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Neck Popping feels good in the morning after a night of gorging on brick oven pizza, Guinness, Genache, coffee.

Watched In America last night. Felt quite familiar. I came to America at the age of 12 from N. Ireland. It was 1985. Breakdancing was big.

My preconception of America was built around movies (of course). Esp. E.T. There's a scene where they eat Pizza Hut pizza. I wanted Pizza Hut.

Instead we landed in Las Vegas in July and headed to a K-Mart for our first American hamburger. My Dad purchased plastic cowboy boots for the whole family. He laid insulation.

Then mormondom, strange underwear, and disowning of my accent.

What is an accent? Assimilation, melting pot. The ideology of a melting pot. Not sure what I think yet. My first instinct is against it. The idea of homogeneous etc.

Difference etc.

But then Irish, Italian, Ukrainian neighborhoods? Separate communities to maintain the integrity of a culture? I admit, I often wish we landed in NY or Boston instead of Las Vegas.

Las Vegas is the ultimate big pot of commodified cultures.

Is culture always a commodity?

Lots of lights in Las Vegas.

It's called The Strip!

Strip indeed.



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Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
Geoffrey Squires, Landscapes and Silences. Dublin: New Writers' Press, 1996.
Catherine Walsh, Idir Eatortha and Making Tents. London: Invisible Books, 1996.

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I began the first half of this article (Notre Dame Review #4) by mentioning some of the limits to the legendary hospitality Ireland has shown to its poets. If you arrive in Ireland from any point of departure outside of Eastern Europe, you will indeed find a public far more willing than the one you left behind to grant poets the recognition all but the most ascetic secretly crave. However, this hospitality has never extended to Irish poets w…