I like to think I'm a pretty 'upbeat' sort of guy at work. Certainly, there are annoyances at my office -- not to mention complications, technical difficulties, seemingly endless meetings, sudden emergencies, unexpected problems, and a urinal handle that won't flush unless you jiggle it just right -- but I try not to let it get to me. I try to be positive. Cheerful. And mostly, in denial of the shit-tsunami that's usually surging it's way down the hall towards me.

Listening to music in the car on the way to work helps. If I'm in a determined sort of mood, I might play some driving techno stuff -- Chemical Brothers, maybe, or the Propellerheads. If I need a pick-me-up, then maybe it's edgy rock, like Smashing Pumpkins or Foo Fighters. And if I'm feeling a little down or tired, I'll pop in something jangly I can sing along with -- Blind Melon is good for that; so is Dave Matthews. And, as I was crooning along with today, so are the Refreshments.

(Yes, I was singing in my car. Yes, often at the top of my lungs. And yes, I'm a sappy damned douchebag. But that's not the point this time. Today, we're laughing at me for another dumbass thing. Do try and keep up.)

So, I made it to work. The last song I was howling along to was 'Mexico', off the Fizzy Fuzzy Big & Buzzy CD. Cool tunes, catchy hooks, nearly-naked cartoon chick on the cover. Good times.

So the lyrics were still running through my head when I made it into the building, and to my first meeting of the day.

At this point, I should probably mention that I'm one of those people who'll suddenly -- though in my case fairly quietly, due to my off-key warble -- break into song, with no obvious provocation. I'm pretty sure I picked it up from my dad -- he's got this weird, and apparently contagious, habit of singing about what he's doing, or what someone just said to him. I don't know where the hell he got it from, but he's passed the insanity down to me, and now I'm stuck with it. So I sometimes have 'conversations' like this:

Wife: 'Honey, can you take out the trash?'

Me: 'Takin' out the trrrrrash.... Ooh, I'm a-takin' out the trash... Yes, it's -- Gar-bage Day! Ooh, baby, Gar-bage Day! Hey hey!'

Wife: 'You're an idiot, you know that?'

And then, while I'm carrying the garbage out, she locks me out of the house. Yes, the lady's quite the kidder. Ha mo-fucking ha.

Anyway, there's that. There's also the whole 'humming a song in my head and then realizing that I'm actually singing it, out loud, with other humans within hearing distance' thing, which -- believe it or not -- can be even worse.

Which gets us back to this morning. Let's recap -- Mexico running through my head. Me in a good mood. And an hour-long meeting with bosses and co-workers and such just about to get under way. I've just skipped into the conference room and found a seat, while people pile in around me. I'm singing to myself, in my head, until I get to the bit just before the chorus, when I absentmindedly let a couple of bars slip out. In case you're not familiar with the song in question (and here are the lyrics [link], in case you want to play along at home), here's what the folks in my immediate vicinity heard:

'*hum* *hum* *hum-a-hum-a-hum*...

Got off in the wrong direction --
Found a hooker and lost my erection,
So I had to lie, in the letter...'

I think it was right around 'I had to lie' that I noticed the people staring at me. It took a couple of more words in the verse to put two and two together -- I'd just launched into song at the worst possible point in this little ditty, and got flat busted by at least two -- no, wait, that girl over there's not looking, but her face is really red, so at least three -- oops, hold on, the guy across the table is deliberately avoiding my eyes... eh, but most people in the office end up doing that, so maybe it's just coincidence -- busted by at least three people who just heard me spontaneously spout something about a 'hooker' and 'lost my erection' in the lull before the start of the weekly group meeting. Out-fucking-standing. Oh, the wonders this will do for my rep with these people. Goody to the max.

So, that was how my morning started today. I think I recovered pretty well -- I looked around, wide-eyed, like a shaved gerbil at a K-Y convention, and then muttered, 'Aw, shit!' and pretended to study the meeting agenda in front of me. Smooth, yes? Cool like the other side of the pillow. That's right.

And now, I'm just waiting for the bullshit to start. 'Hey, Charlie, picked up any hookers lately?' Or, 'Yo, Erection Boy -- how's it hanging?' And probably, 'You know, dude, it's okay -- there are pills for people like you.'

*sigh*

The worst part is, this snarky crap will only go on until I pull the next cluetarded brainfart move, and catch hell for that, instead. And the circle of life goes on.

Meanwhile, I'm gonna start listening to NPR in the damned car. Sure, it's about as exciting as giving a teamster a Brazilian backwax... but at least there are no lyrics to lodge themselves in my brain and get me in trouble later. I can pretty well guarantee you that the words 'hooker' and 'erection' have never been uttered together in the same sentence on public radio before. Hell, maybe not even separately. Those guys have no damned fun at all. Perfect for those morning meetings. I'm sold.

I'm finding there's an upside to this cold I've had the past few days. If I pay close attention to my condition, and am very careful with my CD selection, my singing along with songs in the car sounds much more realistic.

Before we argue that point, though, let me first point out that I have no native musical talent whatsoever. I can't play an instrument, I couldn't carry a tune in a reinforced metal bucket, and my singing voice sounds disturbingly like a castrated hyena. Some might say a hyena, during the actual act of castration. It's not a pretty sound.

So when I 'sing along' to songs in the car, you can be sure three conditions have been met:

1. I'm alone in the vehicle.

B. The windows are shut, to protect innocent passersby, and

iii. The music is mo-fuggin' cranked up, to protect me from my own earwrenching caterwaulery.

"I can't play an instrument, I couldn't carry a tune in a reinforced metal bucket, and my singing voice sounds disturbingly like a castrated hyena."

To be honest, I usually can't be very sure I'm actually 'singing', per se. Certainly, I feel like I'm shouting along, near the top of my lungs. But all I hear are the dulcet tones of Mike Doughty, or Dave Matthews, or Bob Mould. Some of whose tones are more 'dulcet' than others, perhaps, but you get the idea.

Occasionally, one of my raspy warbles will sneak through the music to assault my ears, and I'll spend a few songs whispering along to the music instead. Even I don't want to hear that shit, and I'm the one it's coming out of. If that tells you anything.

So finding a way to better match my humble harmonizings to real music is a godsend. And for me, it seems a mild illness is the answer. Here's what I've found so far:

Severe Nasal Congestion is perfect for singing along with Billy Corgan. Your nasal whine and stuffy whistling should fit nicely into a Smashing Pumpkins song like, say, 'Today' or '1979'. If you're light-headed and puffy, the Punkins are your friend.

If, on the other hand, you're suffering from Chronic Wheezing, you'll want to try something raspier. I'd suggest one of Alex Alexakis' numbers from Everclear. If you can approximate 'Heartspark Dollarsign' or 'You Make Me Feel Like a Whore' without hacking up a lung, then you're a craftier crooner than I. I hear Alex keeps a 'loogie bucket' in the recording studio, just in case.

Finally, if you've got a Persistent Sore Throat and Cough, then you're in for a treat. You're ready to emulate, for instance, just about anything David Lowery ever sang with Cracker. Sure, their big hit 'Low' is reasonably melodic, but his really good shit is far edgier. I defy anyone to listen to the outstanding 'St. Cajetan', for instance, and tell me Lowery doesn't sound like he's in the advanced stages of tuberculosis. In the best, most musically kick-ass way possible, of course.

Smoke a few fat stogies on top of that whooping cough, and you might even be able to pull off a Tom Waits song or two. Just have the oxygen tank and transplantable lung at the ready. Safety first, young kareoke Jedi.

And if you can sound anything like Courtney Love during her Hole years, you've gone too far. I enjoy her music a bit more than I'm really comfortable to admit, but I would still swear that she sings through one of those electronic voicebox gizmos they give to laryngectomy patients. That, or she's humming through a stoma.

(Come on, it's Courtney Love. Just look at the woman; you know she's got one somewhere.)

Of course, for most of my cold I've been hopped up in a NyQuil haze. So while my voice might've worked for many of the above bands, I rarely had the energy to manage more than a mumble.

Which turns out to be ideal for singing along with early R.E.M.! Bless you, Michael Stipe; bless you and your unintelligible gibberish. You've made this virus sing!