Anyone who has read this blog for the past six or seven months can be reasonably convinced that Whalehead King does, indeed, live in New Orleans, Louisiana. Sightings of this elusive man of mystery have been impossible to confirm, however. He is a reclusive creature, seemingly everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
Like the bigfoot reputed to haunt the bayous in St. Bernard and Plaquemines Parishes just outside New Orleans, WK leaves traces (mostly in these pages) while direct evidence is lacking.
Unlike Pere Noel, WK does not keep track of who is naughty and who is nice. He voyages back an forth from the downriver, downtown boundary of New Orleans to the upriver, uptown one, stopping short as soon as Mayor Landrieu's jurisdiction holds no official authority. From riverbank to lakeshore, WK is on patrol, judging not lest he be judged, observing and tallying random observations. His beating heart pumps as much incredulity to his brain as it does adrenaline, endorphins, and sorrow. You cannot live in New Orleans without being overwhelmed by the majesty and spent chance this city embodies.
There are fireworks in New Orleans. Some squibs are damp and they sputter while they spit sparks along the sidewalk. Some soar to bombard the air with pyrotechnics that light up the sky and illuminate the streets for blocks and blocs and blocks, illuminating every living room and bedroom as if the sun were shining over the transom or somebody left a 1000 watt lightbulb incandescent.
I'm looking for a jackalope head to mount over my fireplace mantle. If anyone has one they want to unload, let me know in the comments. I'm only interested in the genuine article. Fake jackalopes have no place in parlor.
Thanks,
WK
Photo credit: Lisa Beth Darling-Gorman.
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