Some of you may have picked up on the fact that, in recent years, I’ve had earworm issues. I think all my family’s obsessive-compulsive tendencies channel themselves into my head in the form of popular music — and often bad pop tunes. Sometimes I get one stuck for days, and nothing will dislodge it. It’s then that I have to resort to The Cure: singing “It’s a Small World” in its entirety.
It’s true that Foreigner songs are sometimes the culprit, which is why all Foreigner is banned from my aural vicinity. What’s really bad is when it’s something truly inappropriate. Like this fist-pumping anthem for the ages, which periodically takes up residence in my gray matter. Or this catchy ditty, which I already shared with you. Then you have to keep it to yourself with a straight face, all day, no matter where you are — no breaking into song just because you feel like it, as I have a habit of doing. The past few weeks it’s been Tom’s fault. Not only a synthopop tune, but a parody of one as I jump through the house, hands in the air, singing heyo! I wanted mayo!
Sometimes I know the source. Other times I have no idea what puts a tune in my brain. This morning I woke to internal Billy Joel, and couldn’t figure out why until my head reached the chorus.