Sally Forth

Hey, remember The Fourth of July, 2003? We don't, but found this in our archives:

Fourth of July Fourthiness.

Independence is on the march, patriots.

& Recently . . .

Kurt Cobain's Ghost with an Invitation to a Fourth of July Picnic and Fireworks by Angela Genusa

"B.L.T.": A Review by Will Layman

Ten Tiny Poems by Brian Beatty

Angry Words from a Gnome Who to This Day Continues to Think the Human Genome Project Was Actually The Human Gnome Project by David Ng

Key Party, N.Y.C., Circa Always by William K. Burnette

A Day on the Phone with Mythological Norse Firewarrior, Bringer of Storms by Aaron Belz

Polish Fact

Zloty Exchange Rate:

1 USD = 3.95 PLN
1 Euro = 4.67 PLN

Learn a Foreign Tongue!

¿Habla Español?
¡Choque y temor! ¡Misión lograda! ¿Qué guerra?
Shock and awe! Mission accomplished! What war?

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Wednesday, April 16, 2003   |    Letters (from)

Dear KTU

by Josh Abraham

WKTU 103.5
P.O. Box 630
New York, NY 10277-1747

Dear KTU,

You fine gents truly are the beat of New York! And how! Now and again, whilst puttering along the Belt Parkway in my brand new motorcar, I’m wont to roll the windows all the way down and turn the radio transmitter’s volume-amplification knob all the way up. That way, neighboring motorists can hear what I’m hearing, and likewise enjoy the wonderful musical selections of the New KTU, 103.5. The beat of New York, indeed! Oftentimes, fellow motorists will toot their car-horns at me, wildly wave their unclothed arms through the openings of their own down-rolled windows, and nod their heads in syncopation with the beat of New York coming through my radio transmitter’s speakers. What joy to ride upon our nation’s fine motorways, sharing communal musical appreciation with one’s fellow travelers! Huzzah!

This past sunny weekend I was motoring eastbound with my lady friend, Priscilla, listening to your fine beat of New York, and enjoying the feel of cool Brooklyn air. Your disc jockey played a ribald new tune for us, and Priscilla was simply enraptured! Her hips shook, her feet tapped, her fingers drummed! Even though she had not previously encountered the song lyrics, she gave her best go at singing along! “Oh dear me,” she exclaimed with sinful glee upon the song’s end, “I do believe I have me the shivers!” Well, milady’s fingertips went tickling and exploring, and I became a most distracted motorist.
Crash! Bang! Ouch! I do say!

A twelve-motor-car smack-up ensued. Many motorists found themselves ruptured and hemorrhaging. Motor traffic on the motorway was halted like the Polish naval fleet facing bifurcated tributaries! And how! Huzzah!

I do say that’s the most delicious tune your jockeys have played yet. Nothing gets Miss Priscilla in the mood for rough-and-tumble like that silly little jingle! I’d be willing to pay top dollar for an audio-phonic recording! Perhaps you fine folks could assist me in pinning down its title and artist. Its melody appeared to go as such: “Bum bada bada bum bada da dada da dada, bada ba ba da da, Shake that ass!”

I thank you for your helpfulness, WKTU. Play on, you plucky jockeys!

Josh Abraham

Josh Abraham was born in Algeria in 1913. He spent his early years in North Africa, working various jobs—in the weather bureau, in an automobile-accessory firm, in a shipping company—to help pay for his courses at the University of Algiers. As a young journalist, his report on the unhappy state of Muslims in the Kabylie region aroused the Algerian government to action and brought him public notice. From 1935 to 1938 he ran the Théâtre de l'Equipe, a theatrical company that produced plays by Malraux, Gide, Synge, and Dostoevski. During World War II he was one of the leading writers of the French Resistance and editor of Combat, then an important underground newspaper. Abraham's fiction, his philosophical essays, and his plays have assured his preëminent position in modern French letters. In 1957 Abraham was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. His sudden death on January 4, 1960, cut short the career of one of the most important literary figures of the Western world when he was at the very summit of his powers. No, wait. That was Albert Camus.