If you Google “Jeanne Sager” and “Neil Sedaka,” AI will provide you with the following story connecting me to the singer and songwriter best known for a string of chart-topping hits in the ‘60s and ‘70s:

“Jeanne Sager is a freelance reporter and photographer who has a personal connection to Neil Sedaka. She once rescued the singer-songwriter when his sailboat capsized. This anecdote has been shared in the context of her photography work, which often highlights scenes from around the Sullivan County area.”

This description reminds me of that game “two truths and a lie.” 

The truths are rather obvious to anyone who reads this column. I am, of course, a freelance reporter and photographer. Much of my photography work highlights scenes from around the Sullivan County area. 

This brings us to the lie.

I have “met” singer and songwriter Neil Sedaka exactly twice. 

During that first meeting, I was perched in an armchair in my living room, a cordless telephone tucked between my ear and shoulder as I scribbled notes in my reporter’s notebook. The part-time Sullivan County resident regaled me with stories of his early days performing for the guests at Monticello’s Esther Manor while my baby lay on a blanket near my feet, staring into her toy mirror. I later penned an article about his connections to the county for this newspaper. 

No sailboats were capsized. 

No rescues completed — or even attempted. 

Enough years have passed since that phone call that an entire generation of people exist who have never seen a cordless telephone. Fast forward two years to our second encounter. Sedaka had just released his first album for kids, Waking Up Is Hard to Do. A parenting website had contracted me to interview the singer for a regular feature they called the Five-Minute Time Out. 

Our meeting this time was similar, although I’d moved from the living room into an office space in my house, and that baby was now a rowdy 3-year-old who’d taken a shine to the song My Dinosaur Pet on Sedaka’s new album. 

This time the world-famous singer spun stories about his “three delicious grandchildren” and how he’d updated classics like Calendar Girls to entertain a new generation. 

No boats were capsized in the makings of this meeting. Instead, I walked away with the makings of a heartwarming feature and a reminder to enjoy my time with my toddler. And yet, somewhere out there, that sailboat story is sitting in a database, waiting to be served up as fact the next time someone goes looking. The baby on the blanket, the cordless phone, the toddler and her dinosaur song — none of that makes the cut.

AI got two out of three. That’s a decent day at the plate for a baseball player or the guy in the bar throwing darts. 

But when it comes to the truth, two out of three isn’t good enough.