloom in vivid patches. 

The Groovatrons are still buzzing, their tiny lounge chairs bouncing on Daisy’s dashboard. We stop at a flower-filled meadow, and they send me a pic of themselves “riding” a blooming yucca like it’s a bronco.

The ride home was in groovatron speed. 900 mph

As we roll into Fort Mohave, the sunset paints the sky in fiery pinks and oranges, the desert glowing like it’s lit from within. The Groovatrons signal their goodbye with a billion iPhone flashlights, snapping pics of me for Funkadelia’s intergalactic webpage. 

“See you on the quantum entangled interstellar interstate!”

-- they text, zipping off through their entangled portal.

This trip wasn’t just a drive—it was a cosmic dance. Daisy, the Groovatrons, and I, we’re a crew bound by adventure, chasing beauty and weirdness across deserts and mountains. 

From outrunning the feds to sharing pancakes, we’ve built something special. Mammoth’s view, Convict Lake’s trout, the purple mountains—they’re all part of the story, proof that the universe is wild, wonderful, and just a dune buggy ride away. 

I’m already waiting for the next text, ready to hit the road with my Funkadelian friends, 

-- wherever the highway takes us.

Monday, June 23, 2025

Day Dating Doris Day, A Dune Buggy Adventure - Talking Story with Arlo

Talking Story with Arlo
 Talking Story with Arlo

Day Dating Doris Day: 

A Dune Buggy Adventure with Doris Day

It was a lazy Saturday morning, my designated cheat day, where the world feels like it’s on pause, and my brain’s happily idling.

I was sprawled out, thinking about nothing in particular—maybe swinging by the Hawaiian BBQ joint for some kalua pork—but instead, I whipped up some eggs and toast, the kind of breakfast that doesn’t demand much effort. 

Just as I was settling into my plate, my phone rang, which is rare enough to make me raise an eyebrow. To my absolute shock, the caller ID flashed “Doris Day.”

Yep, that’s her real name, and no, she’s not the Hollywood legend, but she’s just as dazzling in her own way. Doris, my Volkswagen dune buggy buddy, was calling to ask me out on a day date. 

Her ’67 yellow dune buggy, a twin to mine with that same trumpet exhaust growl, had just gotten a tune-up, and she wanted to take it for a spin to Las Vegas to catch the afternoon show at the Sphere—this massive, mind-bending orb plastered with wild graphics, usually hosting concerts but open for a visual spectacle that day. 

“Meet me at the Avi Casino in the morning,” she said, her voice bubbling with excitement. I didn’t hesitate.

"Heck yeah,” I replied, already grinning.

Doris and I are what I call “daytime daters.” We met a couple of months back at a car show, where our matching dune buggies sparked a conversation that hasn’t stopped since. 

We’d only gone out a few times before, twice for afternoon tea and to another car show, but she’s got this infectious energy—pretty as a desert sunrise, with a smile that could melt a cactus. 

I’ve grown fond of her, though I don’t know much about her life beyond the fact that she lives nearby and loves her VW as much as I love mine. 

There’s something special about being asked out as a guy, knowing she’s not just humoring you but genuinely wants to share the day. It’s the kind of thing that makes you feel ten feet tall.

So, come 7:00 a.m., I’m at the Avi Casino, parking my truck in the parking structure and scanning for Doris. I’m decked out in my desert-day-date uniform: shorts, flip-flops, an unmarked basball hat, and my trusty ski goggles for the buggy ride. 

Those goggles are a must—between the wind, bugs, and whatever else the Mojave throws at you, they’re a lifesaver. 

I flip my hat backward, strap on the goggles, and secure everything with the goggle's big elastic band. When Doris pulls up in her gleaming yellow dune buggy, she takes one look at me and giggles. “You look like Snoopy!” she says, and I can’t argue. I probably do, but I’m owning it.

We hop into her buggy, and let me tell you, it’s pristine—shiny, tuned to perfection, and ready to roar. Doris isn’t shy about putting her foot down, either. Holy moly, this girl loves speed, and as a guy who’s no stranger to tearing up high desert trails,

I’m all in

Instead of the direct route to Vegas, we take the scenic path by Lake Mead, the kind of detour that makes you glad you’re alive. It’s about an hour’s drive, and we’re there by early afternoon, the lake sparkling under the sun.

As we cruise near the water, I tease Doris about her spotless buggy. “You avoid mud puddles, don’t you? Gotta keep that pretty ride clean, huh?” I say, poking fun at her polished VW compared to my

--"I need a bath" trail-thrashed one. 

She just smirks, locks eyes with me, and floors it. Before I know it, she’s steering us straight into a mud bog near the lake’s edge. I grab the roll bar as she hits it hard, sending a wave of mud crashing over the windshield. 

It’s a tsunami of sludge, soaking us both. My shorts, her clothes—everything’s caked. She doesn’t stop there, though. With a devilish grin, she circles back for two more runs, each one splattering us further. I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe. Her buggy’s no longer just a pretty face, and neither is she

—she’s a force of nature.

Now, we’re a mess, dripping with mud that’s already drying into crusty patches. I figure it’s time to show her the bachelor way of handling this. “Over there,” I point to some public showers by the campground. 

“Let's take a shower—clothes and all.” 

She raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but then shrugs and follows me. Turns out, it’s a blast. We stand under the spray, scrubbing mud off our clothes and laughing like kids. 

There’s something about a soaked, smiling girl that hits you right in the heart, especially when you’re as smitten with your new friend as I am with Doris. 

Living in the Mojave, drying off is no issue—ten minutes in the sun, and we’re good as new. I pull out some frozen wild strawberry tea I’d packed, now nicely thawed, and a couple of store-bought biscuits. It’s not gourmet, but it’s perfect.

Refreshed and refueled, we head to Las Vegas, where the Sphere looms like a giant, tripped-out disco ball. We snag tickets for the afternoon show and step inside, and let me tell you, the graphics are unreal—swirling, immersive visuals that make you feel like you’re floating through a dream. 

For just a few bucks, it’s a steal, though I’m already plotting to come back for a concert someday, maybe with Doris. 

After the show, we hit her favorite spot, the buffet at the Wynn Hotel. It’s a food lover’s paradise—piles of crab legs, sushi, prime rib, you name it. We eat, drink, and talk for a solid hour, the kind of conversation that flows so easy you lose track of time. 

She’s funny, sharp, and has this way of looking at you that makes the rest of the world fade away.

As the afternoon stretches into evening, we decide to head back before dark—old people habits, I guess. Doris drives us back to the Avi, her buggy humming like a happy beast. 

She pulls up to my truck, and we get out, 

--she walks up to me, grabs me, pulls me close, and plants a kiss on me that’s so sweet, so electric, it could power Vegas for a night. 

My heart’s doing backflips as she jumps back into her buggy, revs the engine, and peels out with a half-spin, leaving a trail of burnt rubber and a cheerful beep-beep from her VW’s horn.

I stand there, grinning like an idiot, replaying the day. The mud, the laughs, the Sphere, that kiss

—it’s the best day ever.