Articles by Sunny Bosco



Fettuccine Fantasies & Dolce Dreams

If the Italian immigrants of Queens could reinvent Italian fare for America in the early part of the 20th century, then perhaps the same could happen in Moscow.

Fettuccine Fantasies & Dolce Dreams

If the Italian immigrants of Queens could reinvent Italian fare for America in the early part of the 20th century, then perhaps the same could happen in Moscow.

Countdown to V-Day

You know it as a day for chocolate-covered cherries, bright pink roses, embraces in the park and perhaps even beautifully wrapped gifts of edible panties. But where to go?

Countdown to V-Day

You know it as a day for chocolate-covered cherries, bright pink roses, embraces in the park and perhaps even beautifully wrapped gifts of edible panties. But where to go?

All Aboard for High Altitude

Can't Beat This

Can't Beat This

I was a freshman in college the first time I heard Joseph Brodsky read his work. It was a rainy afternoon during finals, but hundreds of us chose to brave the worst thunderstorm Philadelphia had seen that year to hear the Nobel Prize-winning poet recite his verse in his exquisite, musical way. Brodsky, who would have been 60 on Wednesday, died in 1996 in the Brooklyn apartment he'd occupied for 20 years. But, on that day in 1989, he chose to reward his audience for our having risked a drowning by giving the first public reading of his heartbreakingly beautiful English-language poem ""A Song."" The first few lines of the poem - which would later be published in The New Yorker and, in 1994, in a (very) limited edition anthology of American poetry I compiled - appear below. I wish you were here, dear. I wish you were here. I wish I knew no astronomy When stars appear. When the moon skims the water That sighs and shifts in its slumber, I wish it were still a quarter To dial your number.

Can't Beat This

Can't Beat This

Can't Beat This

THE TROUGH

LISTENING IN

CLUB KID

LISTENING IN

LISTENING IN

Listening In: Auktsion, ""Zimy Ne Budet""

I'm afraid that Leonid Fyodorov is wrong -- and he knows it.

LISTENING IN

Chizh i Kompaniya Nechego Teryat Solid Records There's a word in Russian - choosh - that sounds a lot like Chizh. Choosh is slang, meaning garbage, rubbish or generally dreadful stuff. Choosh. Chizh. This cannot possibly be a coincidence. Witness the following excerpt from the title song of Chizh and Company's ""Nothing to Lose:"" ""Her name is Nastya. She writes poetry and lives on a river... She's waiting for her airplane."" So deep. It reminds me of a rhyme I wrote in seventh grade. That rhyme won first prize in the county-wide writing competition and was published in that month's edition of the Eastern Pennsylvania Grammar School Times. That's all very nice, but it doesn't change the fact that the poem was unqualified hooey that deserved what it got - to be eternally damned to obscurity, buried under a 135-kilogram pile of '70s-era Highlights magazines in a forgotten corner of a rural school library. And, of course, there's the autographed copy my mother keeps in an air-tight viewing case, but I digress...

LISTENING IN

Mule Variations Tom Waits Epitaph I had a dream last night: It's New Year's Eve, 1999. If the doomsayers are right, it's the last champagne toast, last kiss at midnight, last Times Square Apple Drop - ever. And, for some reason, I'm alone. It's just me, a droopy Christmas tree and some leftover figgy pudding. I'm wandering around the darkened living room, thinking - too late - that it's the last hour of the millennium and that I should at least be dressed, should have gone out, seen friends, done something to mark the day. But I haven't. And it's two minutes to 12. So I grab Waits' latest release, turn it up and sing along. My soprano is dreadful against his bass, but things are looking up now. And, although Waits isn't exactly full of seasonal cheer, mine turns out to be the best darn midnight on the block. That's the thing about Waits. He makes you feel bad, real bad sometimes, but you don't mind. Because Waits' kind of pain is like a loose tooth - as exquisite as it is excruciating.

GOURMET'S NOTEBOOK: Mephisto's Castle

LISTENING IN

666 Nitemare RMG Records The only thing 666 got right is the title. This album is a nightmare, all right. The kind you sweat through. The kind that's so horrible, you cry out in your sleep. The kind you try to wake up from and just can't - you squirm, you thrash around, but you're trapped in it - and it is truly excruciating, just like 666, who have produced without a doubt the most consistently awful disc I've heard since Shura released a greatest hits album. The fourth track, ""Confusion,"" contains some pretty revealing lyrics: ""Confusion becomes insanity/You are lost in what we are."" Truer words, as they say, have never been spoken.

LISTENING IN

Avenue B Iggy Pop Virgin Records The album cover on Iggy Pop's latest, ""Avenue B,"" is a simple head shot of the singer, the man who redefined American punk in the 1970s. And Pop looks pretty bad. Unwashed. Bloodless. Hungover. In other words, just the way Pop is supposed to look. In fact, if Pop ever begins to resemble the forty-something millionaire he likely is, rather than the strung out junkie he appears to be, his record sales will probably suffer for it. Pop, after all, despite his cheerful last name, isn't about clean shirts or good nutrition. He's about what's dirty and dark - stuff you don't want to sing about or listen to, but you have no choice. It's awful. It's disgusting. But it's compelling, too. So, you turn the sound way up and you listen - to songs like ""She Called Me Daddy."" Kind of gross. And you'll grimace, but you won't turn it off. Or ""Nazi Girlfriend"" - despite his loathing for her, he can't help wanting to ""fuck her on the floor."" He has no choice in the matter, really.

Korean Cinema Reels Into Town