Southern Man

This is, or was, my ACHE-illes tendon! Hiyuk! Broadcasting from Smyrna, Georgia, I stopped at this substation before spanning the globe to provide myself a constant variety of human drama. Here's an exerpt from my chilling flight here yesterday:
Flight 152 rides the wind to the east and golden sunlight beams behind us. Intermittent white clouds sit on an invisible cookie sheet of pressure and rise on the afternoon heat with their shadows making leopard spots on the brown earth. Sloping back down the other side of the Continental Divide the land starts to flatten and the stark features fall away. Already I anticipate the wetness of the east and hope that I might see a thunderstorm or feel the ions charging as the lightning gathers the elements on its path to the absolute. Santiago sits to my right, six thousand miles to the south and the onset of winter and their wet season has taken hold. Perfect.
It would be hard to rant 'cuz it might sound bitter but I'm not there yet, one of the other, more confused, early stages. This is new stuff now, I'm on the ground and in the home I moved in to in 1969 at the same time they were setting up the stage at Woodstock. My mother brought me a lighter with a motorcycle on it. Now I sound like Andy Rooney. Eesh. The Dallas Mavericks are pounding the Miami Heat in the NBA finals and tropical storm Alberto is beginning to lash the west coast of Florida. Thus concludes the time capsule portion of our show. I guess a date is already attached to this but visuals always work better on the memory, mine anyway. I must have more ice cream. So begins another adventure.