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| Talking Story with Arlo |
A Dune Buggy trip to the Sea
By Arlo Agogo
It was a late Friday night in the desert, the kind of quiet where you can hear the stars humming if you listen close enough.
My phone started rattling on the nightstand, yanking me out of a dream about endless summer waves. I fumbled for it, squinting at the screen, and there it was
—a text from my intergalactic crew, the Groovatrons:
“Arlo, we’ve been binge-watching Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello beach flicks, Gidget, the works. Been blasting The Beach Boys and The Ventures, too.
We’re amped to go surfing. You in?”
My heart did a little flip. How do you say no to a billion neutrino-sized extraterrestrials from the planet Funkadelia who’ve decided you’re their Earth bro? I texted back, “Catch you at sunrise,” and lay there, buzzing with anticipation, knowing sleep was a lost cause.
For those who haven’t caught my previous posts, the Groovatrons are my pals from Funkadelia, a planet where rhythm and vibe are the currency of life. They’re tiny—neutrino-sized, invisible to the naked eye—but their energy is like a supernova.
For reasons they’ve never fully explained, they dig my vibe and made me their Earth contact.
They’ve even souped up my 1968 VW dune buggy, Daisy, with quantum entanglement hubcaps that let her travel at the speed of time. Yeah, it’s as mind-bending as it sounds, and every trip with them is a wild ride.
Saturday morning, I rolled out of bed as the desert sky blushed pink. I grabbed a stash of munchies—chips, granola bars, and a couple of oranges—and a gallon of Frozen Berry Blast tea from my own Arlo Teas line (shameless plug, but it’s good stuff).
I headed to the driveway, where Daisy sat gleaming under the rising sun. On her dashboard? A billion Groovatrons, decked out in microscopic beach gear: sunglasses perched on their non-existent heads, tiny umbrellas, and beach chairs no bigger than atoms.
I could feel their excitement vibrating through the air, a funky hum that made my skin tingle. I hopped in, checked my phone, and saw their latest group text:
“Let’s roll, Groovatron speed!”
I punched in the coordinates for Seal Beach, my old haunt from the decade I lived there, and Daisy’s hubcaps lit up. The desert blurred into a streak of sand and sagebrush as we shot across Southern California at 900 miles an hour, the world bending around us like a psychedelic surf movie.
In a blink, we screeched to a halt in front of Hennessey’s Tavern in Seal Beach, the salty ocean air hitting me like a wave of nostalgia. I strolled inside, the familiar scent of coffee and sizzling bacon wrapping around me like an old friend.
I ordered a massive plate of corned beef and eggs, the hash browns crispy and golden, paired with a steaming mug of black coffee.
The Groovatrons don’t eat—they don’t have mouths—but they’ve got these flavor receptors that let them taste whatever I’m chowing down on.
As I dug into my breakfast, their microscopic cheers vibrated through me, like a billion tiny high-fives. “This is the stuff, Arlo!” their texts buzzed. “Earth food is tasty” I savored every bite, knowing they were riding the flavor wave with me.
After breakfast, we wandered down to the Seal Beach Pier, the Pacific Ocean glittering under a flawless Southern California sky. Surfers bobbed in the lineup, but the waves were small, barely knee-high. I could feel the Groovatrons’ disappointment, their buzz dimming like a fading bassline.
My phone lit up: “This surf’s too mellow, man. Let’s hit Huntington Beach for some real waves!” I grinned, knowing they were right. We strolled back to Daisy, but not before I swung by Nick’s Deli to grab a Nick’s Special sandwich for lunch—piled high with pastrami, Swiss, and spicy mustard,
--wrapped in butcher paper that crinkled like a promise of good times.
We cruised down Pacific Coast Highway at a chill 45 miles an hour, the ocean sparkling to our right, palm trees swaying in the breeze. I didn’t feel like paying the parking fee at Huntington Beach, but the Groovatrons, being neutrino-sized, slipped through the gate before the attendant could blink.
We parked near Lifeguard Tower 17, where the surfboard rental shack was already busy. I rented a sleek longboard, set up camp on the sand with my beach towel and cooler, and paddled out.
The surf was firing—shoulder-high waves with glassy faces, some curling into perfect barrels. At 58, I wasn’t sure I could still hang, but with a billion Groovatrons riding shotgun on my board, I felt like I was 18 again.
I caught wave after wave, carving smooth turns and ducking into the green room, the tube wrapping around me like a liquid cocoon. My waterproof iPhone buzzed nonstop with their group texts: “ Arlo! This is GREAT!” Their energy pulsed through me, making every ride feel like a cosmic dance.
After an hour of shredding, I spotted a pod of dolphins farther out, their fins slicing through the water. The Groovatrons’ texts took a wild turn:
“Yo, we know those guys!
Our ancestors visited Earth eons ago and turned those dolphins into critters of joy. Ever notice they’re always smiling, laughing when they chatter?” Before I could respond, the Groovatrons leapt off my board and onto the dolphins, hitching rides on their fins like cosmic cowboys.
I paddled back to shore, plopped down on my towel, and unwrapped my Nick’s Special, the pastrami’s tang mingling with the ocean breeze. As I ate, I watched the dolphins go berserk—jumping, spinning, and surfing the waves with Groovatrons clinging to them.
Then things got nuts.
The dolphins must’ve sent out a cosmic SOS, because suddenly, thousands of them showed up, turning the ocean into a full-blown aquatic circus. Backflips, spins, synchronized leaps—each dolphin had Groovatrons on its fins, and I could feel their ancient Funkadelian connection sparking joy across the waves.
As I polished off my sandwich, I got a text:
“Arlo, we’re riding the dolphins to Blackie’s in Newport Beach. Meet us there!”
Blackie’s was a bar I practically lived at in my twenties, so I returned the surfboard, hopped into Daisy, and cruised south along Pacific Coast Highway.
The ocean was alive with a dolphin stampede—
thousands swimming in unison, a Groovatron-inspired spectacle that had beachgoers pointing and gasping. I passed Corona del Mar, rolled into Newport Beach, and parked on the Balboa Peninsula right in front of Blackie’s.
The dolphin stampede hit the waves near the pier, jumping and spinning like an oceanic rave. I strolled into Blackie’s, the dim lighting and jukebox tunes hitting me with a wave of nostalgia.
I ordered a cold beer, the glass sweating in my hand, and noticed a few Groovatrons had already hitched a ride on my shoulders. The women in bikinis at the bar were giving me looks, drawn to the funky glow around me. They thought it was my charm, but I knew it was the Groovatrons’ cosmic mojo working overtime.
As the sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, I got a text:
“We’re wiped out, Arlo. Time to head home.”
I stepped outside, leaned against Daisy’s warm hood, and waited. Soon, I felt the familiar buzz of a billion Groovatrons returning to the dashboard, their energy crackling like static. I started the drive back to the desert,
-- but they hit the “funky button,”
and Daisy’s quantum hubcaps roared to life. We hit 900 miles an hour, the coastline blurring into a neon streak.
Before I knew it, I was sliding sideways into my driveway,
--the desert night cool and quiet. I turned off Daisy, my heart still pounding, and thanked my lucky stars I’d survived another Groovatron adventure.
The sky was a canvas of twinkling stars, each one pulsing with its own rhythm. One star shone brighter than the rest, and as I watched, it streaked across the sky
—a blazing farewell from the Groovatrons zooming back to Funkadelia.
Groove is in the Heart - Arlo
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