By Jan Allen

People like to complain about the Rolling Stones, how old they are to be rock stars, how often they tour, and how much money they make, but I love them. I have been a devoted fan since I was a teenager in the sixties.

In 1994, the Stones came to Atlanta. They were on their Voodoo Lounge tour; I was working as a registered nurse for a local urologist.

A day before the band’s first concert, I arrived at work a day to find an extremely excited receptionist. It seemed that Mick Jagger was experiencing some difficulties, and had been in before office hours for a special consultation with the doc.

After interrogating the amused physician about all the particulars– Mick’s appearance, his demeanor, his condition, whether he would have to come back in for another consultation–I got back to my duties. Among them: making sure that lab samples and their results got processed.

There in the lab, neatly labeled M. Jagger, were three containers of urine. We really only needed one, the others were backup. This was not an opportunity I could resist. I secreted the sample with my personal belongings and waited all day to be busted with a cry of: “Mick Jagger’s urine is missing! Do you have any idea where it could be?”

Sure do. In my freezer for nearly a decade.