She was Headed South and I was Headed North - Talking Story with Arlo

Talking Story with Arlo

Time to Say Goodbye:

By Arlo Agogo

A Month of Fun on the Open Road.

The desert sun dips low, casting a warm glow over the RV park, where your rig has been parked for a few days. The air hums with the quiet anticipation of the open road, that unspoken pulse of freedom that every RVer knows. 

Your dune buggy sits ready for adventure, and you’re settling into the rhythm of this temporary home when she pulls in. Her RV kicks up a cloud of dust as she maneuvers into the spot next to yours with the ease of a seasoned nomad.

She steps out, a spark in her eye, a laugh that dances on the evening breeze. Her name’s Clara, and she’s staying for a month, just like you. 

But: she’s headed north, you’re bound south. 

What unfolds over the next few weeks is a fleeting, beautiful chapter, one that resonates with the bittersweet melody of Sarah Brightman and Andrea Bocelli’s Time to Say Goodbye.

That first night, you exchange nods over a sunset.

Clara’s a wanderer, like you—a lone soul chasing horizons, her rig a testament to miles traveled and stories collected. She shares a tale of a starry night in Montana, where the Milky Way felt close enough to touch. 

You counter with a story of outrunning a sandstorm in Nevada, your dune buggy barely making it through. There’s an ease to the conversation, a familiarity that feels older than the desert itself. 

The RV park, with its eclectic mix of travelers, is a room so full of light, yet all the light is missing until you start to see her, really see her, in the quiet moments of the sunrise.

The days roll on, each one stitching you closer together. You share meals—her spicy chili, simmered in a cast-iron pot, paired with your grilled fish tacos, served under a canopy of stars. 

You take the dune buggy out, tearing across the dunes, her laughter louder than the engine’s roar. She holds on tight as you navigate the sandy trails, her eyes bright with the thrill. You go sightseeing, exploring slot canyons where the walls glow red in the afternoon light, or hidden springs where the water is cool and clear. 

Her hand brushes yours as you point out a hawk circling above, and you feel a spark, a warmth that lingers. Close up the windows, bring the sun to my room / Through the door you’ve opened. Clara’s not just bringing sunlight into your days; she’s bringing something brighter, something that feels like it could burn forever.

RV life has its own rhythm, its own unspoken rules.

You’re both lone wolves, not looking for forever but open to the now. The spark between you catches, flares into something romantic—a connection born of shared sunsets and open roads. It’s not about possession or promises; it’s about sharing this moment, this place, this adventure. 

Then I know that you are here with me / Building bridges over land and sea. You’re building something together, even if it’s just a bridge to carry you through this month. The connection is real, a blinding light for you and me, but there’s an undeniable truth beneath it all: Horizons are forever. Would I have to find them alone?

As RVers, you both know this dance. 

You’ve said hellos and goodbyes before, shared pieces of your soul, then waved as the road called you onward. It’s not about hurting each other; it’s about honoring the journey. 

Over coffee one morning, the map spread out between you, you talk about what’s next. Clara’s got her heart set on the Pacific Northwest—cool forests, coastal cliffs, the scent of pine and salt. You’re drawn to the southern deserts, the heat and vastness of the borderlands, where the sky feels endless. 

Your paths will diverge, and that’s okay. It’s the life you’ve both chosen, the ships overseas that carry you to new horizons. The road is your true love, and Clara understands that as well as you do.The month unfolds, each moment sharper, more precious as the end nears. 

You take one last dune buggy ride, her hair whipping in the wind, her smile brighter than the midday sun. You share a quiet dinner, her hand resting on yours, the weight of the inevitable goodbye settling in. There’s no drama, no tears—just a shared understanding. 

Time to say goodbye. 

You talk late into the night, reminiscing about the dunes, the canyons, the way the stars looked that first night you met. You both know the road is calling, and neither of you would ask the other to stay. That’s not what this is. The RV life is about freedom, about chasing your own light, even if it means letting go of someone who’s lit up your world.

The final morning arrives, and you help her pack up her rig. You exchange numbers, promising to text, to call when the signal’s good. You’ll check in, share a laugh about a new adventure, but you both know the distance will grow. 

There’s a certain sadness in it, sure, but there’s also joy—joy in the individual adventurism that defines you both. You’re not breaking each other’s hearts; you’re setting them free to chase the next horizon. Clara’s helped you remember why you love this life—the freedom, the unpredictability, the way every mile tells a story.

 And you’ve done the same for her. As her RV pulls out, dust trailing behind, you stand by your rig, the desert stretching out before you.  Horizons are never far. Maybe your paths will cross again—seasons change, routes shift, and the road has a way of surprising you. 

Maybe you’ll find yourself going north one day, and she’ll be coming south, and you’ll meet at some dusty crossroads, sharing a grin and a memory. Or maybe this is it, a perfect chapter closed, a story that doesn’t need a sequel. 

Either way, you carry her with you—not as a weight, but as a light, a reminder of what’s possible when two wanderers meet.You climb into your rig, the dune buggy hitched behind, and point it south. The open road stretches out, full of possibility, full of light. 

You’re not alone, not really—Clara’s laughter, her spark, travels with you, tucked into your heart like a favorite song. The RV lifestyle isn’t about holding on; it’s about carrying forward, about finding joy in the journey,

 --even when it’s time to say goodbye. 

You turn up the radio, let the desert wind rush through the window, and drive toward the next adventure, knowing that the 

--road will always lead you somewhere new.

Groove Is in the Heart - Arlo

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A Jaunt to the Sequoia Forest -Talking Story with Arlo

Talking Story with Arlo

A Jaunt to the Sequoia Forest

By Arlo Agogo

Last Friday night, my phone lit up with a text from the Groovatrons, those neutrino sized far-out cosmic cats from the planet Funkadelia who vibe on a frequency somewhere between stardust and cool jazz. 

Their elders—wise, glowing energy sources who’ve been kickin’ it since the Earth was a twinkle in the universe’s eye—had a hankerin’ to visit the Giant Sequoia Forest in California. 

These elders, who were there when the mighty sequoias were just sprouts, wanted to cruise through the forest in my quantum-entangled dune buggy, feel the breeze, and dig the scene at human speed. 

No hurry, no worry—just pure, joy. 

They also had a plan to park in a meadow for a sunny afternoon picnic, complete with beach chairs, umbrellas, and a basket full of righteous eats.

I revved up the dune buggy, its quantum link to the redwoods hummin’ like a beatnik’s bongo drum. The Groovatrons piled in, their energy crackling, toting picnic baskets stuffed with sandwiches and pitchers of iced tea that glowed faintly with otherworldly zest.

Their elders, who became Groovatrons after walking the Earth centuries ago, weren’t here for the city’s hustle or the Decayatrons’ bad vibes. 

Nah, man, they craved the pure, soul-shakin’ majesty of the sequoia forest, where trees stand taller than a poet’s dreams and older than time’s oldest riff.

We rolled into the Sequoia National Forest, the air thick with pine and possibility. The giant sequoias loomed like nature’s skyscrapers, their reddish trunks wider than a beatnik’s wildest metaphor. These trees, some pushin’ 3,000 years old, are like cosmic librarians, their rings holdin’ stories of the world’s ups and downs. 

The elders, their energy swirlin’ like a psychedelic light show, pointed to a fallen sequoia nearby, its rings exposed like a vinyl record of history. “Dig this, man,” one elder said, their voice smooth as moonlight.

 “These rings? They’re the Earth’s diary."

They are documenting the comedy, the chaos, and the cool of the last hundred years.

And oh, what stories those rings told! The elders spun tales as we cruised, their words paintin’ pictures wilder than a Kerouac poem. Back in the 1920s, the rings recorded the Roaring Twenties, when flappers danced under the sequoias’ shade, their Charleston moves so wild they made the trees sway. 

One ring, thick with sap, held the laughter of a 1930s hobo camp, where wanderers swapped tall tales by campfire, claimin’ they saw sequoias wink at the moon. 

The 1960s rings? Man, they were tie-dyed with the vibes of hippies who camped here, strummin’ guitars and preachin’ love while the trees nodded in approval. 

One elder swore a 1970s ring captured the time a disco ball got hung from a sequoia branch, sparklin’ as folks boogied till dawn. Pure exaggeration? Maybe, but the forest’s magic makes you believe anything’s possible.

We parked in a meadow, the sun blastin’ golden rays. 

The Groovatrons set up camp, poppin’ open umbrellas that shimmered like starlight and unfoldin’ beach chairs that looked straight outta a sci-fi flick. 

The picnic spread was a sight to behold: sandwiches stacked high with avocado, peanut butter from another dimension, and sprouts that practically sang hallelujah. 

The iced tea? It glowed neon green, tastin’ like sunshine and secrets. We lounged, the elders reminiscing about the forest’s youth, when they wandered these groves as mortals, feelin’ the Earth’s pulse in every root. 

“The forest was young then,” one elder said, their energy pulsing like a bassline. “But these trees? They’ve grown into giants, holdin’ the world’s laughter and tears in their rings.

”Those rings, man, they kept spillin’ secrets." 

A 1940s ring whispered of park rangers battlin’ a wildfire, their courage etched deep in the wood. A 1980s ring caught the echo of environmentalists chainin’ themselves to sequoias to stop loggers, their chants vibratin’ through the bark. 

And a 2020s ring? It shimmered with the quiet of a world paused by pandemic, when the sequoias stood silent, watchin’ humans rethink their ways. The elders grinned, sayin’ the trees approved of mankind’s choice to let these giants live. “Smart move, humans,” they said. 

“These trees are the planet’s poets, and you didn’t rip out their pages.”

The afternoon stretched on, lazy and perfect. Birds chirped, bees buzzed, and the sequoias seemed to lean in, listenin’ to our chatter. The elders glowed brighter, their connection to the forest like a  Wi-Fi signal. 

They marveled at the trees’ size—some trunks wider than a spaceship’s landing pad—and their staying power. “Monumental, man,” an elder said, sippin’ neon tea. “These sequoias are proof the universe knows how to throw a party that lasts millennia.”As the sun dipped low, paintin’ the sky in purples and pinks, we packed up the picnic and piled back into the dune buggy. 

The ride home was smooth, the forest’s magic clingin’ to us like glitter. I slid into my desert driveway sideways, tires kickin’ up dust as the stars began to pop out.

Lookin’ up, I saw a streak of light zigzag across the sky—the Groovatrons, zippin’ back to Funkadelia. My phone buzzed with a text: “Elders are over the moon, man. Sequoias are thrivin’, and you’re one groovy cat for the ride. 

Keep those trees standin’—they’ve got stories for centuries more.

”I leaned back in the buggy, starin’ at the Milky Way, feelin’ the day’s vibes settle in my soul. The sequoias, with their rings full of comedy, chaos, and cool, are more than trees—they’re time capsules, holdin’ the Earth’s wildest tales. 

From flappers to hippies to elders, they’ve seen it all and kept on growin’. I grinned, knowin’ the Groovatrons were right: mankind’s done right by these giants, lettin’ them stand tall to tell their stories for hundreds of years more. 

And maybe, just maybe, the next ring will hold a little bit of our groovy adventure, 

--etched forever in the heart of a sequoia.

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

Metallica and Me - Talking Story with Arlo

1000 words

Talking Story with Arlo

By Arlo Agogo

"The Legendary Weekend "

I Became Metallica’s Backstage Beer dude and the Ultimate Chick Magnet.

Gather ‘round, folks, because I’m about to spin a tale so wild, so gloriously over-the-top, it’ll make your head bang harder than a Metallica riff. 

This is the story of how I, and my dog "Tex", a humble RV-driving, dog-loving, smooth-talking maverick, stumbled into the most epic, beer-soaked, star-studded weekend of my life at the Irvine Amphitheater. 

It was Metallica weekend, and I didn’t just sneak into the party—I became the party. 

Buckle up, because this is gonna be louder than a double bass drum and twice as ridiculous. The Irvine Amphitheater, a hallowed ground where the gods of rock descend every weekend, was buzzing with anticipation. 

Metallica, the undisputed titans of metal, were set to shred for three nights—Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Me? I’m just a guy with a 40-foot diesel Providence RV that gleams like a chrome-plated spaceship, a 100-pound Labrador named Tex who’s basically a furry rock star, 

--and a foolproof plan to infiltrate the VIP lot.

 For years, I’ve been pulling off the ultimate hustle: I roll up to the guard shack, flash a grin that could charm a rattlesnake, and mumble, “I’m with the band.” The guards, dazzled by my audacity, wave me through like I’m Lars Ulrich’s long-lost cousin. 

I park my rig next to the refrigerator semis that haul in the grub for the concessions, and Tex and I spend our days chasing rabbits in the fields out back, living like kings in a rock ‘n’ roll wonderland.

But this Thursday morning was different. 

As I cruised in, my heart was pounding like a “Master of Puppets” drum solo. The lot was transforming into a mobile metropolis of rock. 

A parade of RVs and semis rolled in like a heavy metal armada—sleeper RVs with bunk beds stacked like a rock star dormitory, commercial kitchen rigs that could feed an army, and a Budweiser truck that was basically a rolling shrine to beer. 

These weren’t your grandma’s campers; these were the luxury liners of Metallica’s touring empire, designed to keep the band and their legion of roadies fed, rested, and ready to melt faces.

As Tex and I stood there, jaws dropped, who should saunter over but James Hetfield and Lars Ulrich themselves? 

That’s right—the James Hetfield, with a voice that could shake mountains, and the Lars Ulrich, whose drumming could wake the dead. They were instantly smitten with Tex, who was wagging his tail like a metronome set to “Battery.” 

I laid on the charm thicker than a power chord, spinning my tale of sneaking past the guards by claiming I’m “with the band.” “Mate, you’re a bloody legend!” Lars roared, while James gave Tex a scratch and a grin. 

I was practically glowing with pride, my ego inflated like a stage pyrotechnic.Hours later, the plot thickened. A frazzled dude who introduced himself as Captain Logistics, the stage manager and master of all things backstage, approached me. “We’re short-handed,” he said, eyeing my trash-can-wielding potential. “Some crew didn’t show". 

Wanna work the weekend? $200 a day to clean up.

Help the chef, and keep the beer flowing.” My response? A “Hell yeah!” so loud it echoed across the lot. I was about to become the Beer Dude of Backstage, the Solo Cup Sultan, the man who made Metallica’s party tick.

My job was simple but glorious: wheel around a trash can on steroids, scoop up empty Solo cups, paper plates, and stray rib bones, and ensure the Budweiser tap never ran dry. 

The backstage setup was a rock ‘n’ roll paradise. Picture a fleet of RVs that made my Providence look like a toy, a smoker pumping out ribs, brisket, and turkey that smelled like heaven’s barbecue, and a chef who wielded the Walmart app like a wizard’s wand, summoning food deliveries with pinpoint precision. 

A gaggal of roadies and band members needed feeding, and I was the guy keeping the chaos clean, darting around like a caffeinated janitor while Tex charmed everyone by snarfing up donated ribs.

But let’s talk about the real magic: the celebrities. Backstage was like a rock ‘n’ roll Mount Olympus. Alice in Chains was chilling with beers, Bob Dylan was munching ribs like a poet laureate of barbecue, members of the Grateful Dead were swapping stories, and Kenny Chesney was just vibing like he’d wandered off a beach. 

I was the Beer Dude, so naturally, I was everyone’s best friend. “Yo, Beer Dude!” they’d yell, and I’d swagger over with a stack of beer filled Solo cups, dishing out brews and charm like I was born for it. 

The chef, a culinary genius, kept the smoker roaring, and I kept the cups stacked, ensuring the party never skipped a beat.

My secret weapon? Metallica’s business cards, handed to me by a roadie with a conspiratorial wink. These weren’t just cards—they were golden tickets to the after-party, and 

--I wielded them like a rock ‘n’ roll Excalibur. 

I’d venture into the crowd during the concerts, my confidence cranked to 11, and spot groups of women who looked like they’d stepped out of a music video. 

“Ladies,” I’d say, flashing a grin that could light up the stage, “want the VIP Metallica experience? Take this card, drive to the back, show it to the guard, and join the after-party.” It worked like magic. 

By Saturday night, I was drowning in admirers, all thanks to my status as the Beer Dude. I was the chick magnet of Irvine, the smoothest operator since James Bond traded his martini for a Budweiser.

Tex, meanwhile, was living his best life. Every unattended plate of ribs was his personal buffet. He had to be tied up but I had used my extended 20 foot leesh so he could work his magical cutenes in a extended range.

 “That dog’s cooler than half the band,” one roadie said, and I couldn’t disagree. The concerts were pure insanity—Metallica tore the roof off the amphitheater, and I was backstage, soaking up the vibes while keeping the Solo cups flowing. 

The roadies treated me like family, the celebrities treated me like a legend, and the ladies treated me like I was Hetfield himself.

By Sunday night, I was $600 richer, utterly exhausted, and riding a high that no drug could touch. I’d gone from a sneaky RV guy to the king of backstage, all because I had the audacity to roll in with my dog and 

--a well worked line "I'm with the band" 

As I packed up my Providence, giving Tex one last rib from the smoker, I looked back at the Irvine Amphitheater and laughed. I’d conned my way into Metallica’s inner circle, become the Beer Dude of Backstage, and walked away with a story 

--that’ll have my buddies jealous until the end of time.

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

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Tex’s Tale - Talking Story with Tex

Talking Story with Tex

Tex’s Tale: 

Autobiography from a 100-lb Yellow Lab

Woof, y’all! I’m Tex, a 100-pound bundle of yellow Labrador joy, and let me tell ya, my life’s been a wild, tail-waggin’ ride! 

So, there I was, in a puddle of puppies under the scorching Texas sun. Eyes barely open, I’m already shoving my brothers and sisters outta the way like a furry bulldozer. 

Me and Mom time? Non-negotiable. I was the alpha pup, the big cheese, the top dog in a litter of squirming furballs. 

Everyone fussed over me, probably ‘cause I was struttin’ my stuff like a canine kingpin. One day, I’m mindin’ my own business, chompin’ on some kibble, when this cowboy dude with a Texas drawl thicker than molasses scoops me and my sister up. “You’re the one!” he says, like I’m the golden ticket in a Willie Wonka flick. 

Turns out, this guy’s just the delivery dude 

—some surfer bro on the California coast is payin’ for me ‘cause he wants an alpha dog for “home security” and “companionship.” 

Pfft, like I’m some rent-a-cop with a waggin’ tail. I never caught the cowboy’s name, but I’m pretty sure it was Ralph. Sounded like a Ralph, anyway. Next thing I know, I’m crammed in an RV, bouncin’ toward the West. How’d I know it was West? ‘Cause that’s where the sun sets, duh! 

I spent a few days peein’ all over that RV—learned real quick that’s a no-go. After what felt like a million miles, we roll into Mission Viejo, pullin’ up outside a dive bar called Mugs Away. 

Classy joint. I’m just chillin’ when a car screeches up, and Ralph starts yammerin’ with some long-haired dude. They’re arguin’ over me and my sister—Ralph wanted the girl, this guy wanted me. Easy swap, and suddenly I’m tucked under the arm of this surfer freak named Arlo, lookin’ like he just rolled outta a Beach Boys music video.

We strut into Mugs Away, and let me tell ya, I was the star of the show. Everyone’s cooin’ over me, callin’ me “cute” and “adorable.” Arlo’s slingin’ beers, holdin’ me like I’m his VIP pass to coolness. 

This dude’s my new owner, and he’s the chillest, most carefree beach bum you’ll ever meet. Picture a 50-year-old surfer with hair down to his shoulders, livin’ in flip-flops, and always smellin’ faintly of sunscreen and tacos. 

That’s Arlo. 

After a few brews, Arlo tosses me into his Speedster, and we’re off to his parents’ place on the outskirts of LA. I’m thinkin’, “Great, more humans to worship me.”

Arlo’s mom and dad are older than the hills, no dogs of their own anymore, so I’m like their furry grandkid. Mom’s a tea-drinkin’ cookie machine, slippin’ me treats every chance she gets. Pop’s cool too, always sneakin’ me bits of his sandwich. Arlo’s cookin’ me chicken, feedin’ me the good stuff ‘cause he wants me to be a big, strong beast. 

In six months I grew to be 100 pounds of pure Lab love!

I took my job as family protector seriously. I’d patrol the house, keepin’ an eye on things, barkin’ at squirrels like they’re public enemy number one. Mom and Pop loved it, laughin’ at my puppy antics. But soon, it was time to hit the road again. Arlo’s all about that beach life, so we park the RV by the Santa Ana River Jetty in Newport Beach. 

This place is my jam! I’m struttin’ my stuff, actin’ all cute, and lemme tell ya, I’m a total chick magnet for Arlo. 

Girls in bikinis can’t resist my floppy ears and soulful eyes. Arlo’s livin’ the dream, chattin’ up the ladies while I’m stealin’ the show.

We spent a year or two like this, livin’ in the RV, hangin’ by the beach. The river was my playground—county property, so no “no dogs allowed” nonsense like on the beach. 

It was Labrador central down there, with all these surf cats bringin’ their dogs. One dude had this ridiculous rope with TEN tennis balls tied to it each ball 12 inces from the other. He’d chuck it into the water, and me and the other Labs would go nuts, divin’ in like we’re in the Canine Olympics. 

I was the king, though—Tex the Titan! I’d drag that rope back to shore, haulin’ ten other Labs with me like I’m pullin’ a monster truck. The crowd went wild, cheerin’ my name. Okay, maybe they were just laughin’, but it felt like cheers.

Evenings were chill. Arlo and I would park the RV, cook some dinner, and sit by the beachwalk. I’d be on my retractable leash, waggin’ my tail at every bikini-clad passerby. Arlo’d let me stretch out to say hi, and I’d work my charm—tail wags, puppy eyes, the whole deal. 

I was basically Arlo’s wingman, and he was livin’ the carefree life, grinnin’ like a kid who just found free tacos.

Weekends, we’d head back to Mom and Pop’s. By now, I’m gettin’ a bit middle-aged—less puppy, more distinguished gent. Arlo’s folks had a full-time caregiver, and I’m like, “Sweet, more humans to spoil me!” I’d stay with them sometimes, chillin’ with Mom, who’d slip me cookies like I’m her personal cookie vacuum. 

I took my guard dog duties to heart, especially with Mom’s Alzheimer’s. When she’d have an episode, the caregiver would plop me on her bed, and I’d lay my big ol’ head on her chest. Boom—calm city. 

Mom’d smile, and I’m pretty sure I was her hero. Dad, too—I’d check on him, and if he needed his fried egg sandwich or a sneaky cigarette, I’d fetch the caregiver like a furry butler.

As I got older, I started diggin’ the house life more than the RV. Don’t get me wrong, Arlo’s 40-foot rig was sweet, but it ain’t no grassy lawn for sunnin’ myself. Mom’s leftovers and the caregiver’s gourmet dog food?  Yes, please! I’d still hit the beach with Arlo on weekends, splashin’ in the river, chasin’ tennis balls, and flirtin’ with the bikini crowd. 

But my heart was with Mom and Pop, makin’ sure they were safe.

Time rolled on, and things got heavy. Mom and Pop needed more help, so Arlo and I moved in with them.

We were a team, lookin’ after the old folks. Eventually, Mom and Pop crossed, and I knew my time was comin’. When I finally trotted off to that rainbow bridge where I will wait for Arlo with his other dogs Homer, Keesh and Princess (my new friends) , I left behind a legacy of tail wags, cookie crumbs, chick magnetism 

-- and the best dog dude who’s probably still tellin’ stories about his 100-pound wingman, Tex. 

Groove is in the Heart - Tex

Dune Buggies, House Boats and Doris Day -Talking Story with Arlo

Talking Story with Arlo

Doris Day: The Desert Dynamo and Our Lake Powell Extravaganza

Picture this: a late-night text lights up my phone like a flare in the desert night.

It’s from Doris Day—not the Doris Day, that Hollywood songbird, but my Doris Day, a British firecracker who traded her banker’s briefcase for a dune buggy and a zest for life that could make a cactus blush. 

Her message? 

An invite to a five-day escapade at Lake Powell with her 55-plus dune buggy club, a ragtag crew of silver-haired thrill-seekers ready to tear up the sand and float on houseboats. I nearly catapulted out of my recliner, texting back, “Count me in, desert queen! 

When and where?” Moments later, her reply: “Usual casino parking lot, Saturday, 5 a.m. sharp. Bring coffee, you daft yank.” I grinned, already picturing the chaos. Doris and I aren’t a couple—perish the thought! 

We’re lone wolves, best pals who howl together under the stars, keeping our lives separate but our adventures intertwined. 

This, dear reader, is the tale of our most epic “date” yet, dripping with comedy, exaggeration, and the kind of freedom that makes your soul sing. Doris is a marvel, a powerhouse with a posh British accent that could make a tax code sound like poetry. 

Retired from the cutthroat world of finance, she now rules the dunes in her neon yellow dune buggy, a contraption so souped-up it could probably outrun a cheetah. 

Me? I’m Arlo, a guy with a  pickup truck, a thermos of coffee strong enough to wake a hibernating bear, and a knack for turning life’s mundane moments into laugh-out-loud sagas.

Our friendship is a masterpiece of independence—we don’t share addresses, life plans, or Netflix passwords, but we share a love for adventure, bad jokes, and the kind of chemistry that makes every outing feel like a blockbuster comedy. 

Doris calls our meetups “daytime dates,” but this Lake Powell trip? Five days of pure, unfiltered madness? That’s a whole new level of Arlo-and-Doris shenanigans.

Saturday morning, I’m up before the roosters, hauling my truck to our usual casino parking lot. Doris is already there, rocking her aviator sunglasses and a neon visor that screams “I’m here to cause trouble.” “Arlo, don’t you dare spill that coffee,” she quips, tossing me the keys to her dune buggy. 

We hitch it to my truck, and off we go, barreling toward Lake Powell, a three-hour drive that flies by in a blur of banter. Doris regales me with her latest tale—how she accidentally entered a monster truck rally and nearly won by charming the judges with her accent. 

I counter with my own epic: the time I got lost in a Walmart, ended up in the camping aisle, and woke up cuddling a sleeping bag display. 

By the time we hit Lake Powell, we’re cackling like hyenas, ready to unleash our brand of chaos on the desert. Lake Powell greets us like a sapphire dropped in a sea of red rock, its waters glinting under a sky so big it could swallow your ego whole. 

The 55-plus club has already set up camp—a sprawling setup of houseboats bobbing like corks and dune buggies parked like a post-apocalyptic car show. 

There’s about 20 of us, a merry band of gray-haired daredevils, including two retired chefs who’ve brought a smoker the size of a small shed, a mountain of brisket, and enough veggies to make a vegan weep with joy. 

My contribution? 

A bottomless supply of jokes so groan-worthy they’re practically performance art. Doris rolls her eyes, but her smirk betrays her—she’s hooked on my nonsense, and I’m hooked on her laughter. Day one kicks off with a dune buggy caravan that’s less “leisurely drive” and more “Mad Max: Silver Edition.” 

Doris leads the charge, her buggy kicking up sand clouds that could blot out the sun. We bounce over dunes, swerve through canyons, and end with a “cocktail hour” where we circle the wagons and sip margaritas under a sky painted in purples and golds. 

Doris leans over, her British lilt slicing through the desert breeze: “Arlo, these daytime dates are smashing, but five days? You’d better keep those jokes coming, old boy.” I wink, promising her a week of one-liners so bad they’ll make her beg for mercy.

The next morning, we board Doris’s rented houseboat—a floating palace with a motor that purrs like a contented cat, thanks to my years as a houseboat wrangler. I’m in my element, steering us into Lake Powell’s hidden coves where the water’s so clear you can see fish performing synchronized swimming routines. 

The group scatters, each boat claiming its own slice of paradise. Doris and I anchor in a private inlet, the kind of place where the quiet is so deep it feels like the universe is holding its breath. We swim, we float, we trade stories about our separate lives—hers filled with mysterious travels to places she only hints at, mine littered with misadventures like the time I tried to “borrow” a neighbor’s llama for a petting zoo. 

“Arlo,” she laughs, nearly falling off the boat, “you’re a walking sitcom.” I take a bow, nearly capsizing us both. Back at camp, the chefs work their magic. Brisket smoked to melt-in-your-mouth perfection, baked potatoes the size of footballs, and iced tea so sweet it could give you a cavity from across the table. 

Cocktail hour at 5 p.m. is sacred—Doris hands me a martini, and I raise it to the desert gods, who are probably jealous of our good time. After dinner, we dance under a sky exploding with stars, our playlist swinging from Sinatra to AC/DC. Doris spins me around like a top, her laughter echoing across the lake. 

Later, we take a moonlit stroll along the shore, holding hands not because we’re in love, but because sometimes you just need to hold onto someone who gets you. The moonlight on Lake Powell is so bright it could guide ships, and Doris whispers, “This is why we do it, Arlo. The world’s too big to sit still.

”The next few days are a glorious blur. Mornings start with dune buggy races, Doris tearing through the sand like a caffeinated jackrabbit while I try to keep up, shouting jokes over the roar of engines. “Why did the scarecrow become a motivational speaker? Because he was outstanding in his field!” Doris nearly crashes from laughing. 

Afternoons, we’re back on the houseboat, cruising to new coves, diving into waters so warm they feel like a hug. One afternoon, as we float in our private paradise, I catch Doris staring at the horizon. “What’s on your mind, desert queen?” I ask. She grins. “Just thinking you’re the only bloke I’d let drive my buggy.” 

High praise from a woman who trusts no one with her wheels. Nights are for campfires, where I spin yarns about my “dumbass life”—like the time I accidentally joined a senior bingo night and won a toaster I still haven’t figured out how to use. Doris howls, her posh accent making every quip sound like a royal decree. 

As the trip winds down, a pang of sadness hits. Not because we’re leaving, but because moments this perfect are rare, like finding a four-leaf clover in a sandstorm. On the last day, we all hug it out, fire up our rigs, and head home. 

I drop Doris off at the Avi Casino parking lot—our usual drop-off spot, because lone wolves don’t need addresses, just good company. 

After our usual long soft embracing good bye kiss ...

“Until the next adventure, Arlo,” she says, peeling out in her buggy like a bat out of hell. Doris and I aren’t a couple, and that’s the magic of it. We’re two weirdos who thrive on our own but light up the desert when we’re together. 

Lake Powell was our playground, our five-day date a masterpiece of chaos, laughter, and freedom. Here’s to Doris, to dune buggies, to starlit skies, and to the glory of being alive

—together, but always, gloriously, ourselves.

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

Failing Upward -Talking Story with Arlo

Talking Story with Arlo 

Starship Flight 10:The the Art of Failing Upward
By Arlo AgogoSpaced Out Reporting 
Dig this, cats and kittens, we’re slingin’ ourselves into the starry void with SpaceX’s Starship Flight 10, a righteous rocket rhapsody that blasted off on August 26, 2025, from the sun-scorched sands of Starbase, Texas. 
This ain’t just a tale of metal and fire; it’s a beatnik ballad of human ambition, a cosmic caper where failure and success dance a wild tango under the infinite sky.
Buckle up, because this 400-foot-tall beast—Starship, the grooviest mega-rocket ever built—did more than just roar into the heavens. 
It popped off fake satellites like a galactic Pez dispenser, flipped the bird to past flops, and taught us all how to stumble, learn, and soar.
Let’s riff on this interstellar odyssey, with a nod to comedy, exaggeration, and the holy grail of failing forward.The Pez Dispenser in the Sky: Starship’s Satellite SpewPicture this: a silver-and-black behemoth, taller than a skyscraper, screaming into the cosmos with 33 Raptor engines belching fire like a dragon with a chili addiction. 
Starship Flight 10 wasn’t just another test; it was a middle finger to gravity and a love letter to innovation. The mission? To fling eight dummy Starlink satellites into a suborbital groove, using a contraption so wild it could only be called the “Pez dispenser” of space. 
This ain’t your grandpa’s rocket fairing, no sir. Instead of a big ol’ clamshell payload bay, Starship’s got a sleek slot near its nose, like a cosmic vending machine ready to spit out satellites faster than a beat poet spits rhymes.
On that fateful Tuesday evening, at 7:30 p.m. ET, the Super Heavy booster lit up the Texas night, hauling Starship skyward with the power of 64 Boeing 747s. 
Three minutes in, the booster peeled off, did a sassy boostback burn, and splashed down in the Gulf of America like a surfer catching the perfect wave.
Meanwhile, the Starship upper stage, our hero of the hour, cruised into a suborbital arc, ready to flex its Pez-dispensing muscles. The payload bay door—cursed by a failure in Flight 9—swung open like a jazz club gate, and out came the dummy satellites, one by one, popping through that narrow slot like candy from a kid’s favorite toy. 
“The last one has been deployed!” hollered SpaceX’s Dan Huot on the live webcast, and you could hear the ground crew whooping like they’d just won a cosmic poker game. 
Eight fake Starlinks, ejected at a rate of one per minute, floated into the void, proving this rocket could deliver the goods.
This Pez dispenser vibe? It’s no gimmick. SpaceX is gunning to launch 60 Starlink V3 satellites per flight, each one a beefy 1.25-ton beast, far chunkier than the Falcon 9’s current 660-pound payloads. 
These next-gen satellites are the future of SpaceX’s internet empire, promising 10x the downlink and 24x the uplink capacity of today’s models. Starship’s slot-and-stack system, with its rail-like frame and retention locks, is built to handle the heavy lifting, making each launch a bandwidth bonanza. 
Flight 10’s success showed the world that SpaceX can sling satellites with style, setting the stage for a future where Starlink blankets the planet with high-speed Wi-Fi, all while funding Elon Musk’s Martian dreams.A Streak of Misfortune, Smashed to SmithereensNow, let’s get real, daddy-o. Starship Flight 10 wasn’t just a victory lap; it was a comeback story worthy of a Kerouac novel. 
The road to this triumph was paved with explosions, meltdowns, and enough “oh no” moments to make a lesser company pack up and go home. 
Earlier in 2025, Starship had a rough go—three test flights (Flights 7, 8, and 9) saw the upper stage blow up or disintegrate like a cosmic piñata. Flight 9, in May, was a particular bummer: a propellant leak killed attitude control, the payload bay door stayed shut tighter than a beatnik’s wallet, and the ship broke apart on reentry. 
Oh, and let’s not forget the June test-stand explosion that turned a prototype into a fireball worthy of a Hollywood blockbuster. The space community was sweating, whispering, “Can Musk pull this off?”
But SpaceX? 
They don’t cry over spilled rocket fuel. 
They’re the cool cats who see failure as a guru, not a grim reaper. Flight 10 was their redemption song, a smooth ride that hit every mark:

• booster separation
• suborbital trajectory
• satellite deployment
• controlled splashdown 

in the Indian Ocean after a fiery reentry that tested new heat shield tiles. 
Those tiles, by the way, took a beating—some burned, some warped, but the ship held together, proving SpaceX is learning how to tame the 2,600-degree inferno of atmospheric reentry.
This is where the beatnik wisdom kicks in. Failure ain’t the end; it’s the map. Every explosion, every busted flap, every stuck door is a lesson scrawled in the stars.
SpaceX’s “test-to-failure” ethos is like a poet revising a verse: you scribble, you cross out, you try again. Flight 10’s success came from the ashes of those earlier flops, with engineers tweaking fire suppression, tile adherence, and engine redundancy. 
They flew imperfect hardware—leaks, missing tiles, and all—because real-world data trumps perfectionism. As Musk himself said, “Many flights, many iterations” are needed to find the weak spots. And find them they did, paving the way for Flight 11 and beyond.Failing Forward: The Comedy of ProgressNow, let’s zoom out and get philosophical, my fellow stargazers. Life, like a Starship launch, is a messy, beautiful improvisation. Failure isn’t a brick wall; it’s a neon sign pointing to the next turn. 
SpaceX’s journey with Starship is a masterclass in failing upward, a cosmic comedy where every pratfall is a setup for a punchline. Think about it: if you never crash, you never learn how to steer. Flight 10’s triumph wasn’t about being flawless; it was about being resilient, about taking the hits and still landing soft in the Indian Ocean.
This ain’t just rocket science—it’s a life lesson wrapped in stainless steel. 
When you bomb a gig, miss a deadline, or flub a first date, you’re not done; you’re gathering data. SpaceX could’ve played it safe, but they chose to push, to test, to break things and rebuild them stronger. 
That’s the beatnik way: embrace the chaos, laugh at the flops, and keep swinging for the stars. Every failure is a chance to pinpoint your needs, to adjust your trajectory, to focus on what matters. 
For SpaceX, that’s full reusability, Mars colonization, and a Starlink network that’ll make dial-up modems cry. For you? It’s whatever dream keeps you up at night, whatever goal makes your heart hum like a Raptor engine.The Big Picture: SpaceX’s Galactic Gambit
Starship Flight 10 wasn’t just a win for SpaceX; it’s a beacon for the future. This rocket is the key to NASA’s Artemis III lunar landing, set for 2027, and Musk’s wild vision of Martian cities. It’s a beast built to haul 150 tons to orbit, dwarfing the Falcon 9 and making space accessible like never before. 
The Pez dispenser? It’s the cherry on top, a quirky solution to sling thousands of Starlink satellites, bankrolling the whole shebang. SpaceX already launches over half the world’s rockets and deploys 80% of its satellites—Flight 10 just solidified their lead.
But the real kicker? This test showed SpaceX’s knack for turning setbacks into stepping stones. They’re not chasing perfection; they’re chasing progress. Flight 11’s on the horizon, with plans for catcher-tower landings and beefier V3 and V4 Starships packing 42 engines. Musk’s even talking 24 launches a day in a few years—exaggeration, sure, but that’s the beatnik spirit: dream big, fail loud, and keep groovin’.Coda: Keep Swingin’, StarmanSo here we are, at the end of our cosmic jam session. Starship Flight 10 was a blast, a Pez-dispensing, heat-shield-testing, failure-defying hoot. It’s proof that SpaceX is rewriting the rules of rocketry, 
one explosion and one success at a time. 
Grove is in the heart - Arlo

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