look at my boobs

we move together like packs of territorial cats. birds of a feather flock together. and so do we. travelling in concentric circles, we each rule our own parts of this city.

if you draw a triangle around a hollywood intersection-

one side holds cafe 101 where the hipster cats go to out-cool one another with pixies references and pointy shoes.

the apex holds roscoe's chicken and waffles where hip hop cats bring the bling with energy and bravado.

the far side holds denny's, which lures in the scrappier family felines and our senior kittizens looking to fill their bellies and their time.

l.a. is not a melting pot. we don't melt. we co-exist, separately, by mutually unspoken consent.

except at the zoo. it draws everyone from upper class valley moms, to teenage punk rock lovers, to sprawling latina familias, and beyond. which is why i fucking love the zoo.

my favorite woman there, yesterday, was a florid botticelli. she wore her velour pants low and her tank top short. leaving about six inches of belly exposed. she was unabashed and unashamed of her newly formed, angry red stretch marks. she had a booming laugh and a playgirl strut.

i thought of the sullen faced, skeletally boy bodied angora's who skulk my hood with french tipped claws; and liked her cheery flooziness even better.

she gathered up a gaggle of kids who ranged from ages 3 to about 11 for a picture. they weren't looking her way and she really wanted it to be a good shot. so she shouted at them-

"look at my boobs! look right here. at my boobs! that's right. look. at. my. boobs." then she beamed over at her man. "this picture's gonna turn out great. they were all looking right at my boobs."

later, she ordered a cold beer and shared a swig with the 11 year old.

and i went off to pick a fecal flingling fight with the chimps.