Breaking Up With a Missing Person Is Hard to Do

Forgetting what words are for in a state of perpetual mental hopscotch

Neil and Terry and Dale and Warren and Patrick and Me

I had planned on structuring this piece, this first essay in more than two months, around Neil Sedaka’s song “Breaking Up Is Hard to Do."

No, not the Partridge Family version or the Carole King version. Though those are both fabulous. (I highly recommend clicking the links for the videos.)

And not the original, fast version, which Neil Sedaka wrote (with Howard Greenfield) and first sang back in 1962 (video below).

What I was planning to share is Neil's slower, jazzier remake, recorded a decade later. I particularly love this live version below. Especially the way he seamlessly integrates “Stormy Weather” into the closing. Sure, there’s a palpable cheese factor here, but Neil pulls it off with a wink, an open heart, and smooth, confident pipes.

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

I was prepared to explain how, after many months of slogging through shaping and editing weekly essays (hoping to come out the other side refreshed and renewed), it seemed that my relationship with Earworms and Song Loops had hit its natural end.

I had been telling myself (and also many of you, who have kindly reached out to ask what was up) a litany of “reasons” for the lack of desire/interest/time/motivation to keep my more than 100 weeks straight of writing a new essay going:

• I had just moved into a new house and was too consumed with home improvement projects.

• It was the holidays.

• It was winter.

• The Notes social media site/app within Substack had finally sucked all the marrow (aka: creativity, enthusiasm, wonder) from my bones.

• Comparing mind, imposter syndrome, and other negative mental voices had grown omnipresent and deafening.

• Physical limitations (carpal tunnel, lower-back strain) had become extra bothersome.

• It’s hard to write with a hangnail.

Okay, that last one was made up, but that’s how these “reasons” sounded to me. Like lame excuses. Like hangnails.

I’d written dozens of posts over the past two and a half years in similar conditions to all but the first item in the above list. I even scratched out three posts while living in an assisted living facility with my aunt two years ago (link below).

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TMBG - You're Older Than You've Ever Been, And Now You're Even Older, Redux

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Scraping beneath the surface of these reasons/excuses, I’d concluded that I needed to write a break-up post. A goodbye letter. A final essay explaining why it was time to move on to something else, something new, something less navel-gazing.

But a funny thing happened while attempting to write that essay.

I started to get ideas again. The earworms in my head began unearthing memories and connections.

Perhaps what I really needed was a break.

Time off to focus on other areas of my life. Priorities change, and writing a new essay every week requires remaining near the top of that list.

Now that I’ve been in my new house for three months, and the days are growing longer and warmer, my self-imposed hibernation from words seems to be ending.

The important word there is “seems.”

This may, in fact, be an elaborate breakup sex ploy, a symbolic one last roll in the proverbial song-loop hay. But I’m hoping it’s the real deal. No promises. Let’s play it by ear, shall we?

I was all set to tell the story of how the first album I ever owned was an 8-track. And how that 8-track cassette was Neil Sedaka’s 1975 album, The Hungry Years. It’s possible/likely that this was my father’s tape, and I inherited it after receiving a portable 8-track player for my birthday. I also owned/inherited Anne Murray’s Keeping in Touch and Barry Manilow’s Trying to Get the Feeling, so clearly I was the coolest 9-year-old in all of Los Angeles.

thanks eBay for the images!

The Hungry Years featured the ballad version of “Breaking Up Is Hard to Do,” which I mentioned above. And I did (and still do) love this song, but my favorite track from the album was “Bad Blood,” a genuine rocker, with the great Elton John (unmentioned on most pressings) on backing vocals.

It's impossible to listen to this one and not get up and shake your thang.

They say that breaking up is hard to do
Now I know, I know that it's true
Don't say that this is the end
Instead of breaking up I wish that we were making up again

Breaking up is hard to do. Writing this has made me think back to the few times I ended romantic relationships, and it was torturous. It was not pretty. I would clam up and act so distant and cold that my partners would break up with me out of exasperation. I hated being the bad guy. I hated having bad blood.

I’m sure there are 1000 videos on YouTube on how to break up with a romantic partner, but back when I was young I had no fucking clue. I suppose being honest and considerate shouldn’t require a video tutorial.

Writing a breakup post summons those same queasy, dizzy feelings.

A week ago, I was filled with clarity. Today, I still feel that tug, that guttural need to break up, but I now realize I wanted to end the wrong relationship.

I don’t want to break up with you, dear reader.

I want to break up with me.

At least the me I’d become over the past several months.

I wasn’t writing. I wasn’t playing my drums. My attention was so scattered as to be non-existent. I’d put on an album or a podcast, and when it was over, I’d realize I hadn’t listened to a single note, a single word.

For years, first thing every morning, I would write three pages of unfiltered gobbledygook (aka: morning pages). It was an effective way to release the negative mental noise, leading to calmer, stress-free days.

This required a level of discipline and fortitude that I could not sustain. Late last year, with the impending election, coupled with complications around the purchase of a new home, my innate worrier and catastrophizer sped into overdrive. Anxiety took hold of my brain reins and galloped off with my energy, attentiveness, and inner resources. My horsepower had been hijacked, you might say, stealing away any desire to write, read, meditate, exercise, or even listen to music — my reliable outlets for stress reduction.

Following the depressing election results and the reality of the state of the Union post-inauguration, I dove headfirst into house projects and catching up on TV shows.

I was attempting to bring some semblance of order to the physical space around me so that I could withstand the chaos and unpredictability of both the outside world and my inside world.

Living in a new house surrounded by boxes and home improvement/repair projects everywhere I turned — things that had to be done NOW (or so I’d convinced myself) — it wasn’t possible to create the safe environment I craved.

And so I hibernated in a world of anxiety, simultaneously avoiding and obsessing over the news. I was unable to grab hold of any of my release valves.

It took me a while to realize that I was depressed. I knew how to recognize anxiety, but not depression; the symptoms weren’t familiar.

A Missing Person

Last week, while walking Cassie, one of my client dogs (I’m a dog walker, for those new to EW&SL), the chorus to Missing Persons’ 1982 new-wave hit single, “Words,” appeared in my head.

What are words for when no one listens anymore?
What are words for when no one listens? It's no use talkin' at all

As a shy person who tended to keep my mouth shut most of my life, I discovered my voice and my audience through writing. Even if that was an audience of one, I had found a safe outlet to express myself. A spigot I could turn and release the inner demons (self-doubts, inner critics) so they didn’t fester inside. Listening to music (and later, playing music) did and still does the same thing.

I might as well go up and talk to a wall
'Cause all the words are having no effect at all
It's a funny thing, am I all alone?
Something has to happen to change the direction
What little filters though is giving you the wrong impression
It's a sorry state, I say to myself

Lately, though, I’ve lost touch with what even my written words are for. In this profoundly messed-up world, what’s the point of writing a blog about earworms when innocent people are being kidnapped and shipped off to camps and foreign countries without due process?

If I could look at it objectively, I would see how ridiculous that sounds, because it’s through writing, especially composing essays like this, that I’m able to understand (or at least explore) the crazy mess that exists between my ears, the noise that pulses through my bloodstream. When I don’t write, all my systems back up. Exploring concepts and ideas is my mental laxative. It’s what keeps me regular.

But when anxiety and depression play mental hopscotch, stomping heavy with their giant, pounding army boots, it’s difficult to remember the power of getting the words out.

Mental Hopscotch

I was 15 when I first discovered the band Missing Persons. I don’t recall the exact moment, but it was likely watching the music video for “Mental Hopscotch” on MTV that initiated me into their fan base. It was their first single from their self-titled EP and played regularly on KROQ, the new-wave radio station in Los Angeles, which my car was perpetually tuned to.

The band’s leggy, rainbow-haired lead singer, Dale Bozzio, was probably the initial attraction. But the musical talent of the rest of the band, especially drummer (and then-husband) Terry Bozzio, sealed the deal.

I soon learned that all of the members of Missing Persons had played with Frank Zappa. Drummer Terry Bozzio, guitarist Warren Cuccurullo, and bassist/keyboardist Patrick O’Hearn played together with Zappa for several years. That’s top-level pedigree.

As a wannabe drummer, I became obsessed with Terry’s hyper-speed fills and complicated yet groove-forward rhythms.

When the band’s debut album, Spring Session M (an anagram of Missing Persons), was released in 1983, it didn’t leave my turntable for weeks. I danced around my bedroom to both sides, trying (and failing) to air drum along to all ten tracks. The album was the perfect blend of pop hits (“Words,” “Windows,” “Destination Unknown”) and intricate art rock (“U.S. Drag,” “No Way Out”).

43 years later, it’s one of a handful of albums that get regular play, that I never tire of hearing.

Destination Unknown

Life is so strange when you don't know
How can you tell where you're going to?
You can't be sure of any situation
Something could change and then you won't know

I’m a hyper-planner. I have a never-ending to-do list that I constantly reorder based on that day’s idea of importance. I’m often convinced I know how things should go, the steps needed to get there, and how everything will turn out.

I thought it was time to say goodbye to you all. I thought it was time to retire Earworms & Song Loops. I thought this newsletter had reached its destination.

I don’t do well with uncertainty. I suppose most of us don’t. Maybe you do. If that’s you, I’d love to hear your tricks for facing uncertainty in the comments. I suck at it.

If the destination is unknown, maybe that means I can focus on the journey. Writing these posts is always an adventure. Ironically, I rarely plan what I’m going to write about. When I’m writing, when I’m in the flow, it’s all about discovery. Where I end up is unknown. I rarely take a direct path. I prefer the scenic route.

I am grateful to you for coming along for the ride. Hopefully it was worthwhile!

• What artist or band has guided you through a particularly tough or confusing time in your life? Was it a single song or many songs that did it?

• With LPs and cassettes having a resurgence, will 8-tracks follow suit?

• If you are new to EW&SL, leave a comment and introduce yourself. I’d love to hear from you!

• I hope to start posting more regularly, but I’ll likely be mixing the new with some archive highlights until I get my sea legs (writing flow) beneath me.

• As always, thanks for reading.