Last night featured another installation of The Golden Hour, albeit sans Ryan. Instead, we had an amazing guitarist, an MC who read a poem entitled "Catman" over the last few minutes of a horrible kung-fu movie, Ben's Scrabble poetry, a long-short story from Nick, and other goodness. There was, however, one ick part of the evening.
New Yorker. She'd been in Edinburgh for a few months, and she couldn't quite pronounce the city's name, but she decided to write a long, relatively ambitious poem about, among other things, haggis and Scots escaping to America. Our table - British, Irish, Canadian, American - couldn't decide whether she was being ironic or just plain condescending. On a side note, it's amazing how your ear tunes to different accents after months away; I've heard pleasant accents coming out of New England and New York, but hers wasn't one of them.
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