And now ... the rest of the story

By the time you read this post, Sharon and I might well have a new addition to the Moores family. We had a five-hour visit to the hospital Monday, and we were starting to figure that baby time was imminent until the doctor sent us home. As we sat, we got to thinking about decisions that needed to be made for the future ... like choosing a name for the baby. We picked one, but it will remain under wraps for now.

Though I have a few years, it also occurs to me that I need to get working on some tall tales to tell our daughter about my youth, back in the old days before I was Peanut's dad. Since my wife is accustomed to my frequent stretching of the truth, and the cat will rarely sit still (and stay awake) long enough to listen to a whole story, maybe it's time to try a few lines out on you.

So, did I ever tell you ...

... that Steve Earle was invited to our wedding? It's true, he was among the people we invited. OK, it's sort of true. While waiting in line for Mr. Earle's autograph at a reading of his short-story collection, "Doghouse Roses," I got the bright idea that I'd ask him if he'd be interested in playing our wedding. Never mind that it probably came off as quite the asshole-y question (asshole-y is a word, friends), but I'm not sure how I would have scraped together the ching to pay him if he called my bluff. To his credit, he chose a completely practical response: "You wouldn't want me there," he said. "I'm bad luck at weddings." Sage advice from the man who recently tied the knot for the seventh time.

... about the time I took a train ride with Chris Thile? Yep, that's right; I rode the Metro with one of the finest mandolin players around. Technically, it's true. I was riding the Blue Line to work in D.C. one morning, which happened to be the same day Nickel Creek was playing the renowned Birchmere for the first of a two-night stand. I looked up from my magazine to notice that among the regular tour-ons, sitting directly in front of me, was Thile. I wasn't sure how to play this one. When I see famous folks out on the street (even those who probably can walk around largely unrecognized), I lean toward not bothering them. But this was Chris Thile, object of infatuation for HickoryWind's own Stacy Chandler, who is a co-worker online and in real life. I briefly thought about rubbing my cheek against his, then letting her smell my cheek when I saw her later. In the end, though, I decided you can't lose with good manners. I leaned forward, excused myself, and told him I was a big fan of his work. He thanked me, and went about his business unnoticed.

... about the time that I danced with Sarah Watkins? This makes me think of Jon Lovitz's pathological liar on "Saturday Night Live." Yeah, I was dancing with my wife ... Morgan Fairchild. Just about any guy who's a Nickel Creek fan would be envious of a schlub like me cutting a rug with the lovely and talented Ms. Watkins. Anybody who took time to think of the likelihood would find it far-fetched. Anyone who has ever seen me dance would know that it's complete and utter bullshit. We actually danced in the same proximity. It was at this year's Merlefest, during a white-hot set by BR549 on Sunday in the dance tent. It was enough to get even the most rhythmically challenged revelers moving. And it did, to varying degrees. For me, that meant tapping my foot, bobbing my head, and slapping one thigh a little. Ms. Watkins showed that she was considerably more talented than I in yet another way.

... about the time I hung out with Lyle Lovett? Yep. In downtown Nashville. Really, only a fan boy would call this hanging out. After having the good fortune to catch Lovett, John Hiatt, Guy Clark and Joe Ely at the Ryman Auditorium, I had the even greater fortune of getting Clark, Ely and Hiatt to sign my ticket stub (and, as a bonus, Charlie Sexton � you never know who you'll find in the alley behind Tootsie's Orchid Lounge). But could I complete the set, after already getting luckier than I deserved? The guy manning the stage door at the Ryman said that Lovett was long gone, but Sharon and I heard a rumor that he was on the other side of the building. After half-walking, half-running to get over there, I managed to score an autograph and a photo-op, as well as a thank you from Mr. Lovett for making the long trip from Virginia to catch the show. It was truly gracious of him, considering he probably was trying to sneak out the front door before being spotted by all the autograph hounds. My only regret about this story is that I hadn't been just a little bit pushy and tried to get something for Stacy, who has long referred to Lovett as "my husband, Lyle Lovett." If I hadn't had all the other signatures on my stub, I would have gladly given it to her. She'll have to settle, for now, for knowing one of her bestest music buddies was briefly in the presence of greatness.

... about the time I had dinner with John Hiatt? Sure beats the hell out of Waking Up With The (Creepy-ass Burger) King. This happened before the aforementioned Lovett/Hiatt/Clark/Ely show, which made it a great night before it even got started. But it did not happen the way it sounds. In reality, we had decided to duck into Jack's BBQ on Lower Broadway to grab a bite before the show. As luck would have it, Mr. Hiatt, one of my all-time favorite artists, was standing next to us in line. As I said earlier, I hesitate to disturb famous folks on the street, lest I set of a feeding frenzy of passers-by looking for an autograph. It's safe to say that Hiatt might be easily recognized in Nashville. I took my chances, excused myself, and told him how much I admired his work and how we had just seen him in Alexandria a few nights before. We actually had tickets to see him again during his five-night run at the Birchmere, but in a "Gifts of the Magi"-like twist of fate, I bought the Nashville tickets for Sharon and she had bought me the Birchmere tickets. We gave the second Alexandria tickets to my sister, and headed off to Music City. Everybody went home happy. And though Hiatt didn't dine at our table, he did stop by on his way out the door and told us to enjoy the show. Finding out that a person you look up to is down-to-earth is a happy ending to any celebrity story.

... about the time I hired BR549? Money did change hands, but if this was entirely factual it would possibly be the lowest-playing job ever for the esteemed hillbilly band. But the transaction wasn't me paying for a gig. It was at the tremendous dance-tent set at Merlefest I mentioned earlier. About the time the first requests were shouted out from the crowd, frontman Chuck Mead reminded the fans that there's a difference between a request and a suggestion. Having seen the band before, I knew how to speak their language. I worked my way to the front and handed Mead $10 as an enticement to play "Seven Nights to Rock." As I've said many times, it was the best ten bucks I've ever spent. It should be a MasterCard commercial. Suggestion to honky-tonk band ... ten dollars; the look on your wife's face ... priceless.

So there you have it: six opening lines that I hope to turn into full-blown exaggerations between the time I start pretending to have taken the Nutter's nose and the time she heads off to school. "Sure, your dad might be bigger than my dad," she'll tell her classmates. "But did your dad ever give career advice to Tim Easton?"