My internal soundtrack is louder than yours

"Daddy, do you have to sing a song for EVERYTHING?" my daughter half-complained, half-teased. I'd done it again. Her off-handed remark ("I'm writing a letter to Grammy") had launched me into singing "I'm Gonna Sit Right Down And Write Myself A Letter."

I can't help myself. Waking up slowpoke sleepers in the morning usually triggers Fats Waller's "Lazy Bones." Strolling down a bright sidewalk brings an unprompted rendition of "The Sunny Side Of The Street." An unexpected icy blast from the shower head meets "COLD! Oh I can't believe your heart is cold!" from "Watch What Happens." My internal soundtrack is just too darn loud.

Perhaps you too always have a snappy comeback at the tip of your tongue, a pop-culture free-association. In my case, it usually comes in the form of those great novelty records of Dickie Goodman, the pioneering mash-up artist whose mock interview questions were answered with the hooks of pop songs. Remember those? An example, from his 1975 No. 1 hit "Mr. Jaws", a tribute to Spielberg's shark movie: "Sir, if someone is attacked by a shark, what should they do?" Music track: "Do the Hustle!" Just the thing to get us fifth graders rolling in the aisles of the bus, listening to a Top-40 DJ on an AM transistor radio.

I come by my curse honestly. I was raised in a family of singers, notably my mother, an absolute monster at the old "Name That Tune" game show. During the Golden Medley round, she'd think nothing of reeling off gems like "Does the Chewing Gum Lose its Flavor On The Bedpost Overnight" or "My Cutey's Due At Two-To-Two To-Day." In the Bid-A-Note, she'd frequently offer to Name That Tune in one note -- and hit it every time.

All my siblings sang in church choir, except my second brother, whom the choirmaster felt didn't have an ear. The rejection hurt him for many years, until as an adult he became, in his own words, "one of America's leading congregational singers." He finally mustered the skill and the courage to join his church choir at age 45. I'm proud of him.

My father would hardly describe himself as a singer, yet hearing him in church, I never heard an off note. When puttering at the workbench, the nonsense humming under his breath was always spot-on, a weird blend of scat and Bing Crosby that ended up sounding like "Winchester Cathedral." It made perfect sense coming from him.

Mom's encyclopedic knowledge and Dad's constant humming combine in me. I can't not be singing or whistling. It drives officemates crazy, especially since I often don't know the actual words to the song, leading to weird constructions of my own. (For lots of fun misheard lyrics, go to www.kissthisguy.com, a mistaken form of Jimi Hendrix singing " 'scuse me while I kiss the sky!") The only solution is to wear headphones and crank it up, to drown out my own propensity to whistle. Even now, as a remote worker spending hours on the phone, my co-workers know that I'm not really tackling their problem if I'm not whistling.

I've always been a whistle-while-you-work guy. That earned plenty of strange looks, when at age 15 I would sing over the din and steam of the restaurant dishwasher, belting out all those treasured gems of the Seventies: "Rapper's Delight" and "Elvira" and "Tainted Love" and "Music For Boys" by local faves The Suburbs. Today, my kids learn from this that a capacity for self-delight makes any job tolerable; indeed, if pressed by circumstance, I think I could be a dishwasher again and be happy, so long as I could sing along. (Invite me for supper and marvel at your clean counters afterwards, and the great floor show accompaniment.)

Now as a writer and programmer, I am forced to play music all day long, to drown out my internal soundtrack enough that I can think. It can't be just any music, either. It must be interesting enough to be stimulating, yet not so interesting as to encourage the distraction of singing along. Although my taste ranges widely -- from Ella Fitzgerald through Lyle Lovett, k.d. lang, Elvis Costello, barbershop, blues, ragtime, some dub and reggae, Reverend Horton Heat, renaissance, and bluegrass -- for work, though, mainly stick to guitar jazz.

That may seem like a lot of study and planning, but the earworms would eat my brain if not held at bay. Earworms, of course, are the fragments of melody and rhythm which, once penetrating your skull, drove you insane. (WARNING: skip next sentence if not exceptionally strong-willed.) Researchers have identified leading species as: the jingles from Chili's ("Baby Back Ribs") and Kit-Kat ("Gimme A Break"); "Who Let the Dogs Out;" Queen's "We Will Rock You;" the theme to "Mission: Impossible;" "YMCA;" "Whoomp, There It Is;" "The Lion Sleeps Tonight;" and "It's a Small World After All." I would add to that "Ding Dong, The Witch Is Dead," "Theme from Bridge Over River Kwai," and most TV themes from the '60s. Not those of today, though; you can't really get much melody going from the KLONG-KLONG stinger of "Law & Order."

Gadzooks... even as I write this, the CD has fallen silent for five minutes, and I find I've been whistling "Vacation" by The Go-Gos. Another dread mind killer. Solution: start singing "Unforgettable" by Nat King Cole. It's an earworm, too, but a benign and welcome one. Listen to that great craftsmanship; the same figure repeated in an ascending line, then its gracefully descending complement. Filling your head with that kind of graciousness, or the poetry and pure lyrical craftsmanship of Cole Porter, the Gershwins and Irving Berlin -- that makes you smarter, happier and a better kisser. Just ask my sweet wife.