Free Willy 911

Having wrapped up an ultimately and surprisingly productive work week after securing some Upper East Side appointments of great providence for June, JunkThief decided to exit the salt mines shortly after 5 p.m. and headed across the ‘hood for drinks at Bruno’s . A and R and D were there, and it was a good opportunity for a little pre-dinner chitter chatter over gimlets and witticisms before a long weekend of gardening, reading untranslated Proust and doing a little memoir writing. Just as the second drink was arriving, JunkThief’s Treo rang. It was a distraught Alejandro on I-80 headed to the Delta for the big whale rerouting. JunkThief was afraid that he might be in some great peril and that Carole Migden was back behind the wheel.

There did seem to be a crisis, but not locally. As if the whole Delta-locked whales were not enough, now it seems there is another water mammal crisis down in Florida. Of course, there’s not a speck of mainstream news coverage despite all the hoopla about that runaway alligator down in LaLaLand.

It appears that Al Gore’s worst nightmares seem to keep coming true daily. Now there are random reports of land bound dolphins holding up Circle K stores in the Sunshine State. There have been a string of reports from Tampa to Tallahassee, and these sons of Flipper are especially prone to go for all the Red Vines and Coors in a store. And if you have never been around a drunk dolphin, just let it be said that it’s not a pretty picture.

Alejandro insisted that he must go down there Tuesday to confirm if these reports are substantiated. So it appears poor old JunkThief will have to fly solo up to the time of his flight to Newark.

Just as things were coming to a head on that topic, Alejandro shifted gears and asked JunkThief if he wanted to go to that big homosexual festival on Market Street at the end of June. Well, needless to say, one gimlet already in his belly, JunkThief let loose with a few words he now regrets not in their intent but in their delivery. Mind you, JunkThief has engaged in virtually all 378 positions outlined in the Farmer's Almanac's guide to homosexual acts, and a large percentage of his best friends are Nancy Boys. But any time there are more than eight poofster in the same room, he goes ballistic.

Pride? All JunkThief feels when surrounded by a gaggle of homosexuals is contempt and malice. If he wanted to hang out with a bunch of screaming, drunken nipped and tucked swishy boys who all look alike, he’d go to a family reunion. Oh, wait, that’s what he’s actually doing at the end of June.

Lately JunkThief has been distraught that his beloved southeast corner of the Mission could be turning into a haven of light-in-the-loafer boys. More and more upscale coffee houses are opening, and "luxury" condos are coming every day. You know what that means -- luxury real estate calls for decorators, florists, hair designers, and it just keeps going down hill from there. There seems to be a lot more yoo-hoo boys wanting to show him their crack than the usual yo-yo-yo boys that used to sell crack on corners.

The very thought of living in a predominately homosexual neighborhood really stresses poor JunkThief. The increased equity is just not worth the psychic angst that accompanies it. He doesn't even like to visit such places, let alone live there. The Castro? No way Jose. SOMA? Get out of town! The only homosexual neighborhood JunkThief frequents is Polk Street since it's rare that you will see more than six fudgepackers in the same block these days. Those boys with peroxided tresses and three teeth in their head peddling their oral services to garner bus fare back to Branson don't count. They are, as they say, simply tradesmen.