Tex's Tales - Talking Story with Tex

Talking Story with Tex

Funkadelia’s Grooviest Groovatron
By Tex Agogo
Beat the drum, man. Snap the snare. This is Tex talkin’, straight from the cosmic kennel of Planet Funkadelia, where the elders notified me there is a opening in Texas for a Labrador Puppy and  said, 
“Go, Dude! Spread the love-vibe on that blue marble"
So I landed—BOOM!—in a Texas whelping box, all wet nose and waggly tail, incarnated as the goldenest Labrador Retriever the Lone Star State ever drooled over. 
From the jump, my eyes were twin disco balls of joy.
One look and humans melted like butter on a griddle. “Oh, what a cute dog!” they’d croon. “He’s so pretty, so nice, so friendly!” Dig it: I wasn’t just a dog, man. I was the manifestation of righteousness, a four-legged funk apostle sent to chew the blues away.
But let’s keep it real, cats and kittens—I got one hang-up that swings harder than Dave Brubeck's "Take Five".
Shoes, Sandals, boots, patent-leather pumps, thousand-dollar Italian loafers, doesn’t matter. If it’s on the floor, it’s fair game. My motto? 
“I chew shoes, True Story.” 
Descartes with drool. My human—let’s call him Daddy-O—caught on quick. Shoes went up on the counter, not the rug. Sometimes I didn’t even wait for the kick-off. I’d ninja-strike mid-stride, gnawing a heel while some poor square was still wearing it. Chomp-chomp, baby! That’s the sound of joy being spread, Funkadelia-style.
Daddy-O never got mad. He’d just laugh that big belly laugh, like I was the headliner at the Apollo. “Tex, you beatnik beast!” he’d howl, while I pranced with a shredded flip-flop in my jaws like it was the Stanley Cup. 
We had a deal: he treats me nice, I treat him nice. No leash needed—city ordinance be damned—except when the fuzz rolled up. “Collar that mutt!” they’d bark. I’d just sit, tail thumping a bongo beat, eyes saying, 
Cool it, officer. I’m on a mission from the groove gods.
Now, picture this scene, real gone: we’re cruising the McDonald’s drive-thru, Daddy-O orders me a Big Mac—plain wrapper, no existential questions. He hands it back in the bag like it’s a present from the Mothership.
I go to town—nose, paws, the whole canine kung-fu—ripping cardboard, shredding paper, until bam! there’s the burger. But every time, every single time, I root out them two slimy pickles, spit ’em on the floorboard, and give Daddy-O the stink-eye: You prankster, you know I hate these green gremulins! Then I’d shred the bag into confetti, just for the giggles. 
Car looked like a ticker-tape parade for joy.
Course, shoes were my main gig. I was a chick magnet, sure—ladies swooned over the golden fur, the soulful eyes—but I kept ’em at tongue’s length. 
Daddy-O and I, we were a duo, like Garcia and Weir. Girlfriends came, girlfriends went, but if they tried to wedge between us? Operation Chew-Shoe activated. I’d wait till they kicked off them fancy stilettos, then—crunch!—instant abstract art in leather.One time—oh, this one takes the biscuit—
this chick, let’s call her Miss Prissy Heels, 
thought she could spank me for nibbling her $300 pumps. Spank Tex? The Groovatron? I gave her the slow blink, the one that says, Sister, you just flunked the vibe check. Daddy-O stepped in, cool as a cucumber: I'll buy you some new shoes
 “Nobody hits Tex.” 
She blew a gasket. “You love your dog more than me!” she shrieked, then—get this—she hurled her chewed-up shoe at his head and stormed out, slamming the door like a cymbal crash. 
Me and Daddy-O? We rolled on the floor—me howling in canine cackles, him laughing till tears ran. “She never understood the basics,” he wheezed.
 “You chew shoes because you have a unexplainable psychological situation implanted in your soul from the elders on Funkadelia”.
Years rolled on like a slow blues solo. Daddy-O started buying cheap Walmart sandals just for me—two bucks a pair, perfect for psychological fulfillment. I’d chomp ’em, fling ’em, fetch ’em from the pool. They flew like Frisbees, floated like lily pads, and tasted like victory. Better than balls, man—no marathon runs, just pure chewable zen.
Then came The One. The love of Daddy-O’s life. 
A dog person, dig? She cooked me steak, fluffed my pillows, insisted I tag along everywhere—road trips, fancy dinners, didn’t matter. I gave her the sniff test, the soul stare, and verdict: approved. No shoe sabotage. She got it. She grooved.
So here I am, old Tex, still wagging, still chewing, still spreading joy one sandal at a time. From Funkadelia to your living room, baby, the mission’s the same: make ’em smile, make ’em laugh, make ’em say, “Man, that dog’s cool.” 
And if a shoe gets in the way? Well, that’s just the universe handing me a toy.
I chew shoes....yup

Groove is in the Heart - Tex

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Time to Trip -Talking Story with Arlo

Talking Story with Arlo

Boredom: 

Find your absolute essence and let the show begin.

By Arlo Agogo

Hey, cats and kittens, lend an ear to this riff on the grand nada, the big empty, the sweet sting of boredom that slaps you awake and says, “Dig yourself, daddy-o, you’re the whole show.” 

In this chrome-plated, neon-buzzin’ world of 2025, where every pocket vibrates with a thousand sirens callin’ your name, I’m here to blow the lid off the coolest secret: boredom ain’t the enemy—it’s the back-alley jazz club where you meet the real you, unplugged, unfiltered, and groovin’ like mad.

Picture it: the job’s wrapped, the clock’s off the hook, no gigs, no scenes, no squares to jaw with. The neighbors? Forget ’em. The paintbrush? Nah. The dune buggy’s coolin’ its heels. 

And there I am, sprawled on the couch like a beat poet after the last set, starin’ at the ceiling cracks that look like road maps. No phone. No tunes. No vids. 

Just me, Myself, and I, the holy trinity of the void. 

And man, that’s when the magic kicks in. First, the itch. Fingers twitch for the glass rectangle, the dopamine slot machine. Scroll, swipe, like, repeat. But I resist, daddy-o. I let the itch burn. 

I let the silence roar. And then—pow!—the mind cracks open like a midnight diner sign flickerin’ to life. No external static. No TikTok prophets. No Spotify sermons. 

Just the pure, uncut Arlo Show, broadcast live from the skull theater.

Memories roll in like classic cars on a desert highway, chrome gleamin’ under a full moon. Not the curated Insta-reels, but the raw footage: the taste of Mom’s apple pie at age seven, crust flakin’ like autumn leaves; the way Dad’s laugh rattled the garage when I botched fixin’ the carburetor; the first time a girl named Becky kissed me behind the roller rink, her lip gloss tastin’ like cherry Coke and rebellion.

These ain’t just flashbacks—they’re Technicolor epics, sharper than 4K, because the channel’s clear. No ads. No pop-ups. Just life, baby.I set the dial, though. No sour notes. I tell the jukebox in my head:

“Play the hits, not the hurts.” 

So the mind wanders the sunlit boulevards, not the back alleys of regret. And oh, the love stories! There was Kim with the red scarf, dancin’ barefoot in the rain outside the jazz joint. There was Stephanie, who read my poems like they were scripture and laughed like a trumpet solo. 

And always, always, the big band of family—Mom’s lullabies, Dad’s calloused hands teachin’ me to swing a hammer, the whole clan crammed around the Thanksgiving table, plates clatterin’ like cymbals. Even the small stuff gets amplified. The memory of a perfect taco—cilantro poppin’, lime stingin’, salsa dancin’ on the tongue—hits harder than any Michelin star. 

The dune buggy? Man, just thinkin’ about kickin’ up sand, engine snarlin’ like a lion, wind whippin’ my hair into a rockstar mane—that’s a 45-minute symphony without leavin’ the couch. 

A pretty girl’s smile? It’s a sunrise in the city of my skull.

Makin’ a buck with brainpower, not backbreak? That’s the ultimate cool—cleverness payin’ the rent while I lounge like a king. And the music! Oh, the music. 

No speakers, no problem. I’m the whole damn band.

Can’t sing a lick? Don’t matter. In the boredom arena, I’m Arlo the Rock God, shreddin’ solos for thousands, sweat flyin’, crowd roarin’ “Rock on, Arlo!” 

I’m Hendrix, I’m Elvis, I’m Sinatra with a telecaster. 

The couch? It’s my throne, plush as a cloud, cradlin’ me while I conduct the invisible orchestra.Some cats chase this high with lotus positions and incense.

Meditation? Sure, that’s their bag. Me? I’m a boredom bodhisattva. I don’t fight the empty. I ride it like a wave. I let the clock melt like Dali’s watches. Hours? What’s that? Time turns to taffy, stretchin’ sweet and slow. And in that stretch, I find the pure juice of being.

See, the world’s a pinball machine—ding-ding-ding, lights flashin’, bumpers bouncin’. We’re the silver ball, ricochetin’ from notification to notification. But flip the switch, pull the plug, and suddenly 

--you’re not playin’ the game, you are the game. 

The whole cosmic carnival’s in your noggin, and admission’s free. Boredom ain’t laziness. It’s courage. It’s starin’ down the abyss and realizin’ the abyss is a mirror, and the reflection’s smilin’ back, sayin’, “Hey, cool cat, you’re enough.” No likes needed. No followers.

Just you, raw and real, jammin’ with your own soul.

So next time the void creeps in, don’t reach for the phone. Don’t flip on the tube. Don’t call the neighbors.

Lean in. Let the silence be your spotlight. Let the memories be your band. Let the couch be your Carnegie Hall. 

Close your eyes, daddy-o, and discover the greatest show on earth: You, unplugged and unstoppable.

Boredom? It’s not the blues. It’s the bliss

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

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Pastrami Beef Dino Ribs -Talking Story with Arlo

Talking Story with Arlo

Pastrami Beef Ribs: 

A Cosmic Ode to Dinosaur Delights

By Arlo Agogo

Dig this, cats and kittens, let me lay down a tale so juicy it’ll make your taste buds do the jitterbug. 

We’re talkin’ pastrami "Dino" beef ribs—those gargantuan, Flintstone-sized slabs of bovine bliss, smoked low and slow, kissed by spices, 

and funkified into pastrami perfection. 

This ain’t just food, man; it’s a portal to the cosmos, a meaty mandala that spins your soul right into the orbit of Funkadelia, where the Groovatrons groove to the rhythm of the universe. 

So buckle up your ride, slip on your paisley shades, and let’s ride this flavor wave to the stars.

Picture me, your ol’ desert-wandering beatnik, 58 years young, tooling down Rosemead Blvd, in my 1965 VW Bus, headed to "The Hat", the one with the tie-dye curtains and a bumper sticker that says, 

“Honk if you dig quantum entanglement.” 

It’s a Saturday night, circa now, 2025, and the air’s thick with the promise of something righteous. I’m headed to "The Hat" in Pasadena, that sacred temple of pastrami where the neon glow hums like a Zen koan.

Back in the day, my Dad—God rest his soul—used to haul me there, his ’67 Mustang purring like a contented cat. 

We’d slide into a booth, order pastrami sandwiches slathered with that special dip sause, and talk about life, golf and the pursuit of the perfect bite. 

"The Hat" was our church, and pastrami was the sermon. Fast-forward to last week, and I’m in my Mohave Dessert pad, sipping some far-out oolong I scored from a tea merchant in Santa Ana. 

My neighbor, this cat named Rusty—a grizzled BBQ shaman with a smoker in his front yard that looks like it could launch a rocket—rolls up with a proposition.

“Man,” he says, eyes glinting like he’s seen the face of God in a brisket, “I got somethin’ special. 

Pastrami beef ribs. Dino-sized. 

You give me fifty bucks’ worth of that fancy tea you got, and I’ll hook you up with three ribs that’ll blow your mind clear to Alpha Centauri.” I’m no fool, daddy-o. I know a cosmic deal when I hear one. 

I hand over the tea, and he hands me these ribs, wrapped in butcher paper, still warm, smelling like a spice bazaar on a planet where flavor is king.

Now, let’s get one thing straight: pastrami beef ribs ain’t your run-of-the-mill BBQ. These ain’t the ribs you gnaw on at a backyard shindig while your cousin burns the hot dogs. No, sir, these are dinosaur ribs, the kind of meat that makes you feel like you’re wrestling a brontosaurus and winning. 

Rusty, that sly alchemist, took these Flintstone-worthy bones and gave ’em the pastrami treatment—brined in a witch’s brew of salt, sugar, and secrets, crusted with a pepper-coriander cloak, then smoked for what I’m guessing was ten hours, maybe twelve, until they were tender enough to make a grown man weep. 

The result?

A slab so succulent, so groovy, it could make a vegan reconsider their life choices. But how’d this idea even beam into Rusty’s brain? Word on the street is, the Groovatrons had a hand in it. Yeah, those intergalactic funkateers from Planet Funkadelia, the ones I told you about in my last blog, hitching rides on quantum waves and spreading good vibes across the multiverse. 

See, the Groovatrons ain’t just about cosmic boogie; they’re foodies, too. Legend has it, they caught wind of Earth’s BBQ scene through some interdimensional diner menu and zeroed in on Rusty’s smoker like it was a beacon. 

“Man,” they telepathically zapped to him, “you gotta take those beef ribs and make ’em pastrami. Brine ’em, spice ’em, smoke ’em till they sing!” Rusty, being the kind of cat who listens when the universe whispers, did just that. 

And now, here I am, holding a beef rib that’s practically glowing with extraterrestrial mojo.Let’s break it down, beatnik style. 

Pastrami, for those who ain’t hip, is like the lovechild of a deli counter and a jazz riff. You start with a hunk of beef—brisket’s the classic, but Rusty went rogue with these ribs. 

You soak it in a brine that’s part chemistry, part poetry: salt, garlic, maybe a whisper of clove or allspice, and who-knows-what-else that Rusty won’t spill. (I asked, but he just winked and said, “Trade secrets, man.”) 

After days of marinating, you rub it down with a spice mix that’s black pepper and coriander doing a tango, then you smoke it low and slow until the meat surrenders, soft as a sigh, with a crust that’s all bark and glory. 

Slice it thin for a sandwich, sure, but leave it on the bone like Rusty did, and you’ve got a primal feast that’d make a caveman write sonnets.

I take these ribs home, unwrap ’em, and—sweet mercy—they’re a sight. Each one’s as big as my forearm, glistening like they’ve been polished by the gods. The pastrami crust is dark, speckled with spice, and the meat underneath is pink-ringed from the smoke, promising a flavor bomb that could detonate your soul. 

I fire up the ol’ record player, drop some Wes Montgomery for ambiance, and dive in. 

The first bite? Man, it’s like biting into a supernova.

The crust crunches, the meat melts, and the spices—oh, the spices—they hit every note from smoky to sweet to peppery. It’s The Hat’s pastrami sandwich, but bigger, badder, and bonier. 

I’m half-expecting the Groovatrons to materialize in my living room, clapping their funky paws in approval.

Now, I ain’t no stranger to pastrami. Growing up, it was my go-to, whether from The Hat, a catering truck on Huntington Drive, or some hole-in-the-wall deli where the counter guy knew my order before I opened my mouth. 

But store-bought pastrami? Nah, that’s like listening to a cover band play Miles Davis—close, but no cigar. The real deal, like Rusty’s ribs, is a labor of love, a process that takes time, patience, and a little bit of madness. 

It’s why I’d drive clear across town to The Hat at midnight, weaving through the neon jungle of Valley Boulevard, just to sink my teeth into that perfect sandwich, sauce dripping down my chin, my buddies laughing over Cokes and fries. As I’m gnawing on this rib, I swear I hear the Groovatrons humming in the ether, their funky frequencies syncing with the beat of my heart. 

They’re digging this, too, broadcasting the recipe back to Funkadelia, where they’re probably throwing a pastrami rib rave right now. I picture ’em, all glowy and grooved-out, passing around platters of these ribs, their six-fingered hands sticky with sauce, their boomboxes blaring intergalactic beats. 

“Earthlings got it goin’ on!”, and I can’t help but grin.

So here’s the moral, if you’re looking for one: life’s too short for bland meat. Find you a Rusty, a cat who’s crazy enough to turn dinosaur ribs into pastrami poetry. 

Or better yet, hit up The Hat, order that sandwich, and let the shoe-shine sauce baptize your soul. Me? I’m gonna keep trading tea for ribs, keep cruising these desert roads, and keep listening for the Groovatrons’ next big idea.

Because when pastrami beef ribs are this good, man, the universe feels like 

--one big, smoky, delicious jam session.

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo
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The Walk Talk - Talking Story with Arlo

Talking Story with Arlo

By Arlo Agogo

The Walk Talk: Struttin’ the Cosmic Heel-Toe Boogie. Dig this, cats and kittens—walking ain’t just locomotion, it’s a full-blown beatnik sacrament, a syncopated symphony of heel-strike, roll-through, and push-off that turns your lowly gams into pneumatic love pumps for the heart.

I call it the Walk Talk, and once you latch onto its rhythm, daddy-o, you’re no longer trudging—you’re gliding on the asphalt astral plane.

Picture it: you plant that outside heel like you’re kissing the earth with a saxophone squeal. 

Roll across the lateral edge—whish-whish—calf muscles poppin’ like bongos in a basement jam. 

Arch hooks, forefoot loads, weight shimmies inside like a slow dancer at 3 a.m., then—BAM—big toe blasts off with gluteal thunder. 

Leg lifts, swings, repeats. Left-right-left-right, a rhythmic gait so smooth it’s like your feet are strapped to invisible pedals on the Cosmic Bicycle of Blood.

Push and pull, baby—venous return on the upstroke, heart just lounging in its chamber, valves flappin’ lazy like a hipster’s beret in the breeze.

Your legs? Twin turbo pistons.

Your feet? Pumps primed for the pulmonary express.

Blood whooshes back to the lungs—filter, oxygenate, recirculate—all because you’re squeezin’ veins with every stride. 

Heart’s job? Reduced to a cool cat doorman, just openin’ and closin’ the gates while the leg squad does the heavy liftin’.

But hold the phone, Jack—walking ain’t just circulatory voodoo. It’s brain balm, man. Slip on the headphones, cue up some Pink Floyd, and suddenly the afternoon’s static dissolves. 

Morning walk? Mental espresso. Afternoon constitutional? Reset button for the soul. You’re not thinking about walking once the groove locks in—it thinks you. Thoughts float like soap bubbles in a bebop solo: “What if clouds were cotton candy?” “Did that squirrel just wink?” 

Daydreaming becomes default mode, and the day’s petty hassles? Poof. You’re walking away from ’em, literally—nobody can harsh your mellow when you’re three blocks gone and still accelerating.I’m a different cat on the pavement. 

Off the path? Maybe a worrier, a clock-watcher, a guy who forgets where he parked his chi. 

On the stride? I’m Captain Groovy, mayor of Splendorville. Thought patterns go technicolor trippy—synesthesia in sneakers. 

The crack in the sidewalk? A lightning bolt from Zeus. That dog’s bark? Stand-up bass riff. Neighbors wave, I flash the peace sign grin—“Howdy, citizen of the groove!”—and keep rollin’.

Weights? Man, weights are heavy.

Why hoist iron when the world’s your resistance band? Hills, stairs, wind—nature’s gym, free admission. Sure, in my late 60s I’ll sneak in some kettlebell swings to keep the hinges oiled, but walking’s the main course.

Effort in = effort out: chores lighter, driving sharper, outlook sunny-side up.Some cats make it a scene, dig? Walking clubs—perambulatory poetry slams. Load up the Buick, caravan to a redwood trail, unpack thermos coffee and existential banter. 

“The meaning of life? One foot in front of the other, baby.” Social struts where gossip morphs into philosophy, blisters into badges of honor.

See, walking is grooving, and grooving is living. 

It’s the original mobile meditation, the poor man’s psychedelic. No guru, no ashram—just you, the rhythm, and the infinite sidewalk unfurling like a reel of film. 

Every step a beat in the universal jam session. Miss a day? You’ll feel it—heart sulks, mind fogs, soul drags. Lace up daily? You’re bulletproof, baby.

So here’s the prescription, straight from the Walk Talk prophet:

• Heel outside—kiss the ground.
• Roll lateral—calf pop.
• Arch hook—fire the calf muscles which are anchored to arch.
• Big toe blast—gluteus maximus et tu.
• Leg swing—pull up on the backstroke.

Repeat till enlightenment (or at least till the playlist loops).Do it at dawn—sun salutation in motion. Do it at dusk—streetlights your spotlight. Do it rain or shine—puddles are mirrors for the soul. Find your personal tempo: some cats saunter 3 mph like a slow blues, others brisk 4.5 like up-tempo swing. 

Doesn’t matter—rhythm is king.

And when the world tries to clip your wings with deadlines and drama, remember: you can always walk away. Literally. One stride at a time, you’re rewriting your biochemistry, your mood, your entire cosmic zip code.

So blow that horn, spin that vinyl, but most of all—lace up and lay down the law of the groove. The sidewalk’s waiting, the blood’s ready to boogie, and your heart’s already tapping its foot.

Walk on, wild children. Walk on.

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo
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