Talking Story with Arlo

Talking Story with Arlo

By Arlo Agogo

Arlo’s Desert Daze:

When Memories Bail and the Sky’s the Real.

Arlo’s perched on a wobbly lawn chair outside his Arizona RV, a beer with a lime wedge sweating faster than a tourist in a Mohave Valley Walmart.

The sky’s doing its nightly circus act—pinks, purples, and oranges swirling like a tie-dye shirt in a blender.

Lady Gaga’s Always Remember Us This Way is stuck in his head, that line about the Arizona sky burnin’ in your eyes hitting like a cactus to the heart.

At 70, Arlo’s memory’s gone AWOL, like a beatnik at a tax audit.

Names, faces, entire decades—they’re all playing hide-and-seek in his brain, and his brain’s a lousy seeker.

Back in his Southern California glory days, he was a surf-rat Casanova, chasing waves and women with equal gusto. Now? He’s out here in the desert, half-convinced his past loves are just mirages, and honestly, he’s too busy laughing at himself to care.

Back in the ‘60s, Arlo was a lean, mean, love-chasing machine. Picture him: shaggy hair, board shorts, a VW Bus named Dolores painted with enough peace signs to make a hawk blush.

He fell for every girl with a flower in her hair and a smile that screamed trouble.

There was… Linda? Brenda? Glenda? Hell, let’s call her Moonbeam, who danced like a possessed fairy at a Beach Boys gig in ‘77. Then there was the poet chick in Santa Cruz—Starlight? Starfish?—who wrote sonnets on his arm in Sharpie and ditched him for a guy with a better weed hookup.

Forever girls that weren't.

Arlo tries to conjure their faces, but it’s like his brain’s running Windows 95—slow, glitchy, and prone to crashing. “Who were you, darlin’?” he mutters, squinting at the horizon like it’s got the answers. Spoiler: it doesn’t.

“Getting old’s like losing your keys in a sandstorm,”

The Arizona desert’s his home now, a big ol’ sandbox of nothing and everything, where the past gets buried under red dust and epic sunsets.

He traded the Pacific’s roar for this quiet sprawl a decade ago, after his sandal shop in Newport Beach got swallowed by a yoga studio.

Now he’s got a dune buggy named Daisy—think Mad Max meets a clown car—and he tears through the desert like a kid who just discovered Red Bull. It’s not surfing, but when he’s fishtailing through a wash, hollering like a banshee, it’s close enough to make his dentures rattle.

Still, every now and then, when the sun dips and Gaga’s lyrics hum in his head—When the sun goes down, and the band won’t play—Arlo gets a pang.

Not a cry-in-your-beer pang, but a “damn, what was her name?” pang. He’ll be scrubbing a plate, staring at the desert like it’s a magic 8-ball, and a memory’ll sneak up: a laugh, a kiss, the way a girl’s hair smelled like coconut and freedom.

He chases it, but it’s like trying to catch a coyote with a butterfly net. “Brain, you’re fired,” he’ll say, chuckling. His doc calls it “senior moments with a side of maybe-mild-something-or-other.” Arlo calls it “my noggin’s on a permanent siesta.”

Back in California, they were the ones egging him on—Kiss her, dude! Strum that guitar like you mean it! Now, out here, they’re his desert wingmen, whispering, “Forget the names, Arlo. Check out that sky! Ain’t it a hoot?”

He imagines them throwing raves in his head, complete with a funk bassline and a light show to rival Vegas. It’s nuts, but it keeps him grinning, and at his age, a grin’s worth more than a six pack of Coronas.

The desert’s got a way of making you let go. It’s not like California, where every palm tree’s got a memory clinging to it like a clingy ex. Out here, it’s just you, the cacti, and a sky that’s basically showing off.

Arlo’s learned to love the now.

—the way Daisy's engine sputters like an old man laughing, the way a cold beer tastes like victory after a day in the sun.

He leans back, the chair groaning like it’s auditioning for a horror flick, and takes a swig. The lime’s tart, the beer’s cold, and the stars are starting their nightly twinkle-off.

Gaga’s song loops in his mind—I’ll always remember us this way—and he gets it. It’s not about nailing down names or faces. It’s about the vibe, the buzz, the way love felt when he was young and dumb.

And the world was a wave he could ride.

Those girls, those nights, they’re woven into him, even if his brain’s a sieve. And now? Now he’s got the desert, Daisy, and a sky that’s basically winking at him.

“To the chicks,” he toasts, raising his bottle to the void. The desert laughs back, a warm breeze that smells like sage and second chances.

Arlo’s not just a memory, and neither are those loves. They’re in the dust, the stars, the way he cackles when Daisy hits a bump and his hat flies off.

He’s living for the now, and the now’s pretty groovy.

So he kicks back, and decides the Arizona sky’s the best date he’s had in years.

And like Moonbeam or Starfish or Whoever-She-Was, it’ goes forever.

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

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