Friends, I am what my husband calls a "meanderthal":

mee-AN-der-thal: a musical Neanderthal; someone who meanders while listening to music, with the express intent of finding known, beloved music that reminds me of my glory days, with little to no interest in exposing my ears to something remotely alternate, new or unheard of.

And thus, perhaps, I suffer more acutely from earworms. Never heard of them? Thanks to one of my writing heros, the literary genius who is Stephen King, I am a newly informed word nerd. In a recent issue of Entertainment Weekly, he recently confessed he, like me, has trouble with earworms.

ear-worm: song that is stuck in your head (thanks, urbandictionary.com!) - a.k.a. "tune wedgie"

For your enjoyment, and for damn near no one's edification, here are my top earworms:

Gimme that filet o' fish! Gimme that fish! It's dumb! It's a freakin' McDonald's ad, for heaven's sake! Kill me now! But I can't get it outta my head! Many is the time when my husband and I are doing something mundane when one of us will mimic, completely out of the blue, this inane advertising anti-foppery! And we laugh and laugh - mostly from the delusion that comes from knowing we are "hooked," so to speak. And damned to remember this for all time.

99, by Toto. It's addictive as a drug, that's all I can say. Whether I was skiing at the Cove in the Poconos (music rolling down the snowy hills) or driving to some ridiculous post-teen place, this song has haunted the better part of my life - at times that I never expect it to pronounce itself, it haunts me still. Can I explain why? Oh, Toto earworm, I hope thou art never banish-ed from the radios, for I actually anticipate with great eagerness your unexpected ear-worminess!

The SNL Toonces theme. Friends, if you know me, if you really really know me, somehow, somewhere, I have customized the goofy Toonces theme to something equally goofy in our lives.

Nobody Gets Too Much Heaven No More. You probably hate the Bee Gees, and everything associated with them. (Think: Dr. Pepper's Lonely Heart Club Band movie with Peter Frampton, so sad, soooo bad.) Me? I have a father who has adored them his whole life, with no reservations. Who, with my mother, could clear the dance floor with the eloquence of motion that, in the '70s, expressed savvy and success and sexiness. This song is probably, by far, the least favorite of all my BGs singles. And yet? And yet? It's often stuck in my noggin. Hell! At one point, when I was 7, I woke up to this on my alarm clock, having dreamed of the brothers as three crooning cavemen, in Fred-n-Barney-like attire. Go figure that one, Freud!

In Heaven, There Is No Beer... That's Why We Drink It Here.  No one asks to hear this polka at weddings, college rah-rah parties or significant Philly events. It's spontaneously erupts, like a pimple. Or a breakdance. There is something visceral about this particular oompah-oompah song that pops into your head and will-not-let-go-ever. My friend Trudy swears we remember it because of St. Al Alberts of Philadelphia, of the '60s and '70s (ala Larry Ferrari!) Me? I tend to believe I remember it because I was weaned on the beer song like every good Catholic Italian-Irish Philadelphian - and it is my birthright, my songright, and a brain phantasm that's as much blessing as outright curse.

So... how 'bout you?

You know you're infected.... Admit it! Go on, you'll feel better.....