Dating a Passionless Mathematician -Talking Story with Arlo

Talking Story with Arlo

A Quest for Soulful Sparks, 

By Arlo Agogo

Gather 'round, dear readers, for the epic tale of my romantic misadventure with Penelope P. Polynomial, a middle-aged marvel who could solve differential equations faster than you can say “derivative,” but whose grasp of passion was as lively as a tax audit. 

I met Penelope in the local Tea & Coffee shop. We are both fans of Arlo Teas. Me: I like the Herbal Tea "Berry Blast" while she prefers the traditional "Earl Grey Bravo".

I asked her to join me and share my biscuits.

She was a big shot at MegaStockTron, a U.S. stock market titan, juggling numbers like a circus clown on a caffeine bender. 

With a PhD in mathematics, fluency in five languages (including Elvish, I swear), and a worldly vibe that could make Marco Polo jealous, she was a dreamboat for a guy like me

—Stanley McHeart, a 50-something romantic fool with a fetish for numbers and women with Faraway Eyes.

But, alas, Penelope thought passion was something you ordered off a menu with extra aioli. I’ve dated my share of gals with eyes so distant they could be scouting real estate on Neptune. 

They’re sweet, attentive, and usually rolling in dough—a pretty package, sure, but trying to spark passion with them is like trying to light a campfire with a soggy noodle. 

I’m a lifelong bachelor, no kids, no baggage—just a heart as wide open as the Grand Canyon and a love for numbers that’s frankly unhinged. I don’t crunch equations like some human abacus; I vibe with them, like they’re whispering sweet haikus in my ear. 

The number 22? It’s my soulmate. My lack of emotional baggage is my superpower—while other middle-aged romantics are lugging around broken marriages and surly teens, I’m just Stanley, the guy who sees life as a giant equation begging for a passionate solution.

Penelope, though? She was a fortress of logic, her heart locked tighter than a Swiss bank vault. My mission: teach her to trade her cold calculations for a sizzling spark. 

I grew up in the Culture of Love—a mushy, huggy, let’s-all-hold-hands-and-sing vibe. I love my parents, my pals, every gal I’ve ever dated, and, yes, the Fibonacci sequence (it’s the sexiest spiral in town). 

My self-confidence is my Batmobile, and I’m ready to drive it straight into Penelope’s soul. 

But first, I had to convince her that passion isn’t love—it’s the electric jolt that makes love do the cha-cha.

Date One: The Great Eyeball Standoff

Our first date was at Café Moonbeam, a quirky joint with velvet curtains and a jazz trio that sounded like they were improvising the soundtrack to a Wes Anderson flick. 

Penelope looked like Meryl Streep’s math-nerd cousin, all poise and precision, but her eyes? They darted like a caffeinated ping-pong ball. I leaned in, flashing my best Cary Grant grin, and said, 

“Penelope, we’re missing something here. 

Passion. Let me teach you.”

Her eyebrows shot up like they’d just spotted a statistical anomaly. Most women sprint at the P-word, but Penelope lingered, curious, like a cat eyeing a laser pointer.

Lesson One: The Quiet Embrace 

I kicked off with my “Quiet Embracement” technique. “No talking, no stories, no checking your stock portfolio,” I said. “Just be here, now, with me.” 

We sat on my balcony, the city skyline twinkling like a disco ball for ants. I asked her to lock eyes with me—not her phone, not her ex’s lies, just me, Stanley McHeart, the guy who thinks prime numbers are love letters. 

She squirmed like she’d sat on a cactus. “This is weird,” she muttered. “Good weird,” I shot back. “Passion lives in the weird.”

Here’s where it gets funny. Mid-eye-lock, my neighbor, Crazy Carl, decided it was the perfect moment to practice his bagpipe rendition of “Happy Birthday.” 

The noise was so jarring, Penelope yelped and spilled her kombucha, which I swear formed a perfect Pythagorean triangle on the floor. 

“See?” I said, laughing. “Even the universe is cheering for us!” She giggled—actually giggled!—and for 30 seconds, our eyes locked like a cosmic tractor beam. A spark flickered in her gaze, like a star waking up after a billion-year snooze

Lesson Two: The Slow and Gentle Attachment 

Passion isn’t about jumping someone’s bones—it’s about trust, about opening your soul’s front door and saying, “Mi casa es tu casa.” I took Penelope’s hand, soft as a marshmallow, and placed it on my chest. “Feel that?” I said. 

“That’s my heart, not chasing you" 

She froze, like she’d just seen a ghost holding a graphing calculator. “My ex was all chase, no substance,” she confessed. “He once proposed during a PowerPoint presentation. Slide 17 was ‘Marry Me.’”I nearly choked on my coffee. “

Penelope said, “the chase is over. I’m not running". 

I wrapped my arms around her, gentle as a summer breeze. Nonverbal question: You cool with this? Nonverbal answer: a shy nod. 

But then, disaster struck. A rogue squirrel—let’s call him Sir Nutters—leapt onto the balcony, mistook my sandal for a nut stash, and launched a full-scale assault. Penelope screamed, I flailed, and we ended up in a tangled heap, laughing so hard we forgot we were supposed to be soul-bonding. 

Lesson Three: Passion Ain’t What You Think

Time to blow Penelope’s mind. “Passion,” I declared, “is not a sexual act. It’s trusting someone to waltz into your life and enjoy the dance.” 

She stared like I’d just invented calculus. To illustrate, I told her about my old flame, Dolores “The Tax Tornado” Delaney, a tax attorney with a laugh like a hyena on helium. Dolores thought passion was scheduling a date night in her Outlook calendar with a 15-minute buffer for “spontaneous cuddling.” 

I tried my Quiet Embrace on her once, but she whipped out a legal pad to “document the emotional ROI.” When I suggested a slow attachment, she fled faster than a tax cheat at an IRS audit, claiming I was “too touchy-feely for her amortization schedule.” 

True story. Penelope, though, was different. By our third date, she was ready to try again. We danced under a streetlamp, her eyes locked on mine like she was solving the equation of us. 

“Stanley,” she said, “I get it. Passion is letting go.” I grinned like a fool who’d just discovered pi. “Bingo, darlin’. It’s not giving up your life—it’s adding a plus-one to your soul.

”The Grand Exaggeration: A Cosmic Coda with a Side of Absurdity

Picture this: Penelope and I, orbiting like binary stars in a disco galaxy, our hearts entangled in a quantum boogie. No baggage, no lies—just two souls, a calculator, and a dream.

I didn’t turn Penelope into a romance novel heroine; I showed her that passion is the ultimate math—wild, infinite, and gloriously rational. 

So here’s to Penelope, to numbers, to Faraway Eyes.

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

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White Peach Tea     Day is done and now it is delicious time.

Finding My Room: - Talking Story with Arlo

Talking Story with Arlo

Finding My Room:

A Lighthearted Journey to the Colorado River.

By Arlo Agogo

It’s Saturday morning, my official cheat day, when the diet gods look the other way and I can indulge in all the glorious calories I’ve been dodging all week. 

Today, I decided to take my trusty dune buggy, Daisy, for a spin down to one of my favorite spots on the Colorado River. 

Picture this: a sun-soaked morning, the wind whipping through my thinning hair, and the promise of a chile verde burrito waiting to make my taste buds sing. 

This, my friends, is what the last quarter of life is all about—finding your room, your happy place, where it’s just you, a majestic river, a couple of lizards, and the echoes of centuries past.

I grabbed my gear—sunglasses, a beat-up cooler, and my favorite Beach Boys playlist—and headed south on Highway 95. First stop? The local carnicería, a Mexican supermarket where the air smells like spices and secrets. 

I snagged a pound of chile verde, cooked to perfection by a local Mexican native with some sort of ancient Indian heritage woven into her culinary magic. This wasn’t just food; it was a cultural masterpiece, a burrito destined to be savored in the shadow of the Needle Mountains. 

I also grabbed a quart of diet root beer (because I’m cheating, but I’m not that wild), some ice for my bucket, and off I went, Daisy’s engine humming like a contented bumblebee.

The drive to my spot is a 25-mile pilgrimage through the Arizona desert, a place where time feels like it’s taken a permanent siesta. After the cutoff to Lake Havasu, you hit a dirt road that snakes through the Needle Mountains—rugged, timeless, and just a little bit mystical. 

The road twists and turns, kicking up dust that dances in the sunlight, until you reach this one overlook above the Colorado River. It’s not just a view; it’s a full-on experience. The river sparkles like it’s showing off, the mountains stand tall like they’ve seen it all, and the silence? It’s so deep you can hear your own heartbeat. 

This, my fellow middle-aged and senior wanderers, is my room.

Now, let’s talk about that Beach Boys classic, In My Room. You know the one:

🎵“There’s a world where I can go and tell my secrets to, in my room, in my room…” 🎵

Those lyrics hit different when you’re in the last quarter of life. I’m 58, and I’ve come to terms with the fact that I can’t slalom waterski like I’m auditioning for a Baywatch reboot. 

I’m not jumping off rooftops or chasing after every pretty smile that passes by. And you know what? That’s okay. 

Life isn’t about chasing anymore; it’s about savoring. 

It’s about finding that sacred space—your room—where you can just be. No expectations, no to-do lists, just you and your essence, maybe with a burrito in hand and a lizard eyeballing you from a nearby rock.

See, In My Room isn’t just about a physical space. It’s a state of mind, a little corner of your soul where you lock out the worries and fears.

For Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys, it was about dreaming, scheming, laughing at yesterday, and not being afraid when the world goes dark. 

For me, it’s this spot by the Colorado River, where I park Daisy, unwrap my chile verde burrito, and let the world melt away. The river’s been flowing here for millennia, watched over by these same mountains. 

There are petroglyphs etched into the rocks nearby—swirls and shapes that could’ve been carved by some ancient artist or a bored teenager in the ’70s. 

Either way, they’re a reminder that this place has been someone’s room for centuries. Wagon trains, native tribes, desert dreamers—they’ve all sat here, felt the breeze, and found their own kind of peace. Now, let’s not get too serious—nobody’s dying, nobody’s crying. 

This is cheat day, after all! 

Picture me, a slightly paunchy guy in a faded Hawaiian shirt, sprawled in Daisy’s driver’s seat, burrito in one hand, diet root beer in the other, humming In My Room like I’m auditioning for a Beach Boys cover band. 

The lizards are my only audience, and they’re unimpressed, scurrying off to do whatever lizards do on a Saturday morning. Maybe they’re chasing their own cheat-day snacks. The point is, I’m not out here trying to solve world hunger or climb Everest. I’m just here, and that’s enough.

This final quarter of life sneaks up on you, doesn’t it? One day you’re doing backflips off the dock, and the next, you’re creaking when you stand up and Googling “best knee brace for hiking.” But here’s the beauty of it: you don’t need to do backflips to find joy. 

You just need a place—a room—where you can be your truest self. 

For me, it’s this desert overlook, with Daisy’s engine cooling down and the river whispering stories of centuries past. I’m not out here brooding over what I can’t do anymore. 

I’m celebrating what I can do: eat a burrito that’s practically a religious experience, sip a root beer that’s probably 90% sugar despite the “diet” label, and let the desert wrap me in its quiet embrace.

And let’s talk about that quiet for a second. It’s not just the absence of noise—it’s the absence of pressure. No emails to answer, no deadlines to meet, no one expecting me to be anything other than a guy enjoying his cheat day. 

In my room, I’m not a businessman, a retiree, or a guy who’s maybe a little too attached to his dune buggy. The Colorado River doesn’t care about my 401(k) or whether I forgot to take out the trash. 

I’m just me, and that’s plenty. 

The Needle Mountains aren’t judging my life choices. And those lizards? They’re too busy sunbathing to give a hoot. So, to my fellow seniors and middle-aged dreamers, here’s my advice: find your room. It doesn’t have to be a literal place, though I highly recommend a spot with a view and a good burrito.

Maybe it’s a park bench, a cozy armchair, or even just a moment when you close your eyes and let the world fade away. It’s where you can laugh at yesterday, dream about tomorrow, and not be afraid of the dark.

It’s where you realize that the last quarter of life isn’t about what you’ve lost—it’s about what you’ve found. For me, it’s the joy of a cheat day, the hum of Daisy’s engine, and the timeless beauty of a river that’s seen it all.

As I sit here, munching on my burrito and watching a particularly bold lizard eyeball my root beer, I’m reminded of those In My Room lyrics: 

🎵“Now it’s dark and I’m alone, but I won’t be afraid.” 🎵

I’m not afraid—not of getting older, not of slowing down, not of being just a regular guy in a dune buggy. 

This is my room, my slice of eternity, where the Colorado River flows, the Needle Mountains stand guard, and the lizards keep their secrets. 

Here’s to finding your room, wherever it may be, and making every cheat day a masterpiece.

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

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Consciousness Transfer to a Robot - Talking Story with Arlo

Talking Story with Arlo

Groovatrons, Dune Buggies, and Uploading My Soul to a Robot on Mars

By Arlo Agogo

Tea Merchant and Part-Time Consciousness Theorist.

Picture this: a beat-up dune buggy tearing through the Mojave Desert under a star-smeared sky, me at the wheel, paisley shirt flapping like a psychedelic flag, and a posse of microscopic aliens.

My Groovatrons are partying on the dashboard. 

These tiny funkadelic entities, straight outta the planet Funkadelia, are my compadres, and they’ve been hitching rides with me since I bailed them out of a quantum pickle years ago. 

Fast-forward to last month, when SpaceX ,Yep, Elon’s SpaceX slid into my DMs.

They had a wild proposition: help them crack the code to transfer human consciousness into robots for their Mars colony. 

Why me? Because the Groovatrons whispered my name to their engineers. Buckle up, folks—this is a 1,000-word trip through the marshlands of Starbase, where Elon, Lil X and I chased the dream of immortal robot souls, with a side of burnouts and cosmic comedy.

It all started when my inbox pinged with a message from SpaceX’s Starbase crew. Apparently, their engineering department had been binge-reading my blog, Quantum Entanglement and the Groovatrons, where I spill the beans about my intergalactic pals. 

For those who missed it, I met the Groovatrons on a midnight dune buggy ride in the Mojave. Their ship—smaller than a grain of sand—had crashed, and I helped them juice it up with some good ol’ Earth vibes and a spare battery. 

Since then, they’ve been my dashboard DJs, flashing strobe-light messages and texting me memes from their pocket-sized iPhones. We hit up car shows, diners, and the occasional desert rave, where they soak up Earth culture like cosmic sponges.

SpaceX sent me a fat stack of travel cash to roll down to Starbase, Texas

I sent word out to my Graovatrons via my multi demential interstellar wi-fi "RV road trip to Texas with biscuits and gravy"

Even though Funkadelia is 100 billion light years away we are quantum entangled so they arrived in a third of a second on the RV Dashboard . They knew it wasn't a day trip but rather a extended vacation. They all ( 1 billion+) arrived in their tiny RVs complete with tiny dune buggies, tents, kiddy pools, fireplaces and USA Flags. 

My RV dashboard was like Woodstock.

In my 49 ft RV, towing my 40 foot trailer/car transporter with dune buggy inside and stuffed with my artisanal tea blends (Pomegranate Melon, anyone?) we arrived.

Their pitch? They’re building a Mars colony, and robots are the first wave—constructing domes, digging tunnels, and probably mixing Martian margaritas. 

But here’s the kicker: they want to upload human consciousness into these bots. Imagine it—your soul, your vibes, your love for tacos, all zapped into a shiny quantum computer brain. 

No more decaying flesh, just eternal robot swagger. They’re already tinkering with brain implants at Neuralink (SpaceX’s sister company), but the engineers think I’ve got the secret sauce, thanks to my Groovatron connection.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: 

“Arlo, you’re a beatnik tripping balls in the desert.” Fair.

My story sounds like a Grateful Dead fever dream, but I’ve seen the Groovatrons. They’re neutrino-sized entities, so small they could moonwalk through a steel wall without touching a molecule. Most folks can’t see ‘em—too jaded, too grown-up.

But kids? They spot ‘em every time, pure imagination and all that jazz. 

So when I pulled into Starbase, I was ready to blow some minds. I parked my RV in the marshy outskirts of Starbase, where rockets tower like sci-fi skyscrapers.

Elon himself greeted me, looking like a cross between a mad scientist and a guy who just lost a bet. “Arlo,” he says, “we need to colonize Mars, but humans are squishy. 

Robots are forever. 

If we can transfer consciousness—souls, even—into quantum computer brains, we’re golden. Your Groovatrons might be the key.” I nod, stroking my beard, and tell him about my theory: consciousness is like a cosmic Wi-Fi signal, and the Groovatrons are living proof you can beam it into anything, even a robot’s noggin. 

Elon’s skeptical, but he’s game for a demo. That’s when I suggest a dune buggy ride. “Bring Lil X,” I say. “Kids see things adults can’t.” So, that evening, Elon, Lil X and I pile into my buggy. 

The Groovatrons, who’d been chilling at SpaceX all week (marveling at the rockets’ size compared to their microscopic ship), are already on my dashboard, ready to party. I tell Elon to keep quiet about our tiny friends

—let’s see if Lil X notices them organically. 

We hit the marsh trails, the buggy bouncing through muddy ruts, the sunset painting the sky like a tie-dye masterpiece. To get the Groovatrons hyped, I crank the tunes (Funkadelic, naturally) and gun it toward a ramp. 

We catch air—whoosh!—and splash through a puddle of what I call “dirty monkey water.” The dashboard lights up like a mini rave, with the Groovatrons sending strobe-light signals and texting me fire emojis.

Lil X is losing his mind, giggling like a maniac. 

I glance at Elon and whisper, “You see anything?” He squints, shakes his head. Nada. But Lil X? He’s pointing at the dashboard, shouting, “It’s sparkling! Little lights going nuts!” I grin. Kids, man. Their unfiltered imaginations are Groovatron catnip.

We pull over, and I tell the Groovatrons to give Lil X a proper show. By order of their elders (who prefer to stay incognito, letting humans “figure it out”), they fire up their iPhones for a pocket-sized firework display—tiny bursts of light dancing across the dash. 

Lil X is in awe, describing colors and patterns Elon can’t see. 

I lean over to Elon and say, “Your brain’s too old, man. Too many spreadsheets. Kids and beatniks like me?

We’ve got the cosmic connection.” Elon’s jaw tightens, but I see a spark in his eyes. He’s starting to believe.

Back at base, 

Lil X crashes (too much excitement), and Elon and I sip my Chai under the stars. I lay out my theory: consciousness isn’t just brain goo—it’s a quantum signal, like the Groovatrons themselves. 

They’re proof you can pack a soul into something smaller than a speck of dust. Why not a robot? SpaceX’s quantum computer brains are already light-years ahead of anything else—powerful enough to process emotions, memories, even the urge to do a burnout in a Martian canyon. 

Neuralink’s implants are step one, mapping the brain’s vibes. Step two? Upload that vibe to a bot with sensors so advanced you can still feel love, cry at a sunset, or

-- let’s be real—be a lovely robot. Elon’s sold. 

He offers me a job: a cushy white chair in a SpaceX think tank, theorizing how to make immortal robot humans. Picture it: you’re 90, on your last legs, but instead of kicking the bucket, you upload your soul to a sleek titanium body. 

Got a glitch? Hit the robot repair shop. Want to feel the wind in your circuits? They’ll install sensory pads in all the right places. Mars colonists could live forever, building cities, chasing Martian sunsets, and never worrying about oxygen or arthritis.

So, here I am, blogging from my RV, the Groovatrons vibing on my dashboard. SpaceX is betting on me, a desert-wandering tea merchant, to 

--unlock the secret of eternal robot life. 

Will it work? Maybe. 

The Groovatrons say humans are close to cracking it, and they’re just here for the ride (and the biscuits and gravy). As for me, I’m dreaming of my own robot body—paisley-painted, naturally, with a tea dispenser in one arm and a dune buggy mode for tearing up Mars.

Consciousness transfer? It’s not sci-fi—it’s the ultimate road trip.

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

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Dune Buggy Road Trip Journey to Mammoth Mountain - Talking Story with Arlo

 

Talking Story with Arlo

A Journey to Mammoth Mountain

By Arlo Agogo

There’s nothing like the hum of my VW dune buggy, Daisy, slicing through the Mojave Desert at dawn, her tires kicking up a fine dust that sparkles in the first light. 

It’s a Sunday morning, and I’m bleary-eyed but buzzing with excitement, loading up a cooler with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a gallon of wild strawberry tea I froze the night before.

My phone lights up with a text from my billion tiny pals, the Groovatrons from Funkadelia, their iPhone flashlights strobing like a cosmic rave. 

“We’re here! Let’s roll!”

They beam, already sprawled across Daisy’s dashboard in their quantum-entangled lounge chairs, cowboy hats tilted, and tiny umbrellas twirling. 

These neutrino-sized extraterrestrials are my road trip crew, and today, we’re headed to my favorite spot on Earth: Mammoth Mountain, California, Chair 15, where I perch on a rock and lose myself in the vastness of the Owens Valley.

I met the Groovatrons earlier this year during a solo midnight ride through the Mojave. Daisy’s engine was purring, the desert air cool and sharp, when I spotted them—glowing specks with iPhones, looking for Earthly adventure. 

We clicked instantly, but not without a hitch. The feds and Border Patrol caught wind of our quantum-powered joyride, their lights flashing in my rearview. 

With Daisy’s grit and the Groovatrons’ tech wizardry—something about quantum entanglement hubcaps—we slipped away, laughing into the night. 

That escapade made me their official Earth contact, and we’ve been tearing up the roads ever since. We’ve hit Texas for smoky barbecue, Chicago for deep-dish pizza, Route 66 style, and now they want my personal paradise. 

When I meditate, I’m always at Mammoth, on that rock, gazing up and down the valley. So when they texted, “Where’s your favorite place?” I shot back, “Mammoth Mountain, Chair 15. Sunrise tomorrow.” 

They replied, “Let’s go!” with a digital fist bump.

I sent a and got to work.Sunday breaks, and Daisy’s ready, her Yellow paint gleaming. The Groovatrons “board” in their own way—a billion of them lounging on the dashboard with ice chests and shades, my dune buggies quantum hubcaps humming. 

They could zip us to Mammoth faster than light, but I wave them off. 

“This is a scenic drive,” I say, “three hours, human style.

Trust me, it’s worth it.” They flash their iPhones in agreement, and we peel out from Fort Mohave, cruising north on Highway 95 toward Death Valley. 

The Mojave Desert in spring is a painter’s dream—golden brittle bush, purple lupine, and scarlet Indian paintbrush dotting the sand. I pull over at a viewpoint, pointing out the flowers, and the Groovatrons go nuts, their iPhones strobing like a desert disco. 

They send me a pic: a billion tiny cowboys, Stetsons tipped, grinning at a cactus like it’s a movie star.

Death Valley is next, a surreal maze of salt flats and rugged canyons where Hollywood’s shot everything from Westerns to sci-fi epics. We weave through side roads, the kind where you half-expect a tumbleweed to roll by with a dramatic soundtrack. 

The Groovatrons, quantumly entangled with me, don’t eat, but they taste what I do—a perk of our cosmic connection. So when we hit Lone Pine on Highway 395, I pull into my favorite diner, the Alabama Hills Café, for a stack of fluffy pancakes, crispy bacon, eggs over easy, and a fruit bowl bursting with strawberries and melon. 

The Groovatrons lose it, their iPhones flashing as they “taste” the syrupy sweetness. They send another pic—same cowboy getup from our Texas trip, but now they’re posing with tiny forks, pretending to dig into my pancakes. 

I laugh so hard I nearly choke on a blueberry.

Back in Daisy, we roll up the Owens Valley at a leisurely 75 miles an hour. The Groovatrons, used to light-speed galactic jaunts, are surprisingly chill, lounging like they’re at a resort. 

The valley’s a stunner—flanked by the Sierra Nevada on one side and the White Mountains on the other, with sagebrush and wildflowers stretching out like a quilt. I detour to Convict Lake, a crystal-clear gem framed by jagged peaks. I park and find a smooth rock to sit on, the water lapping gently, reflecting the mountains like a mirror. 

The Groovatrons, ever the thrill-seekers, decide it’s swim time. I watch a billion tiny splashes as they dive in, their iPhones somehow waterproof. My phone pings with a picture: a rainbow trout, its iridescent scales shimmering like a psychedelic dream.

 “What’s this?!” they text, giggling. “A rainbow trout,” I reply. “Coolest fish around.” 

They’re obsessed, calling it a “masterpiece” and snapping selfies with it.

We push on to Mammoth Mountain, my sanctuary. It’s spring, so the ski slopes are bare, perfect for Daisy’s off-road skills. I take a service road up to Chair 15, about 9,000 feet, and park near my meditation rock—a weathered slab with a perfect view of the valley. 

The air’s crisp, scented with pine, and the world feels infinite. The Groovatrons scatter, their iPhones flashing as they snap pics of scampering squirrels, chirping pinyon jays, and a red-tailed hawk circling overhead. 

We kick back, sharing iced tea and PB&J sandwiches. They “taste” the creamy peanut butter and sweet strawberry jam, sending me a text: 

“Earth food is galactic!”

We hike a trail through pine groves, the ground soft with needles, the valley sprawling below like a green-and-gold ocean. As the afternoon sun dips, the mountains turn purple—Purple Mountain Majesty, just like the song. 

The Groovatrons’ iPhones go into overdrive, capturing the glow. Time to head home. We take a different route, looping through the Alabama Hills, where wind-sculpted rocks stand like ancient sentinels and desert flowers bloom in vivid patches. 

The Groovatrons are still buzzing, their tiny lounge chairs bouncing on Daisy’s dashboard. We stop at a flower-filled meadow, and they send me a pic of themselves “riding” a blooming yucca like it’s a bronco.

The ride home was in groovatron speed. 900 mph

As we roll into Fort Mohave, the sunset paints the sky in fiery pinks and oranges, the desert glowing like it’s lit from within. The Groovatrons signal their goodbye with a billion iPhone flashlights, snapping pics of me for Funkadelia’s intergalactic webpage. 

“See you on the quantum entangled interstellar interstate!”

-- they text, zipping off through their entangled portal.

This trip wasn’t just a drive—it was a cosmic dance. Daisy, the Groovatrons, and I, we’re a crew bound by adventure, chasing beauty and weirdness across deserts and mountains. 

From outrunning the feds to sharing pancakes, we’ve built something special. Mammoth’s view, Convict Lake’s trout, the purple mountains—they’re all part of the story, proof that the universe is wild, wonderful, and just a dune buggy ride away. 

I’m already waiting for the next text, ready to hit the road with my Funkadelian friends, 

-- wherever the highway takes us.

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

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Living in a Pizza Oven - A VW Dune Buggy's Run From the Sun - Talking Story with Arlo

 Talking Story with Arlo

Life Under the Mojave Desert Sun: 

A Dune Buggy Odyssey in the Pizza Oven of June

Greetings, cosmic wanderers and desert rats! Buckle up for a wild ride through the Mojave Desert, where the sun reigns supreme, turning my trusty RV into a pizza oven and my dune buggy into a chariot for dawn-patrolling lunatics. 

I’m your narrator, a grizzled 58-year-old beatnik businessman, part-time philosopher, and full-time sun-dodger, living out here where the cacti whisper secrets and the horizon shimmers like a mirage of a cosmic casino. 

June has arrived, and with it, the Arizona sun—King Sol himself—has declared war on all things foolish enough to linger in his gaze. So grab a cold one, and let me spin you a tale of 4:00 a.m. wake-ups, dune buggy escapades, and the fine art of surviving a desert summer with a grin and a bit of cosmic comedy.

The Sun: Emperor of the Mojave, Tyrant of Thermometers

Out here in the Mojave, the sun doesn’t just rise—it ascends like a flaming overlord, ready to smite anything that dares defy its radiance. 

By June, daytime temps are already kissing 110°F, and don’t be fooled by the midnight “cool-down” to a balmy 100°F. Mid-July and August? 

Oh, brother, that’s when the desert turns into Satan’s skillet, with daily highs of 120°F and often spikes to 125°F—temperatures that could cook a jackrabbit in its boots or turn a wandering beatnik into a pile of ash with a paisley bandana. 

How folks survived out here before air conditioning is beyond me. I picture them hiding in caves, fanning themselves with Joshua tree fronds, muttering, “Why didn’t we move to Seattle?”

My RV, bless its aluminum heart, is my fortress against this solar tyranny. But even with modern air conditioning cranked to arctic levels, the west-facing side of my rig absorbs the afternoon sun like a sponge soaking up lava. 

By 3:00 p.m., the walls are radiating heat, and my home feels like the inside of a calzone. I’ve got it parked north-south to minimize the damage, but that western sun is a sneaky devil, creeping through my blinds like a cosmic paparazzi. 

My electric bill? A cool hundred bucks extra a month, but worth every penny to keep from melting into a puddle of existential poetry.

The 4:00 a.m. Hustle: Coffee, Chores, and Dune Buggy Dreams

To beat the sun, you gotta outsmart it, and that means waking up at 4:00 a.m. when the desert is still cloaked in a fleeting, velvety coolness. I set my mental alarm clock—because who needs a real one when your brain’s wired to the rhythm of the cosmos?—and roll out of bed, my air-conditioned bedroom a chilly oasis. 

My AC unit, a modern marvel, blasts arctic gusts right at my face, keeping things a crisp 70°F even when the thermostat fibs and says 80°F. I sip my coffee, black as the night sky, and watch the stars fade while the desert hums with the quiet anticipation of dawn.

Chores come first: checking the RV’s water tanks (the sun evaporates everything, even your dreams), securing my dune buggy’s cover (more on that beast in a sec), and making sure my solar panels aren’t caked in dust. 

By 5:00 a.m., I’m itching to hit the trails. 

The Mojave surrounds me like an endless playground, a labyrinth of sandy washes and rocky ridges that beg to be explored. 

My dune buggy, a yellow contraption I call "Daisy" , is my ticket to freedom. It’s got knobby tires, a roll cage tougher than a biker’s attitude, and a motor that roars like a caffeinated coyote.

I fire it up, and off we go, tearing toward the Colorado River as the sky blushes pink and gold.

Sunrise Rides: Chasing the Cosmic Groove

There’s nothing like a sunrise ride in the Mojave. The trails along the river are my cathedral, where the first rays of light paint the cliffs in hues of fire and amber.

Lizards dart like tiny philosophers, pondering the meaning of life before scurrying under rocks. The air is crisp, the wind smells of sage, and for a fleeting hour, the desert feels like a secret only I’m in on.

I crank up some vintage Santana on my buggy’s speakers—because what’s a desert ride without a little “Oye Como Va” to set the vibe?—and weave through the trails, kicking up dust clouds that sparkle like cosmic glitter in the dawn.

But the clock’s ticking. By 10:00 a.m., the sun’s getting cocky, and by noon, it’s the undisputed king, ready to roast anything that lingers. I hightail it back to base, because out here, you don’t argue with the sun—you bow. 

The Arizona sun always wins, like a cosmic mob boss who demands respect. Ignore it, and you’ll be a dehydrated cautionary tale by sundown.

Dodging the Heat: Casinos, Shade, and Naps

Once I’m back, it’s time to outwit the heat. One of my favorite tricks is a jaunt to the Avi Casino, just down the road. Their parking structure, built from pure, sun-defying cement, is a shady oasis where my dune buggy can nap without turning into a solar-powered toaster. 

Inside, the food court is a glorious refuge of air-conditioned bliss. I grab a burger, maybe flirt with the idea of dropping a few coins in the slots—because who knows, maybe today’s the day Lady Luck winks at me.

Spoiler: she rarely does, but the AC and a cold soda are prize enough.

Back home, I park the "daisy" on the east side of my neighbor’s place, where the shade is as precious as gold. I cover it up tight, because the sun doesn’t just bake—it evaporates fuel like a vampire draining a gas tank and thins your oil until it’s basically salad dressing. 

The afternoon is for old-guy naps in my chilled bedroom, where I dream of interstellar road trips and quantum-entangled roadrunners. Or I tinker with my next project: maybe a blog about the Groovatrons, those funky, soul-hopping aliens from Funkadelia who inspire my desert musings. (Check my last post for that wild tale.)

Sunset: The Desert’s Grand Finale

As the sun dips below the mountains around 7:30 p.m., the Mojave puts on a show that could make a poet weep. The sky explodes in purples and oranges, shadows stretching across the peaks like cosmic brushstrokes. If there’s a breeze, the dust swirls just right, turning the horizon into a psychedelic painting.

Some mountains glow, others sulk in shadow, and the whole scene feels like the desert’s way of saying, 

“Yeah, I’m hot, but I’m also gorgeous.”

That’s when I sit outside, sipping something cool, maybe strumming my guitar or scribbling in my journal about the day’s adventures. The desert night is a different beast—alive with mystery, whispering of stars and stories yet to be told. 

My neighbors, those snowbirds who fled the heat, are missing out. They’ll be back when the temps drop, but for now, it’s just me, '68 VW Dune Buggy, and the Mojave’s endless groove.

The Moral of the Mojave

Living here means dancing with the sun, respecting its power, and finding joy in the little rebellions—early-morning rides, casino shade, and naps that feel like victories. 

The Mojave teaches you to move with the rhythm of the day, to laugh at the heat, and to find magic in the dust. 

So here’s to the desert, where the sun is king, the dune buggy is my steed, and every sunrise is a chance to chase the cosmic groove. 

Stay cool, and may your AC always blow cold.

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

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