Egg, meet face.

It's times like this that I'm glad I no longer work in hard news.

I'm not the first to post about this and I won't be the last. I am one of many who is disgusted with the media's treatment of the John Mark Karr story.

Even to a layperson relying solely on media accounts, it was obvious this guy didn't kill JonBenet Ramsey. His story had more holes than a wheel of Swiss cheese. For one thing, he said he picked her up at school the day he killed her. Hello! She was killed on CHRISTMAS DAY! For another, he said it was an accident. How the fuck do you GARROTE someone by accident?

This guy was nothing more than a sicko looking for his 15 minutes of fame. And the media gave him a lot more than that. He's sick, but so are they. And sadly, so are we for continuing to be so fascinated by this story.

Shame on you, John Mark Karr. But shame on you, news media. And shame on us.

I just got out of prison!

No, it's not what you're thinking. The Solidarity Singers performed at Mount McGregor Correctional Facility tonight. It was our second time there, and we had a blast. The inmates really enjoyed us. Insert your own "captive audience" joke here.

Last time we played, it was just us. Tonight there were also poetry readings along with our music. These guys wrote some awesome stuff. Even one of the guards read a poem. I especially liked the older guy who described the evening as "Woodstock meets Comstock."

Note to self: Wear a sports bra to the next prison gig (Washington Correctional, a week from Wednesday). Bra hooks set off metal detectors! So do reading glasses, but bring them anyway. I had a brief moment of panic when I realized I hadn't memorized the lyrics to a verse I solo on, and couldn't read the page! Larry talked me through it.

In other news: I am no longer a displaced person at work. Have been at our company's other building since the fire a few weeks ago at the one where I normally work. Wednesday we got to go "home." There were roses and a welcome-home balloon to greet me.

Last but far from least: Please send prayers if you are so inclined, healing thoughts if you're not the praying kind, in the direction of our friend Greg. He is hospitalized with a nasty case of the flesh-eating bacteria that almost killed him. He is improving (knock wood) but it will be a long recovery and possibly months on IV antibiotics.

Many of you who read this blog know Greg. Those of you who don't, I hope you have the privilege of meeting him someday. He and his wife are two of the finest people I am blessed to have as friends.

Why are you still here, Toxic Jock?

I am OVER J.R. Gach. I want nothing more to do with this fat bastard who turned my soul inside-out with his lies. Who was full of these brilliant seduction lines that had me contemplating throwing away my life. Who went from treating me like a queen to dissing me in public as a freak and worse. Who left me wondering how feelings as intense as those he expressed could just vanish into thin air -- until I realized that the reason they did that was THEY WEREN'T REAL TO BEGIN WITH.

I am in the anger stage of grieving. Grieving for something I was so sure was real, something that left me honored and flattered and dedicated to pleasing him. I've posted before that being in J.R.'s orbit was like being in a cult. It is so true. But Kool-Aid has no nutritional value.

Why do I still visit radio forums several times a day, looking for validation of my hatred for him? Why am I semi-obsessed with seeing him crash and burn? And he has, sort of; Levine fired his fat ass a few weeks ago and I am still doing a happy dance. If the evil he did to me doesn't come back to bite him in the ass, at least the defection of listeners like me has left him jobless.

It's the dreaded C word -- closure. I still entertain, in the far reaches of my brain, this fantasy that he will wake up, realize the horrendous damage he did to me with his lies and his games and atone, apologize or at least acknowledge. But that's not going to happen. I might as well fantasize about hitting the lottery.

I have found a lot of sites and boards online devoted to narcissistic personality disorder. Junior hasn't been diagnosed with NPD -- instead he is bipolar with borderline personality disorder. But his behavior? Textbook NPD. And if it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, does insurance commercials like a duck ... well, you know.

These fine women have taught me that it is NOT easy to get over. The NPD's lies disrupt your total perception of reality, and that is not something easily reconstructed. Bottom line: I'll be over it when I'm over it. Apologies to Yogi Berra.

Meanwhile, I'm doing what I can physically and emotionally to re-enter the loop, to reconnect with the REAL people with whom I have REAL connections and not just some illusion of a friendship that could have been and a more-than-friendship that never was.

Yes, I'm rambling. Your point?

Rediscovering my ale love!

Ale the beverage I never stopped loving. But ales, aka gatherings of morris dance teams, I haven't been crazy about for some time. My last couple of experiences with them haven't been pleasant. Thornden Morris' 25th anniversary ale was too much driving and excessive partying for someone who had driven all that way and just wanted to rest. And the 2003 P'home happened while I was in the acute phase of Toxic Jock Syndrome, and wasn't enjoying much of anything.

But this past weekend at the Dog Days Ale helped me realize that these can be tons of fun. Thoroughly enjoyed all the stands, the food, the setting, the company. Not perfect, but very cool.

JC, who rode with me, probably won't read this, but let the record show she has mad navigation skillz. If not for her, I might still be wandering aimlessly on the back roads of Tompkins County.

BTW, speaking of Toxic Jock, aka J.R. Gach, he lost his job last week. Finally, karma catches up with him. Good riddance, Gach Trash! Don't let the door hit you in your fat ass on the way out.