Liz Cho Is Pregnant

Had it not been for HDTV, I would still be oblivious to the fact that Liz Cho is pregnant. While I did think her boobs seemed a bit bigger of late, it was a natural progression, not like the overnight, in-your-face Ivanka Trump implants, but during the intro to last night's broadcast, her form fitting black dress seemed to hug the little bun in her oven as warmly as she no doubt will one day. Of course it was only for a moment and then that super blue Channel 7 banner was thrown over her, cloaking her secret like da Vinci. She also seems to be seated somewhat higher in her chair these days. Perhaps her rotund belly would push her too far back from the desk for the producer's comfort.

Wikipedia says that she is due in June. For nearly eight months, my fiancee and I were blind to this story, even though we watch Eyewitness News each night. How did it get by us? How come this hasn't been widely reported? One of People's 50 Most Beautiful is spawning and it's a secret! I deduce that while her bust is shown in segues sometimes, often the camera focuses on her porcelain face, which remains a mask of professionalism despite the little bundle of joy incubating beneath the studio lights.

Her look of late has been a bit matronly, far from the fashion forward styles she usually flaunts. Then again, Nancy O'Dell didn't let her bulge get in the way of her evening wear during the Miss Universe pageant.

Liz Cho and Nancy O'Dell, pregnant at the same time. What can I say, it's been a busy year.

Miles From Wicklow

Damp spirits from damp weather, then sunshine appears like the shamrock at St. Patrick's feet. Sad pipers at funeral procession for fallen brothers march down Fifth Avenue's invisible green line, sure-footed like the Fightin' 69th. Somber mood venerated by Nancy O'Dell's propagation of our proud species.

In Brooklyn, blond hair like gold at the bottom of a prospector's pan shines upon a milky wool sweater beside red hair battling a green scarf for supremacy in the glare of almighty Farrell's. My Ireland wells up ... writers, fighters, igniters of warmth beneath the threatening clouds.

Bills and cigar reviews take precedence, put off from exhausting travel through the Tuscon desert to the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame where The Clash speak to me as do the broad shoulders of Jimi Hendrix and the sublime philosophy of Roger Waters.

Years past spent on parade route and Emerald Society pier party, but this year brings a slow start til U2 rattles and hums the reminder that we are poets and scoundrels, salt of the earth conquerors in ancient taverns with quick wit and welcoming smiles beneath the glow of melancholy eyes. The world is on loan and we Irish thank you, Jesus, in the name of our intrepid saint.

Write, right to the bar, hoist, hoist a cigar and whiskey, whiskey in my jar-o, two, two pints of brew before the day is through, through with these words, I love you.

Weird Long Beard Press, Brooklyn.