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| Talking Story with Arlo |
A Day Date with Doris Day, My Desert Darlin’
By Arlo Agogo
Man, oh man, it’s Friday night, and the desert air’s hummin’ with that wild, electric buzz, like a coyote’s howl caught in a bottle of mezcal. My phone lights up, a little ping that sets my heart to thumpin’—it’s Doris Day, not the movie star, my desert darlin’, that golden-haired, dune-buggy-drivin’ queen of the sands. Her text is cool as a cactus blossom:
“Hello, how you doin’, my friend Arlo?”
Simple, sweet, like a sip of iced tea on a scorcher of a day. I shoot back a kind vibe, fingers tappin’ like a jazz drummer, askin’ if she’s down for a day date come tomorrow, Saturday mornin’. I’m thinkin’ we could hit the local English bar in Lake Havasu for a proper English breakfast, maybe cruise the desert in her daredevil fashion, kickin’ up dust like a couple of outlaws ridin’ the wind.
She fires back a “Yeah!” Ill drive my buggy you drive yours because Arlo you drive like an old beatnik, you drive yours, just try to keep up with my tail lights. She says she needs to put some miles on her VW Dune Buggy that is tricked out...and sets the meet at our usual spot
—the Avi Casino parking structure, 9:00 o'clock.
My heart’s pumpin’ like a opposing 4 engine, ‘cause Doris, man, she’s the coolest chick in the Mojave Desert.
The plan’s set, and it’s a righteous one. We’ll roll down to Lake Havasu, grab some breakfast by the London Bridge, where the water sparkles like a mirage and the pancakes are stacked high.
Then, it’s off to the desert, where the real magic happens—cruisin’ in our Volkswagen dune buggies, those beetle-backed beasts that scream freedom with every rev.
Our destination? The Bunker Bar.
It's a wild outpost in the middle of nowhere, where off-road cats of every stripe gather to sip brews, listen to live bands, and talk story under the big Arizona sky.
Check it at bunkerbarlhc.com—it’s the real deal, a joint so remote you can’t get there in no fancy sedan. Only dune buggies, side-by-sides, trophy trucks and motorcycles make the cut, bouncin’ over washes and scrub to reach this desert dive.
Where I live, out here in Fort Mohave, Arizona, it’s an off-road kinda town. You see those buggies and quads at the gas station, parked by the grocery store, zippin’ past the Walmart on Highway 95. Turn right anywhere off that road, and you’re in the wild, baby—open desert stretchin’ out like a Beat poet’s ramble.
One mile outta town feels like a hundred, ‘cause there ain’t nothin’ but sand, sage, and sky. Las Vegas is a hundred miles north, Palm Springs and Barstow two hundred clicks away, Parker a cool hundred south. It’s a playground for off-roaders, a canvas for cats like Doris and I to paint with tire tracks and dust clouds.
Saturday mornin’, I roll up to the Avi Casino lot, my ‘68 VW dune buggy purrin’ with its 1875cc motor, electronic ignition, and fuel pump hummin’ like a bebop tune. Doris pulls in, her own ‘68 VW roarin’ with a 2000cc motor louder, shinier, faster—same setup as mine but with that extra zip, like she’s got a rocket in her soul.
She’s a proper English lady, all high-class manners and teacup etiquette, but when she’s out here, she trades her pearls for boots and tears up the desert like a hellcat. Her buggy’s a beauty, yellow gleaming’ in the sun, and she handles it like she’s racin’ the devil.
We cruise to Havasu, grab a proper english breakfast at a English pub and coffee by the London Bridge, the water glintin’ like a mirage. The vibe’s easy, her laugh like a riff from a stand-up bass, and we’re chattin’ about the open road, the desert’s secrets, the way the sand sings when the wind’s just right.
Then it’s time to hit the trails. We fire up our buggies, engines snarlin’, and head for the Bunker Bar, tires kickin’ up clouds of dust that swirl like poetry in the air. The desert’s alive, man—joshua trees dancin’ in the heat, horizon shimmerin’ like a beatnik's dream.
When we pull up to the Bunker Bar, it’s packed. Where’d all these cats come from? Snowbirds, I reckon, flockin’ to the desert now that winter’s cooled it down to a balmy 80 degrees.
The bar’s only open in the cooler months—120° in summer’s too much for any sane soul to sling beers out here. The place is a riot of color: side-by-sides in neon green, quads in matte black, dune buggies like ours shinin’ under the sun. The band’s already wailin’, a country-rock outfit with a slide guitar that cuts through the chatter like a switchblade. We grab a couple of cold ones, the bottles sweatin’ in our hands, and settle in to soak up the scene.
Now, Doris, she’s a lady of contrasts. She’s used to fancy-pants restaurants, all crystal chandeliers and linen napkins, but out here, she’s in her element, boots tappin’ to the beat. I’m just an old cat, content to bob my head and sip my brew, but Doris?
She’s got moves.
She drags me out to the dance floor, teachin’ me the Electric Slide, spinnin’ me ‘round like a top. Yeehaw! she hollers, her blonde hair flyin’ as she jumps and clicks her heels mid-air, a sight that’d make any desert drifter’s heart skip a beat. I’m stumblin’ along, tryin’ to keep up, but she’s got the rhythm of a dust storm, wild and unstoppable.
The band’s cookin’, the crowd’s whoopin’, and for a few hours, we’re the kings and queens of this nowhere bar, lost in the music and the moment.
The sun starts its slow slide toward the horizon, paintin’ the sky in purples and oranges, like a canvas only the desert could dream up. It’s time to roll, so we hop back in our buggies, Doris takin’ the lead like she’s dodgin’ the law.
The ride back’s a blur of speed and dust, her VW roarin’ ahead, mine chasin’ her tail lights through the washes. We make it to the Avi Casino lot just as the stars start peekin’ out, the desert coolin’ down to a whisper.
And then, the best part—the goodbye. Doris pulls up next to me, jumps out, her engine idlin’ soft, and leans in for a kiss.
Man, it’s long, it’s soft, it’s wet, it’s passionate,
--like somethin’ outta a outlaw love song. Her lips taste like desert wind and promises, and my heart’s doin’ cartwheels.
Then, true to form, she peels out, doin’ a full 360 spin.
Her buggy, tires screamin’ as she heads off to wherever she calls home. Me? I’m just standin’ there, grinnin’ like a fool, my dune buggy still hummin’ with the day’s vibes.
Doris Day, my desert darlin’, and me—we’re just a couple of off-road lone wolfs, howlin’ in the desert, chasin’ day dates and dreams.
Lucky me, man. Lucky me.
Groove is in the Heart - Arlo
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