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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