ROMANCING THE STONES

Dear Blog Reader,

I’m not here, in my bedroom, wearing a party hat, listening to the Stones. They’ve been temporarily silenced. Vicodin will do that. Mick Jagged (no misspelling there), along with the others, have made their presence known. They sing to me internally, a reminder that things shall pass. Amen. I’ll drink to that. Then again, maybe not.

My wife’s been giving me heavy doses of tea, having switched from lemon water to a stronger diuretic. If you look real close, you will find two teabags dangling above the “World Class Teacher” mug. Still don’t see them? Keep searching, they’re camouflaged in with my Fosters Beer label pajama bottoms, less obvious than the Sears & Roebuck model of lore (now I know you’re looking). I’m hoping the tannic acid—gee, that would make a mighty fine name for a rock and roll band—will take the edge off of those pesky Stones. Dissolving them would be better. It’s all in the preparation, like using earplugs at a loud concert, except I want to hear everything.

I’m wearing my hospital wristband too, so if the pain becomes unbearable and I have to rush back to the emergency room, they can scan the bar code to see my past history. But what I’m really really really hoping for is to toss a few of these Stones into that funny looking mosh-pit party hat and call it a day. Or night. Whichever comes first. Wish me luck.

Sincerely, JR’s Thumbprints

P.S. In case you still don’t get it, the party hat is a strainer for the strainee.