Sunday, August 17, 2025

Dune Buggy Time Machine - Talking Story with Arlo

Dune Buggy
Talking Story with Arlo

Dune Buggy Time Machine
By Arlo Agogo

The text hit my phone at 2 a.m., vibrating like a alarm clock on my nightstand. 

“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.

Posted by at
Labels: , , ,

Wednesday, August 13, 2025

The Triangle of Tranquility - Talking Story with Arlo

Talking Story with Arlo
 Talking Story with Arlo

The Mohave Valley: The Triangle of Tranquility


Nestled in the northwest corner of Arizona, where the Colorado River carves a fertile path through the desert, lies the Mohave Valley—a place of serene beauty, rich history, and an almost mystical sense of calm. 

Known as the "Triangle of Tranquility," 

This region is defined by three striking geological formations: 

Spirit Mountain, Needle Mountains, Boundary Cone. 

These landmarks have guided travelers for centuries, offering a safe passage through the arid landscape and a respite from the daunting Rocky Mountains. 

For me, a resident of this tranquil valley, the Mohave Valley is more than just a home—it’s a haven where history, nature, and peace converge in a way that feels almost otherworldly.

A Historical Beacon for Travelers.

The Mohave Valley’s history is deeply intertwined with its role as a vital corridor for early travelers. In the 18th and 19th centuries, the valley served as a critical east-west pass, a natural gateway that allowed wagon trains, horseback riders, and foot travelers to bypass the treacherous Rocky Mountains. 

The "Triangle of Tranquility" earned its name from the trio of geological markers—Spirit Mountain, the Needle Mountains, and Boundary Cone—that signaled to weary travelers that they had reached a safer, flatter route to the East and West Coast. 

These formations, rising distinctly from the desert floor, were like beacons in the wilderness, guiding pioneers toward the promise of California and territory east of the Rockies,The Mojave Road, a historic trail that stretches across what is now the Mojave National Preserve, was a key route for these early travelers. 

Originally a network of pathways used by the Mohave Indians, it was later adapted into a military wagon road in 1859. The trail began at Beale’s Crossing on the Colorado River, near the site of Fort Mohave, and extended westward, connecting watering holes across the desert. 

By the mid-19th century, during the California Gold Rush (1848–1855), this route became a lifeline for prospectors and settlers heading to California’s goldfields. 

The Mohave Valley, with its fertile lands and the life-giving Colorado River, offered a place to rest, regroup, and prepare for the final leg of the journey.

Fort Mohave, established in 1859, played a crucial role in protecting these travelers. 

While the Mohave Indians, known as the Pipa Aha Macav ("People by the River"), were peaceful and agricultural, other tribes from central Arizona occasionally harassed wagon trains. 

The fort, located near the tri-state intersection of Arizona, California, and Nevada, provided security for those crossing the Colorado River. Though only a marker remains today, the Fort Mojave Indian Reservation continues to preserve the cultural legacy of the Mohave people, who have leased much of their land for agriculture, growing crops like cotton, maize, and alfalfa.

The June Bride and the Honeymoon Tradition.

The Mohave Valley’s role as a haven for travelers also ties into a fascinating cultural tradition: the "June bride" and the origin of the term "honeymoon." In the 19th century, families embarking on the arduous journey west often timed their travels to align with the seasons. 

Couples would marry in June, taking advantage of the mild weather to begin their trek. The term "honeymoon" is said to derive from the full moon in June, under which newlyweds would celebrate their union. 

The goal was strategic: couples aimed to conceive during this time, hoping to give birth in the spring when they reached a fertile, peaceful place like the Mohave Valley.

A spring birth increased a child’s chances of survival, avoiding the harsh winters of the Rockies or the desert’s scorching summers.Upon reaching the Mohave Valley, families found a place of respite. 

The Colorado River provided water for drinking and irrigation, while the valley’s fertile soil supported temporary camps where travelers could plant crops and sustain themselves. Here, in the shadow of Spirit Mountain, many women gave birth, their newborns entering the world in a place of relative safety and tranquility before the journey continued westward. 

This tradition of timing marriages and births to the rhythm of the journey underscores the valley’s historical significance as a place of hope and renewal.

The Mohave Indians and the Vortex to Heaven

The Mohave Valley’s sense of tranquility is deeply rooted in the culture of the Mohave Indians, who have called this region home for centuries. Descended from the ancient Patayan culture, the Mohave were a peaceful people who thrived on agriculture, cultivating crops along the Colorado River. 

Their name, derived from "Aha Macav" (People by the River), reflects their intimate connection to the waterway that sustains the valley. Unlike many tribes, the Mohave did not rely heavily on ritualistic ceremonies; instead, their spirituality was tied to the land, particularly Spirit Mountain, which they considered sacred.Spirit Mountain, one of the three pillars of the Triangle of Tranquility, holds profound significance for the Mohave. 

It is said to be a "vortex to heaven," a place where the spirits of the deceased ascend. The Mohave traveled great distances to bury their loved ones near Spirit Mountain, believing it to be a gateway to the afterlife.

Even today, some RV travelers and locals share stories of people journeying to the Mohave Valley from as far as Mexico, drawn by a desire to spend their final days in this tranquil place. While the idea of a "vortex to heaven" may be speculative, the valley’s serene aura is undeniable. 

As a resident, I feel it every day—a quiet energy that soothes the soul and invites reflection. 

Route 66 and the Legacy of Oatman.

As time progressed, the Mohave Valley’s role as a travel corridor evolved. In the early 20th century, Route 66—the iconic "Mother Road"—was established, following the same east-west pass that wagon trains once traversed. 

Cutting through the Triangle of Tranquility, Route 66 brought new life to the region, with travelers stopping in towns like Oatman, a former mining outpost.

Oatman, nestled in the Black Mountains just east of the valley, became a colorful stopover, its wooden sidewalks and roaming wild burros evoking the Old West. The town’s mining history, tied to gold discoveries in the 19th century, added to its allure, and today it remains a vibrant piece of Route 66 nostalgia.

The railroad, too, capitalized on the valley’s gentle pass, with the "35th Parallel Route" explored in 1854 by Lieutenant A.W. Whipple running just south of the Triangle of Tranquility. Though it wasn’t chosen as the transcontinental route, the railroad’s presence further cemented the region’s importance as a transportation hub.

A Modern Oasis of Tranquility Today, the Mohave Valley remains a place of peace and recreation. 

The Colorado River, Lake Mohave, and Lake Havasu offer endless opportunities for boating, fishing, and off-roading, attracting visitors from California and Phoenix.

Laughlin, Nevada, just across the river, draws gamblers and fun-seekers to its casinos, such as the Spirit Mountain Casino and AVI Resort & Casino, both operated by the Fort Mojave Indian Tribe. 

Yet, despite its vibrancy, the valley retains a low population and a non-political atmosphere, fostering a sense of community and happiness.

The geological formations that define the Triangle of Tranquility continue to inspire awe. Spirit Mountain, the Needle Mountains, and Boundary Cone stand as silent sentinels, their rugged beauty a reminder of the valley’s ancient past. 

The Colorado River, flanked by the Mohave Mountains and the Dead Mountains, creates a lush contrast to the surrounding desert, while the valley’s agricultural fields—growing cotton and alfalfa—reflect its enduring fertility.

A Personal Connection to Tranquility

Living in the Mohave Valley, I feel a deep connection to its history and its serene energy. The stories of wagon trains, June brides, and the Mohave Indians weave a tapestry of resilience and hope. 

Whether it’s the gentle flow of the Colorado River, the majestic rise of Spirit Mountain, or the quiet charm of Oatman, this valley exudes a tranquility that feels almost sacred.

Some call it a vortex to heaven; I call it home.

Posted by at
Labels: , , , , , , , , ,

Sunday, August 10, 2025

A Day Date with Doris Day - Talking Story with Arlo

Tea
Talking Story with Arlo

A Day Date with Doris Day: 

The Daredevil Dame of the Desert

By Arlo Agogo

Picture this: a sun-scorched Sunday afternoon in the sprawling desert, where the horizon shimmers like a mirage and the air hums with the promise of adventure. 

My name’s Arlo, a rugged, beatnik soul with a penchant for dusty trails and a Volkswagen dune buggy that’s as scrappy as I am. 

My 1875cc motor growls with just enough grit to keep up with my day date, the one and only Doris Day—not the Hollywood starlet, mind you, but a proper British gal with a devilish grin, a 2000cc dune buggy that purrs like a panther, and a knack for turning a simple day date into a heart-pounding, romantic escapade.

Doris and I have been tearing up the desert together for months now, our dune buggies kicking up clouds of sand and stories from Vegas car shows to secret riverbank campsites. 

Her '67 Vee Dub Buggy, a sleek, yellow beast, like mine gleams under the sun, polished to perfection—a stark contrast to my mud-splattered, battle-scarred rig, which she teases me about relentlessly. 

“Arlo, love,” she’ll say in that crisp, posh accent, “did you drive through a swamp or is that just your buggy’s new skincare routine?” 

I fire back, “Doris your ride’s so pretty, I’m surprised it doesn’t demand a mirror to admire itself!”

Our banter’s as much a part of our adventures as the trails we blaze.This particular Sunday, we hatched a plan over the phone, our voices crackling with excitement like static on an old radio. 

The mission: a 100-mile round-trip odyssey from the Avi Casino parking structure in Laughlin, Nevada, to the funky Topock 66 Marina in Arizona, with a detour along the legendary Arizona Peace Trail. 

I rolled up in my trusty Ford truck, kicking up gravel, only to see Doris glide in, her dune buggy looking like it just stepped off a showroom floor. 

She stepped out, all elegance and mischief, her blonde hair tied back with a silk scarf, her eyes glinting like the desert sun on chrome. 

“Ready for a proper adventure, Arlo?” she asked, tossing me a wink that could melt asphalt.

We decided to take her buggy—partly because it’s faster, partly because Doris loves showing off. Our route? The backroads to Topock, Arizona, with a sneaky side trip to Goose Lake and a couple of hush-hush campsites along the Colorado River. 

These spots are off-limits to the general public, but Doris, ever the charmer, had sweet-talked the game warden into letting us scout them. 

“He trusts me to keep an eye on things,” she said with a sly smile, leaving me wondering if she’d bribed him with her famous scones or just dazzled him with her British charm.

We roared out of town down Highway 95, the wind whipping through our hair as we hit the Goose Lake cutoff just before Needles. The desert stretched out before us, vast and untamed, a canvas of golden dunes and jagged mountains. 

Our first stop was Topock 66 Marina, a gem of a spot perched on the Colorado River, where the water sparkles like a sapphire and the restaurant serves breakfast fit for a king. 

The chef, a burly guy with a penchant for flamboyant plating, whipped us up towering stacks biscuits and gravy, cheese omelets paired with mugs of coffee strong enough to wake a coma patient. 

Doris and I sat on the patio, the river glinting below, trading stories and teasing each other about our upbringings—both raised in proper English families, we share a love for afternoon tea, crustless sandwiches, and poking fun at American quirks, despite being Yanks ourselves.

As we left the marina, Doris, ever the retired banker with a penchant for spoiling me, waved off my attempt to pay. “Oh, Arlo,” she said, patting my head like I was a schoolboy, “your presence is my present” I grinned, my heart doing a little flip. 

There’s something about Doris—her mix of elegance and audacity, her ability to be both a refined lady and a fearless desert renegade—that gets me every time.

With our bellies full and her buggy fueled, we hit the Arizona Peace Trail, a 675-mile off-road epic that loops through Arizona’s wild heart. This segment, from Topock to Bullhead City and back to the Avi, was a mere 50 miles, but oh, what a ride. 

Doris floored it, her 2000cc engine roaring like a lion, sending us screaming across the desert at speeds that made my stomach lurch and my heart sing. 

She’s no stranger to the gas pedal, and she loves scaring the daylights out of me, swerving around boulders and launching off dunes like a stunt driver in a Hollywood blockbuster. “Hold on, love!” she’d shout, her laughter ringing out as we careened through a cloud of dust, my knuckles white on the roll bar. 

We’d packed a picnic fit for royalty—scones with clotted cream, cucumber sandwiches, and flasks of iced tea that stayed frosty in the desert heat. Along the trail, we stopped at raucous off-roader camps, where dusty jeeps and ATVs circled like wagons, and folks grilled burgers, blasted music, and swapped tall tales. 

Doris, ever the social butterfly, charmed everyone with her wit, while I played the bravado cowboy, tossing in quips that made her laugh that infectious, head-throwing-back laugh. 

At one stop, a grizzled biker handed us beers and said, “You two are like Bonnie and Clyde, but with better wheels!” Doris winked at me, and I swear the desert got a few degrees hotter.

As the sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of fire and gold, we raced back toward the Avi Casino, the trail’s twists and turns a final test of Doris’s daredevil skills. 

She handled her buggy like a maestro, weaving through rocky passes with a grace that belied the chaos of the terrain. 

By the time we rolled into the parking structure, our faces were caked in dust, our hair wild, and our hearts pounding with the thrill of it all.

We climbed out, leaning against her buggy, catching our breath. The desert night was creeping in, stars blinking awake above us. Doris turned to me, her eyes soft but mischievous. 

“Well, Arlo, another day, another adventure.” Then, as we always do I wrap my arms around her and she leans in, planting a lingering heartfelt goodbye kiss—a kiss that was softer, longer and more passionate then the last one.

It’s our ritual, a sweet punctuation to our wild days, and it never fails to leave me grinning like a fool.

Doris Day and I are lone wolves who howl together.

Two souls who love the open road, the thrill of the chase, and the freedom of the desert. Her dune buggy might be a tad shinier and her engine a bit stronger....

It’s her spirit—equal parts proper and reckless. 

She’s my cowboy-like English lady, my partner in dune-dashing, and every date with her is a story worth telling.

I drove home in my dusty truck thinking, 

--her kiss is on my list of the best things in life.

Posted by at
Labels: , , , , , , ,

Tuesday, August 5, 2025

You Never Really Die - Talking Story with Arlo

Tea time
Talking Story with Arlo

You Never Really Die. 

By Arlo Agogo, 
Metaphoric speaker of souls.

Picture this: a shimmering dune buggy, chrome wheels glinting under a neon desert sunset, tearing across the sands of Earth with a vibe so righteous it could make a cactus boogie.

Why’s my ride the talk of the multiverse?

Because it’s the chosen chariot of the Groovatrons—interdimensional spirits of pure, unfiltered joy hailing from the planet Funkadelia.

These ain’t your average ghosts, folks. Smaller than a neutrino, these funky phantoms zip through the cosmos, surfing consciousness like intergalactic Deadheads chasing the ultimate jam.

And for reasons involving tacos, my dune buggy, and my paisley-clad soul, they’ve picked me as their Earthbound VIP.

Buckle up—this is a 1,000-word trip into the wild, wacky world of Groovatrons, Decayatrons, Neutraltrons and the eternal dance of the soul.

Groovatrons: The Cosmic Party Planners

Let’s get one thing straight: Groovatrons aren’t made of stuff. No atoms, no molecules, no cosmic goop.

They’re pure consciousness.

Sparkly little vibes so tiny they make neutrinos look like beach balls. Home for some is on Funkadelia, a planet where the rivers flow with glitter and the mountains pulse to a beat.

Groovatrons are the universe’s hype squad. 

They don’t exist to mope; they exist to groove. These spirits zip through the multiverse, hopping into fleshy beings like us humans, sprinkling joy like cosmic confetti. 

Ever had a random moment of pure, inexplicable happiness? That’s a Groovatron hitching a ride in your brain, 

turning your mental radio to Funk FM.

Why do they do it? Because the universe is their playground, and they’re here for a good time, not a long time.

Groovatrons can embody anything with consciousness—humans, dolphins, even that one suspiciously chipper squirrel in your backyard. Once they’re in, they crank up the joy dial, mentally rewiring their host to see the world through tie-dye-tinted glasses. 

That time you laughed so hard at a Talking Story with Arlo Blog you snorted. That moment you ditched work, turned right, and spent the day surfing at the beach? 

Groovatron, baby, steering you into a parallel reality where life’s a beach and you’re the coolest cat on the sand.

Why Me? Tacos, Buggies, and Beatnik Vibes

So why did these cosmic funksters choose me as their Earth contact? I’m just a 58-year-old desert rat with a penchant for paisley and a dune buggy that screams “1970s fever dream.” 

But the Groovatrons? They love my vibe. 

They dig the buggy’s chrome swagger, the way it roars through the dunes like a four-wheeled rock anthem. They’re obsessed with my taco obsession—carne asada, al pastor, even those sketchy gas station taquitos.

Apparently, Funkadelia doesn’t have tacos, so when a Groovatron hops into me, it’s like they’ve hit the culinary jackpot. 

“Tacos!” they squeal in their subatomic squeak. “This guy gets it!”

But it’s more than that. The Groovatrons say I’ve got a soul that hums at their frequency—a mix of beatnik wisdom, quantum curiosity, and a refusal to take life too seriously. 

They first showed up when I was cruising the desert, blasting Santana, and pondering if my VW Dune Buggy was secretly a quantum portal. (Spoiler: it is.)

They whispered, “Yo, paisley dude, you’re our guy."

Keep the tacos coming, and we’ll keep the good vibes flowing.” And so, I became their Earth ambassador, a cosmic DJ spinning joy for the multiverse.

The Multiverse Mixtape: Groovatrons and Parallel Realities. Here’s where it gets trippy. 

The Groovatrons don’t just vibe in this universe—they surf all of them. 

Quantum computers, those silicon sages of our modern age, are starting to catch on.

Whispering about multiple realities coexisting like tracks on a cosmic mixtape. 

You’re driving to work? That’s one track. You turn right, hit the beach, and spend the day chasing waves? That’s another. Each choice spins you into a new reality, and the Groovatrons are the DJs, scratching the record to keep the beat funky.

They’re all about creation. Every time you choose joy—say, swapping a boardroom meeting for a sunset taco run—a Groovatron high-fives another Groovatron in the ether. They’re here to amplify the good stuff, to make sure you’re living your grooviest life. 

But there’s a catch: not every spirit in the multiverse is throwing a funk fest.

Enter the Decayatrons.

Decayatrons: The Cosmic BuzzkillsIf Groovatrons are the life of the party, Decayatrons are the jerks who spill beer on the rug and start a fight. 

These malevolent spirits sneak into unsuspecting minds, whispering thoughts of greed, anger, and destruction. Ever wonder why some folks seem hell-bent on chaos? 

That’s a Decayatron at the wheel, turning a perfectly good human into a walking dumpster fire. Problem is, Decayatrons don’t last long in fleshy hosts. They burn out their carriers like cheap batteries, which is why criminals and creeps rarely thrive. 

You ever notice how the worst people seem to crash and burn young? That’s the Decayatron’s curse—short-term havoc, long-term doom.

The Groovatrons try to intervene, 
but even their funk-fu has limits. 

Once a Decayatron takes root, it’s like trying to play jazz in a hurricane. The host spirals, and when they inevitably kick the bucket, the Decayatron doesn’t get a second act. It fizzles out, a cosmic one-hit wonder. 

But here’s the twist: the Groovatrons believe that every soul gets a shot at redemption. When a Decayatron’s leaves, their consciousness doesn’t vanish—it transforms into a groovatron.

Neutraltrons: The Eternal Soul Surfers

This is where my theory gets wilder than a peyote-fueled poetry slam. I believe human souls are Neutraltrons—neutral spirits that choose to embody babies, growing up with them through life’s highs and lows. 

Unlike Groovatrons, who pop in for a joyride, or Decayatrons, who quickly crash and burn, Neutraltrons are in it for the long haul. They’re the core of your consciousness, the “you” that wonders where you parked your dune buggy or why.......

--Chile Verde taste so good.

When your body dies, your Soul doesn’t. 

It sheds the flesh suit and rejoins the multiverse dance, free to become a Groovatron, spreading joy across the multiverse for eternity.

You Never Really Die.

Look into you consciousness are you a receptor for Groovatrons or Decayatrons or simply a Neutraltron enjoying your fleshy life and family. Let's wonder.

Why do I think this? Because the Groovatrons told me.

Posted by at
Labels: , , , , , ,
Subscribe to: Comments (Atom)