I'm going to need a Koko in my life to hold me when I finally go see Peter Jackson's KING KONG, because everyone knows how the most romantic story ever told ends and I don't think I'll be able to handle it.
Over 8-years ago, when I lived in Alphabet City [14th street between B & C], there was/is a Con Ed plant or something sci-fi looking down the block that burst from the concrete out of a David Lynch movie. If you could see beyond the Heroin addled human question mark's hovering on their one hoof trying to take their next step forward [or backward?], the backdrop was that of red brick, caged windows, and a roof filled with metal spindles and steel splinters, like the back of some prehistoric space monster. Wires stretched for blocks and you could smell the burnt electricity emanating from the buildings exhaust vents. For a year, I was seriously convinced my next door neigbor was a Robot sent from the future with a mission to insulate the walls of lower east side tenements with human guts and brain. Some nights the wall we shared would wheeze. The gas from packed intestines trying to escape through the hairline spider-cracks warping the sheetrock. Threatening to break. My mind.