Harry, I'm gonna let you in on a little secret.

Thats it. I'm going to start attaching tiny little speakers to my sneakers. That way everyone will be forced to hear the soundtrack going round and round in my brain. Today, I was literally, lit-er-a-lly walking around my place of employment singing Moby's "Dream About Me." It's hard not to be judgmental of someone who is mumbling some message of egoism off-key. I'd be judgmental of me. To be honest, it's better than the Irish ditty, "My Grass It Grows Bonnie," which was on repeat for months. I blame the fact that I had choreographed the song into the film playing in my head. Which thankfully stopped playing a couple weeks ago when some hoodlums trashed the theater. I'm so thankful in fact that George Michael was spinning for about a week. Wake me up before you go, go. Indeed. Music in the head can be delightful. Unless you're one of those folks like myself who can't just have a song playing politely at a reasonable volume in your skull. No, not you. You have to manifest the song in some other ways. Which is precisely why I can't "play" Tommy James "Crimson and Clover" except in the confines of my own home. It just doesn't explain well to the 5-0 why you felt the need to disrobe at the bank.