Would you ask the Piano Man?

Two days ago, my golf buddy Harvey and I were pulling our carts along the long fifth fairway at our favorite nine-hole course when I asked him a question.

He replied, “If I answer, is it going to end up in a blog?”

“No,” I said. “And you know I always change the names of the people I write about.”

But his comment got me thinking—about how I use personal material in my writing, and how I decide what to share.

I used to write more about politics, but there’s not much left to satirize when reality outpaces parody. Besides, I’ve never seen the point of preaching to the already converted. Since retiring, I’m not as immersed in medical advances as I once was, so I’ve written less about that. And my commentary on professional sports never quite clicked with readers—understandably so, especially these days.

That leaves my own life as the main source of material.

I’ve written extensively about Rogers Park, the neighborhood where I grew up: the Jewel grocery store where I worked, Ashkenaz where we had Sunday dinners, the Field and Sullivan schools I attended, even the laundromat where I wheeled our cart every week. These posts always elicit nostalgic comments from readers.

Those memories—filtered through a rose-colored retroscope—rarely name anyone outside my immediate family. I try to respect privacy.

But many of my more recent posts draw from the here and now—the situations I find myself in, and the people I meet. Harvey’s remark made me wonder if I’ve ever crossed a line in writing about those interactions.

Then I thought of “Piano Man.” Everybody knows Billy Joel’s iconic breakthrough. It’s about his time playing piano in a lounge, but more than that, it’s about the lives he observed while there—John, and Bill, and Paul, and the nameless old man at the bar. It’s life turned into song. It’s art.

I’m not Billy Joel, and my blog is no “Piano Man.” But like him, I sometimes draw on the stories of the people around me. I try never to reveal secrets or cause anyone embarrassment or distress. I hope I succeed.

I asked Harvey (not his real name) for permission to use his quote in this post. He agreed—on one condition: that I mention he’s muscular and charming.

So, to my pumped-up, amazing friend—thank you for inspiring this post. You’ve got honors on the next tee.