I loved that tingling itchy sensation when Christopher Cross or Juliana Hatfield announced their dates. I want to dig my fingernails into my skin. I want to feel it right down to the bone. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Oooh, doesn’t that feel good?
What I really like is that itch that makes me bear down and squirm in my chair. I grab the arms of the chair and I focus my entire body, all 351 pounds, and push. Yes! Oh, baby! Come on now, don’t act like you’re offended. I’m sure you do it too.
I truly feel that the world would be a better place if everyone would spend some time each day scratching an itch. After all, we’re all brothers and sisters under the skin, and now we can be scratchin’ cousins. Go ahead, scratch yourself with dates for Bruce Cockburn and Tim Reynolds. Scratch where it feels good. A downright righteous scratch.
But you can only scratch so much. Eventually you might build up an immunity to an itch. That used to happen to me, but I got passed that. I learned that if I don’t shower or wash my hair, I’ll build up a treasure chest of itches. Especially when I cover myself with Aunt Jemima maple syrup and then pour ants all over my body. Then I’ll scratch for days. Like when I first heard of the dates for Up In Smoke and Wheat.
Someday I hope that all my favorite bands, like Pearl Jam or Stone Temple Pilots, will get together and have one gigantic concert. One band after another, like Agents Of Good Roots, Orlando “Maraca” Valle and Bush. And I’ll be front row, scratching and squirming like there’s no tomorrow. Wouldn’t that be great? I even have a name for it.
They could call it Itchypalooza. Catchy, isn’t it?