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The Whale Hail comes when the rain meets you in Seattle and the fog lifts to reveal the farthest western quest yet quested and the sun sets later than ever and when you look in the mirror and realize somewhere in Wyoming you turned into a gypsy.
It comes when the red rocks and desert of Albuquerque are illuminated by the blasts of independence day fireworks, and the irony is thick and sharp as a cactus, and the border patrol officers are buying their fireworks from the Mexicans on the side of the road, and at
the Indian Reservations, and it’s hard to place value on the gunpowder, let alone a plot of land or a buck.
It comes when the radiator starts boiling halfway through Sunday in between Houston, about which God and Astros fans forgot long ago, and Austin where there is still hope, and the only option is to point forward and try every mechanic in a 30 mile radius, and when finally a roaming mechanic answers the call, fixes the problem, accepts $20 and a CD for payment, he then calls back fifteen minutes later just to say, “If y’all would have had me listen to your music before I wouldn’t have charged you.”
The Whale Hail blows in with the cold north east winds that bluster down the streets of Boston in January and create a void in one’s body and soul that can and should only be filled by a thick frothy beer, or a bowl of Chowder, and the more cold you can stand the more you can drink and the more you can drink the more you are chiseled out to be someone who can withstand the cold and drink like a fish... or a whale...
The Whale Hail hops the J train in Bed Stuy then moans incessantly atop the Williamsburg Bridge and gets off at Delancey street in the Lower East Side, where its moans are quickly engulfed by the cars, beggars and vendors, and the people don’t notice the Whale Hail, because to them whale hail is obvious, and everyone knows about it, and nothing is special, except for them. And they are. As are you.
The Whale Hail comes when you get onto the western side of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado, and a woman toting a small yield sign points ahead to a flock of sheep sauntering lazily down the highway, and at the helm is a bronco kickin’ spur wearin’ lasso swingin’ good old cowboy, and you drive among them at a snail’s pace, and you make sure to tell the cowboy to keep his sheep under 65 mile per hour.
The Whale Hail comes down hard in the southeast, where the y’alls distract from the smells of the marshes, and the beach goers soak up the sun and drink their fill, and their values are there own, and above all else, when the moon is right and the energy is enigmatic and the perfect song comes on, the smile on your lips opens up to teeth and tongue and deep from within your bones comes forth the battle cry of the modern crusader