roll into a blue day, new day
way to skip and fascinate rhyme
find words in focus & nickles and dimes
and dandy fine rainbow stroking prism'd ribboned glacier night
the soothing smooth sleek glass neon dylan heads shine fire into the smokey jazzy bars in liquid nights.
who walks here in rain gear
walks & takes the chance, romance the shoe shine gypsy looking cradle robbing concubine from hell another planet yet to be
these song she says she sings to me
to me you often catch the fate
of all the prisoners in your face
the night
it howls
all as one
and who the finest of them all he's all the rage
and he's the reason for the war you rage
and all the seasons turn the page
I can't hear you, can't be done
with you I'm not not anyone
and who hears what she grips his face
and tries to turn that fateful page
and all the manner all the stares
of millions crimson gathering there
in hushed hues & soft spoken cries
the flames they leap and lap the bride
nestled in her red widows gown
and all the people of the town
have come to taste her poison & gait
who strives among us
coins are tossed
games are won & games are lost
and who is it that sits you there and
acts as though they really care
and open up the dream this wide
a fantastic freak of vision, fashion flare
into Dylan's word garden flowing derision
on all the feasts and cadences
and all the planes and cages
and backroom deals
fights in the square
gentlemen from better parts of town
come down just to have a look around.
idle strangers standing there.
car cruises bye mirrored hair
smokelet, ringlets, starlet, tear
her ripped blouse
flowing mouth & eyes soft gentle stare
and breasts of night, and sweet sweet light
forever in her studied care
night rolls on
the cars they bowl
for pretzels, pizza, parties all the more
on the riverwalk
or at the fair
Circus animals, frogs & lairs
of crazy critter stream
fenced and gloat
the milk of Jersey cow, she fills the moat
of the castle of the hill, where the kings he roars
and writes his life in pages from his horrors he compiles
titles of time, and tortured styles.
this he said to her weaving groaned
played the hammond organ and then intoned
I must see you here
Naked as white dust doves & steamy smoke debris.
they cannot chase us here, find us there, on the cusp, breaking into, breaking bread
breaking into heaven, finding you instead.
find myself a way to wrestle demons shouting doubts and dread
in my ancient splitting head.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Strange not to find your drumbeat
in the middle of the day
in the middle of the room
in the middle of a great big riddle
pour away
flow rap rhythm pulse the night
she explodes in reds & blues & golds
like America's streak into a future sleek & fat
on a wave like the edge of a shop-lined street.
it's strange not to work here
write here
be here, quite next to you over there, sitting there in your quiet stare
a rainbow gift; a sudden glare
she of the crescent river soul moon flower bloom into
a river of soft decay & wasted twilights
stumbling across the bridges, tossing airs & frolicsome on its promise
(oh and in case you forgot to grow; did not know; did not care, nor hunt for stares.)
oh castle creed her flaming brow & midnight tolls
She beckons in, to see her flow & bright diamond shine
like no other, nuclear sunshine
just radiating there.
crimson palace, gold hair
strong & graceful, elegant, her gem-stoned studded affair
on the brink of a harsh rude wide awake and in the cold death grip of a fatal instant.
You become everything and nothing and fade away into the white night glare.
like city lights on seeping knowledge; the young they gather on the slops of of towns in cars
& parked on the side of hills, drinking beer, tossing rhymes into the starry sky,
talk about rock & the Wisdom she borne, the prophecy fortold; the bridegroom doomed
in the prophet song
the prophet town
of old becomes solid, cold.
(encased in stone)
Truthful glare
ancient eyes
& wonderful memories
thoughts going back and hour a day
no other way
sifting there, sands of time shift
a memory of names and fates, people at the pearly gates
waiting on whispers
wondering why
blessed air
in the mystic one life love blossom fold open wake up bloom into again a soft decay.
the wonderful day, ends
unconscious in the birthstone setting
midwife, on the behest of minds
nurtures soul, spirit, mind
and into her cradle, soft grave betray
nothing for noone's here; it's ok, she smile & die.
die into her soft, soultakesmeone
& opens me up to someONE
& then everyone. hears me around the corner cops chasing sirens
sirens sweet maidens luring with their dusk songs, drifting flowers, notes
of souls, & peace, and water/river/love forever flowing.
Flowing
Growing Electric Soul.
The King inside a Cage
The breaking of the windows.
The tolling of the pink floyd bells.
cages. flowers. glory.
seed.
Rebirth into a fossiled discovery
Always a a resurrection
Always a return to a shallow end.
In the Birth of Tragedy, and Zarathustra, This Rough Beast, in a T.S. wasteland.
the cold hard bite of his words. the precise way
to walk into this open room
& not know anyone, but everybody's deepest secret soul.
in the quiet waking whispers
a light at dawn is draped in sheets of red, orange,
& california gold.
in the middle of the room
in the middle of a great big riddle
pour away
flow rap rhythm pulse the night
she explodes in reds & blues & golds
like America's streak into a future sleek & fat
on a wave like the edge of a shop-lined street.
it's strange not to work here
write here
be here, quite next to you over there, sitting there in your quiet stare
a rainbow gift; a sudden glare
she of the crescent river soul moon flower bloom into
a river of soft decay & wasted twilights
stumbling across the bridges, tossing airs & frolicsome on its promise
(oh and in case you forgot to grow; did not know; did not care, nor hunt for stares.)
oh castle creed her flaming brow & midnight tolls
She beckons in, to see her flow & bright diamond shine
like no other, nuclear sunshine
just radiating there.
crimson palace, gold hair
strong & graceful, elegant, her gem-stoned studded affair
on the brink of a harsh rude wide awake and in the cold death grip of a fatal instant.
You become everything and nothing and fade away into the white night glare.
like city lights on seeping knowledge; the young they gather on the slops of of towns in cars
& parked on the side of hills, drinking beer, tossing rhymes into the starry sky,
talk about rock & the Wisdom she borne, the prophecy fortold; the bridegroom doomed
in the prophet song
the prophet town
of old becomes solid, cold.
(encased in stone)
Truthful glare
ancient eyes
& wonderful memories
thoughts going back and hour a day
no other way
sifting there, sands of time shift
a memory of names and fates, people at the pearly gates
waiting on whispers
wondering why
blessed air
in the mystic one life love blossom fold open wake up bloom into again a soft decay.
the wonderful day, ends
unconscious in the birthstone setting
midwife, on the behest of minds
nurtures soul, spirit, mind
and into her cradle, soft grave betray
nothing for noone's here; it's ok, she smile & die.
die into her soft, soultakesmeone
& opens me up to someONE
& then everyone. hears me around the corner cops chasing sirens
sirens sweet maidens luring with their dusk songs, drifting flowers, notes
of souls, & peace, and water/river/love forever flowing.
Flowing
Growing Electric Soul.
The King inside a Cage
The breaking of the windows.
The tolling of the pink floyd bells.
cages. flowers. glory.
seed.
Rebirth into a fossiled discovery
Always a a resurrection
Always a return to a shallow end.
In the Birth of Tragedy, and Zarathustra, This Rough Beast, in a T.S. wasteland.
the cold hard bite of his words. the precise way
to walk into this open room
& not know anyone, but everybody's deepest secret soul.
in the quiet waking whispers
a light at dawn is draped in sheets of red, orange,
& california gold.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Chief Broom 1947-2006
Woke up this morning to some sad news, that my friend Barry Welch aka as the online persona Chief Broom, had passed away back on March 1. I had a gnawing suspicion for weeks, as my emails to him had gone unanswered as had my phone calls and messages. And then one day the answering machine stopped picking up.
I drove by his house one day. His black BMW sat in the driveway next to a truck/camper combo. I knocked on the door and nobody answered. Now, he had been having problems with some DUIs so I kind of thought maybe he was back in jail. Or gone on vacation with someone who parked their camper in the driveway.
Finally, I asked an old friend who was a member of the Wheel, a online deadhead virtual community, and he confirmed what I had suspected, but had only found out a day earlier:
Oh my god.
We just got the news yesterday.
Barry died March 1st.
- Bill
Mon, 24 Apr 2006 13:25:18 -0500
We're back from the 2006 Old Settler's Music Festival, held Thu-Sun in
Driftwood TX just SW of Austin. I've only a moment for this note and
Wade hasn't had a chance to post anything yet, but I wanted to pass along
this news from Austin....
Barry Welch, aka chiefbroom, a special friend who we were looking forward
to sharing camptime with at Old Settler's, died March 1. August Welch,
Barry's son who he frequently touted in this forum, was not only in town
tending to Barry's lifetime of collected music and various memorabilia,
but used Barry's ticket to attend the show and hung out with us
throughout.
The festival's advertised highlight was a multi-media tribute to Vassar
Clements presented by Mike Marshall, who mixed classic video of Vassar
with various live stage lineups paying homage. It was impressive, but the
REAL highlight was the preceding set by the Peter Rowan/Tony Rice Quartet.
August had received a backstage pass when he picked Barry's ticket up,
and got to talk with Peter and Tony before they went on. Mid-set, Peter
dedicated a wonderful new tune to Barry's memory; from that point, the
whole set and show really turned to a Barry Welch tribute, and not just
from our point of view.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
The Immigrant Song
Of Immigrants
On the hunt for a better life
In a land stolen from their ancestors
No fair the shrill their cries drown out
Pity this poor American,
Illegal they bellow, as they themselves drive DUI down the highway going eighty
In a 65
I see these invisible phantoms all around me
Speaking to them in broken fragments of Spanish
Working hard, at thankless tasks for the thankless
Working hard to feed their life the things they need
To send home the bread they knead
Just like me, they cry & bleed
Laugh & sneeze
Have kids to feed.
Criminals hardly they seem in the grander scheme
Just hungry souls from a barren land
With Shantytowns, and dirty streams
Where Mexican mobs cook up crack
In makeshift shacks
Where women are found raped and dead
In Juarez.
It’s a Democracy or so they say
They should be happy in their place
Know their place, their caste, their race
This is our land
This is our dream
A gift from our ancestors, yes
Our glittering prize
This beautiful America, don’t
Dare scale that fence into
Our precious home.
And soil our soul
Our pure Christian soul.
We don’t care
That you don’t have food
Live in poverty
Have no home.
Oh we might write a check to a Christian ministry
To send on our behalf food for your starving & huddled masses.
We give to Sally Struthers, OK, just so you know we care.
Unfortunate for you that you don’t hail from Cuba
Are a little boy floating in the waters off the coast, clinging to ship-wrecked hope
Fleeing not poverty, corruption but something more sinister & fierce
With which we might have an ideological bone.
A single boy we might welcome, herald, praise
His late mother, who died a hero at sea.
What if the masses were to raise a red flag
Brazen, and blazing, a hammer and sickle
And the Peoples Republic of Mexico
Our new neighbor South
And thousands upon millions become something more
Not just merely illegal but true refugees.
Yes, I pity the poor immigrant, but I pity this poor American more
The immigrant may be homeless, but this American has no soul.
On the hunt for a better life
In a land stolen from their ancestors
No fair the shrill their cries drown out
Pity this poor American,
Illegal they bellow, as they themselves drive DUI down the highway going eighty
In a 65
I see these invisible phantoms all around me
Speaking to them in broken fragments of Spanish
Working hard, at thankless tasks for the thankless
Working hard to feed their life the things they need
To send home the bread they knead
Just like me, they cry & bleed
Laugh & sneeze
Have kids to feed.
Criminals hardly they seem in the grander scheme
Just hungry souls from a barren land
With Shantytowns, and dirty streams
Where Mexican mobs cook up crack
In makeshift shacks
Where women are found raped and dead
In Juarez.
It’s a Democracy or so they say
They should be happy in their place
Know their place, their caste, their race
This is our land
This is our dream
A gift from our ancestors, yes
Our glittering prize
This beautiful America, don’t
Dare scale that fence into
Our precious home.
And soil our soul
Our pure Christian soul.
We don’t care
That you don’t have food
Live in poverty
Have no home.
Oh we might write a check to a Christian ministry
To send on our behalf food for your starving & huddled masses.
We give to Sally Struthers, OK, just so you know we care.
Unfortunate for you that you don’t hail from Cuba
Are a little boy floating in the waters off the coast, clinging to ship-wrecked hope
Fleeing not poverty, corruption but something more sinister & fierce
With which we might have an ideological bone.
A single boy we might welcome, herald, praise
His late mother, who died a hero at sea.
What if the masses were to raise a red flag
Brazen, and blazing, a hammer and sickle
And the Peoples Republic of Mexico
Our new neighbor South
And thousands upon millions become something more
Not just merely illegal but true refugees.
Yes, I pity the poor immigrant, but I pity this poor American more
The immigrant may be homeless, but this American has no soul.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Press Release for Official May Release
For Immediate Release
P.S. Kiss the Duchess for Me: Letters from an Unknown Soldier.
ISBN: 1587365839
Experience World War II firsthand in this dramatically told story in the form of letters from an enlisted man to his wife and daughter.
This first person narrative of Army life manages to make interesting what undoubtedly is a common story. His tale is told with a wry, dry, self-deprecating sense of humor, and a sarcastic, yet romantic view of life. Written and edited by free lance writer Joe Rossi, the Duchess in the book’s title refers to Rossi’s mother; and the letters that form the bulk of the book, were written by his namesake and a grandfather he never got the chance to know, Private Joe Moss.
From the first letter where he says “our training consists of 17 weeks of learning how to kill and after only the Good Lord knows what will happen,” to the dispatches from the French countryside where he assures us “I have a comfortable foxhole, no hot and cold running water of course but the best I can get under the circumstances,” you feel as though you’re right there alongside him. The writing is emotionally charged, painfully honest and forthright. “I’ve got the funniest kind of feeling in the pit of my stomach. I suppose it’s due to the fact that I am scared to death. I’ll get over it, I know, but just the same, it sure is an uncomfortable feeling.”
The book’s subtitle is Letters from an Unknown Solider. It’s a twist on the concept of the unknown solider such as the ones that can be found in Tomb of the Unknowns, or sung about in the Doors’ “The Unknown Solider.” Here is a soldier who is virtually unknown, an anonymous white headstone in a V.A. cemetery. For all intents and purposes, they are unknown, even though who they are is no secret to their families. What “P.S. Kiss the Duchess for Me” does so well is introduce us to such an unknown solider, letting us get to know him, thus making him known. It clearly shows us the true cost of war in documenting the inner thoughts and feelings of a single soldier.
It was a good thing we left the station in
This morning also, I had my first look at German war prisoners. They all seemed cheerful and happy. The sergeant told us that most of them never want to go back to their native land and they look forward to
Just started to rain again, although it is quite warm. This is truly a blue Monday. Dreary, rain and a sad horse opera coming in over the radio. We are sitting on our bunks. Some of the men are cleaning their rifles, some are writing letters. Others merely
dozing off. No one seems to be saying much. You can almost see their trains of thought in their faces. Wives, children, and home are uppermost in their minds. It’s getting so close to furlough time that we think of nothing else.
July 7
They put me on this hospital guard and it was my duty to sit in front of the prison ward and allow no one in or out without proper authority. The balance of the wards in my post were the rehabilitation wards and it is the most pitiful sight seeing these young boys walking to and fro with an appearance of total disregard for anyone or anything. Shattered nerves and shattered minds. War is truly "hell."
An interesting if sorrowful sidelight was a young fellow who appeared to be about 24 taking his morning walk. He had to pass in front of me and before he went by me, I noticed that his right hand shook as though he had "St. Vitas." I had a loaded carbine slung on my shoulder and upon confronting me he stopped, became highly agitated and burst into tears. The sight of the rifle unnerved him and I found from his orderly that the fellow was gun shy due the fact that he had shot someone while on guard duty. His mind cracked and now they are trying to rehabilitate him.
Officially being released May 29, Memorial Day, this is Joe Rossi’s first published title. Rossi has written for alternative news weeklies, including the
# # #
Operation Good Soldiers
Operation Good Soldiers
As many of you know, P.S. Kiss the Duchess for Me will soon be a published book available for purchase at online sites such as amazon.com.
Very shortly, we’re going to launch a two month media blitz leading up to Memorial Day, a day set aside to honor and remember those who gave their lives in foreign wars. P.S. Kiss The Duchess for Me will be officially released on this day, so that stories and reviews about the book will have a nice angle on Memorial Day
I know I can count on all of you to be good soldiers and spread the word about Joe Moss and this special book.
P.S. Kiss the Duchess for Me: Letters from an Unknown Soldier.
ISBN: 1587365839
What I need for you to do, is the next time you’re at or near a bookstore, inquire about the book and find out if you can pre-order it, and if you can, then pre-order it. If money’s tight that’s understandable. Just asking about it will help. Have everyone you know ask their bookstores about it. Perhaps, we can create some interest and intrigue prior to publication by asking about the book at bookstores nationwide. Even if you don’t buy the book, asking and inquiring about it, is bound to stir up interest. Call, write, and email your local bookstores today!
P.S. Kiss the Duchess for Me: Letters from an Unknown Soldier.
ISBN: 1587365839
Participate in online forums newsgroups, and message boards. Post a little something there if you’re so inclined. Do you know someone who would enjoy the book? It makes a great gift. Do you know or are aware of someone noteworthy, important or influential. Order the book online and send it to them, or drop them line telling them about the book.
The book can be preordered by visiting this website:
http://www.wheatmark.com/merchant2/merchant.mvc?Screen=PROD&Store_Code=BS&Product_Code=1587365839
As you know, amazon.com let’s people review books, so if you’ve read it, no time better than the present to post reviews. The site is already up for the book at:
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1587365839/sr=8-1/qid=1143321303/ref=sr_1_1/104-4097925-3003143?%5Fencoding=UTF8
My love and appreciate goes out to you all. You know how much you mean to me and you know how much this books means to us all.
Thanks,
Joey Rossi
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Sunburst Morning Sky
It is what it is
and noone could explain the loss of diamond rain
or cool cloaked secrets
discussed in smoke-filled rooms
and bimbos
disgusting discussing common retreats
& altruisms.
boasting four different colors
& seven coats
The Alkaline Household (poised for recovery)
our resident den
of iniquity still delights
w/ a poison pen
& writes her name upon the walls of forever
a diamond glistening in rain-driven wind
& who camps about in her splendid grass
like snakes in a spiderweb railroad
like lost thoughts on a continent and a cool swift breeze
who waits for me on her crystal island
who lies with me in an eternal sea
what words of wisdom from this siren's breasts
what tide will tug us away onto her forgotten shore
oh blissful diamond of peace who shines in the night
oh moonlight memory of time & space and all the thoughts that come between
breathes, a part of a pattern within patters within circles within Mind.
logic rules the cascade poets fierce unyielding pen
insane logic based on invisible rules of pushing, to & fro
into her, another rough night
and an hour come round at last
Yeats spells it out,
As the worst are full of passionate intensity
this new beast, a beast of love, or a beast of anger
raging in the desert, in the sands of the thousand nights
where yesterday is piped into tomorrow
clogging up the sky and our view of the future
smoke on the horizon
& the proverbial water
rising to meet a darkening sky-
a destiny marked by the certaintly, all living things must die.
and into her mouth of eternity
only the blessed children lie
in sheets of white & rays of gold
like a sunburst morning sky.
and noone could explain the loss of diamond rain
or cool cloaked secrets
discussed in smoke-filled rooms
and bimbos
disgusting discussing common retreats
& altruisms.
boasting four different colors
& seven coats
The Alkaline Household (poised for recovery)
our resident den
of iniquity still delights
w/ a poison pen
& writes her name upon the walls of forever
a diamond glistening in rain-driven wind
& who camps about in her splendid grass
like snakes in a spiderweb railroad
like lost thoughts on a continent and a cool swift breeze
who waits for me on her crystal island
who lies with me in an eternal sea
what words of wisdom from this siren's breasts
what tide will tug us away onto her forgotten shore
oh blissful diamond of peace who shines in the night
oh moonlight memory of time & space and all the thoughts that come between
breathes, a part of a pattern within patters within circles within Mind.
logic rules the cascade poets fierce unyielding pen
insane logic based on invisible rules of pushing, to & fro
into her, another rough night
and an hour come round at last
Yeats spells it out,
As the worst are full of passionate intensity
this new beast, a beast of love, or a beast of anger
raging in the desert, in the sands of the thousand nights
where yesterday is piped into tomorrow
clogging up the sky and our view of the future
smoke on the horizon
& the proverbial water
rising to meet a darkening sky-
a destiny marked by the certaintly, all living things must die.
and into her mouth of eternity
only the blessed children lie
in sheets of white & rays of gold
like a sunburst morning sky.
Friday, March 17, 2006
P.S. Kiss The Duchess For Me
The book can now be pre-ordered by going to the this link:
http://www.wheatmark.com/merchant2/merchant.mvc?Screen=PROD&Store_Code=BS&Product_Code=1587365839
The actual release date should be some time in April!
http://www.wheatmark.com/merchant2/merchant.mvc?Screen=PROD&Store_Code=BS&Product_Code=1587365839
The actual release date should be some time in April!
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Blast From the Past (your own!) & you don't even know it
I did a search on google groups, on a subject of interest to me, and I came across a post that I really agreed with.. I mean it was amazing. The things this person were saying we're right up my alley. So I scan to the bottom on the posting to see who this writer was, and I see that it was written by jrossi@jato.nasa.gov in 1990!
I had written it, before there even was world wide web, when I was Usenet junkie back when the Internet was limited to techies and geeks in computer labs. I was working for Jet Propulstion Lab at the time, and this was pretty much my first email account.
I had written it, before there even was world wide web, when I was Usenet junkie back when the Internet was limited to techies and geeks in computer labs. I was working for Jet Propulstion Lab at the time, and this was pretty much my first email account.
Blast From the Past Part 2
To be put on a list of bumper stickers we'd like to see:
And today's blast from the past is Russell Masunaga, or Dr. Tooth, based in Hawaii. Went to USC with Russell and even lived with him and his future wife Kathy, for a spell back in the early 80's. Russell is doing well as a dentist. Called the phone number I found for them via the Web, and Kathy answered. She sounded suprised to hear from me. Anyway, I think that website they have must be a real old one, because it shows them with their kids, and their kids are like kids, and I know that the last time I talked to them, oh ten years ago, their kids were kids.
- Fair & Balanced My Ass
And today's blast from the past is Russell Masunaga, or Dr. Tooth, based in Hawaii. Went to USC with Russell and even lived with him and his future wife Kathy, for a spell back in the early 80's. Russell is doing well as a dentist. Called the phone number I found for them via the Web, and Kathy answered. She sounded suprised to hear from me. Anyway, I think that website they have must be a real old one, because it shows them with their kids, and their kids are like kids, and I know that the last time I talked to them, oh ten years ago, their kids were kids.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
P.S. Kiss The Duchess For Me
For Immediate Release
Experience World War II firsthand in this elegantly told story in the form of letters from an enlisted man to his wife and daughter.
Austin, TX February 17, 2006 – “P.S. Kiss The Duchess For Me” recalls 1944 in candid, colorful and charming detail as a man who obviously missed his calling as a writer corresponds with his wife and nine-year old daughter over the course of eight months while serving in the U.S. Armed Forces during World War II.
This first person narrative of army life manages to make interesting what undoubtedly is a common story. His tale is told with a wry, dry, self-deprecating sense of humor, and a sarcastic, yet romantic view of life. Written and edited by free lance writer Joe Rossi, the Duchess in the book’s title refers to Rossi’s mother; and the letters that form the bulk of the book, were written by his namesake and a grandfather he never got the chance to know, Private Joe Moss.
From the first letter where he says “our training consists of 17 weeks of learning how to kill and after only the Good Lord knows what will happen,” to the dispatches from the French countryside where he assures us “I have a comfortable foxhole, no hot and cold running water of course but the best I can get under the circumstances,” you feel as though you’re right there alongside him. The writing is emotionally charged, painfully honest and forthright. “I’ve got the funniest kind of feeling in the pit of my stomach. I suppose it’s due to the fact that I am scared to death. I’ll get over it, I know, but just the same, it sure is an uncomfortable feeling.”
The book’s subtitle is Letters from an Unknown Solider. It’s a twist on the concept of the unknown solider such as the ones that can be found in Tomb of the Unknowns, or sung about in the Doors’ “The Unknown Solider.” Here is a soldier who is virtually unknown, an anonymous white headstone in a V.A. cemetery. For all intents and purposes, they are unknown, even though who they are is no secret to their families. What “P.S. Kiss the Duchess for Me” does so well is introduce us to such an unknown solider, letting us get to know him, thus rendering him known. He’s someone we feel we now know, someone who really lived and is no longer with us. It clearly shows us the true cost of war in documenting the inner thoughts and feelings of a single soldier.
radio paradise.com and Fractalvision!
Life flows forward .. hooked with long time friend Arnie Greif of Fractalvision fame ... he was here in town for Red Cross training.. it was awesome seeing him and hanging out.
He has some friends here in Centex and they all know each other via the site radioparadise.com
Checked it out and they have some cool song lists. It seems much like the site where I do a radio show, GodLike Productions, at glpradio.com.
He has some friends here in Centex and they all know each other via the site radioparadise.com
Checked it out and they have some cool song lists. It seems much like the site where I do a radio show, GodLike Productions, at glpradio.com.
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