6:30 PM

While scrubbing hamburger grease off a pan, I begin singing, barely audible, “Aruba, Jamaica.” I often hum whilst engaged in menial tasks. Sometimes that humming rises to the level of mumbling lyrics. It is nothing to worry about.

9:33 PM

The song has been in my head for the last three hours. I am not in a panic. This happens all the time, often with less worthy numbers than “Kokomo.” I will go to bed. My alarm will wake me with a new song that clears “Kokomo” from my mind.

1:52 AM

My dream starts off normally. I’m at Disney World watching John Stamos play the conga drums. Then they ask me to sing.

I’m actually in tune, but during the second breakdown I sing, “Di, the prince, I want to catch a glimpse,” which is what I heard as a ten year old. I have since learned that the actual lyric is “Port au Prince.”

I feel Mike Love glare at me over his saxophone. The solo that follows is tinged with an anger that’s wildly out of place with the song’s laid back vibe. I’m afraid he might punch me, which makes me lose my train of thought and fumble the lyrics again, putting Montego before Key Largo. Everyone’s disgusted.

3:34 AM

Still up. I’ve repeated the song so many times that I’m starting to see some of its lyrical flaws. Why do the Beach Boys refer to the Bahamas in the singular? How can a drink melt in your hand? By virtue of being a drink, isn’t it already liquid?

8:08 AM

I’m exhausted from a poor night of sleep which included, by my calculations, 32 mental spins of “Kokomo.” I ask my wife if she wants to get some donuts. She says yes.

I respond, “Well, come on, pretty mama.”

At first, she says nothing. Then she repeats what I said, but with a question mark at the end.

All I can think to say is, “It’s from a song.”

We end up eating cereal.

10:17 AM

I own one Hawaiian shirt, purchased for a themed trivia night three years ago. I feel compelled to put it on after my shower.

To show I still have some control over my actions, I button it high enough that no chest hair peeks out.

12:32 PM

I make a grocery run in hopes that a change of scenery can persuade the song to leave my head. It can’t stay there forever.

As I pick through the apples, I realize I’m singing the line about putting away the DDT from that Joni Mitchell song. Yes!

Then, the store’s soft rock playlist pipes in “Kokomo.” I squeeze the red delicious in my hand so hard that it bruises. I put it back and grab a different one.

1:16 PM

I’ve made a tally mark each time I’ve sung “that Montserrat mystique” today. I’m on to my second sheet of paper. I don’t even know what it means. I Google it and only find the lyrics to “Kokomo.”

2:23 PM

I am not in a little place called Kokomo. I am in a place called Hell and that place is located inside my head.

If we ever take a cruise, it’s going to be to Alaska. I never want to see or hear of these islands ever again. Sorry, Bermuda, I’m no longer interested in your sandy beaches, tropical climes and slow pace of life.

4:28 PM

She’s noticed. My wife has noticed. She just asked me if everything’s okay. What am I supposed to do, tell her the truth? Tell her that my constant need to recite the lyrics to a late ‘80s Beach Boys hit, one that came well after the height of their career and wasn’t even written by the true songwriting talent in the band is driving me insane? Do I tell her a song written for the soundtrack of a middling Tom Cruise movie, one that was a disappointing follow-up to Top Gun, one that I couldn’t watch as a kid because it was rated R but that I desperately wanted to see because the trailer showed a scene of Elisabeth Shue making out with Tom Cruise in a large body of water haunts me?

I tell her I’m fine.

5:56 PM

I curl up on the couch, my hands over my ears. But the sound comes from inside of me. I try to talk to myself to block it out. The only coherent words I can form are the lyrics to “Kokomo,” so I spout gibberish instead.

6:03 PM

White noise. I need some white noise. That will allow me to clear my mind of everything bouncing around it. Namely, “Kokomo.”

I don my noise cancelling headphones, lie down and breathe deeply. I skip the ocean sounds—too close. A burbling brook ought to do the trick.

6:25 PM

It’s working. I can feel all thoughts of non-standard rock percussion leave my brain.

I start thinking about Monday. I’ve got to give a presentation to James Jobe. He’s awfully arrogant for a guy who runs a lame, though lucrative, party supply company. It’s a guarantee he’ll make at least four snide comments about me during the meeting. My boss will dutifully laugh and not even privately apologize later.

Why put myself through this? Why give up my dignity to make not that much money? How did I get to the place in my life where this is okay?

I open my “Recent Plays” list, because you know what? Maybe the Beach Boys had the right idea. Maybe there’s a reason that song wouldn’t leave my head, so why fight it?

Maybe Kokomo is where I want to go.