I was still in a haze from meeting Martin Gore at Amoeba. Driving eastbound on Sunset, I was stuck at a red light on the Gower intersection when an SUV full of dudes came careening around the corner, screaming “FLAVOR FLAV!” and honking the horn. I look over and standing on the corner in a Chad Pennington NY Jets jersey next to a very swanky convertible was indeed Public Enemy sidekick/VH-1 reality star Flavor Flav.

Being situated across the street from soul food institution Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles, there was a large crowd of people all snapping pictures and calling out Flav’s name. A circle of kids rushed up to get autographs and touch his omnipresent clock. I pulled over and joined the fray myself. I mean, this slight little man with the money bandana and gold teeth has actually made out with the super-fine “Hoops,” the winner of “Flavor of Love.” Not to mention rapped on such hip-hop classics as “Don’t Believe The Hype” and “Fight The Power.” You can’t front on that. Mad respect to you, Mr. Drayton.

Sunday afternoon, I found myself at Amoeba—again. I’ve been haunting their aisles even more than usual lately, thanks to a couple of upcoming DJ gigs. I’d done some major damage the day before unearthing all sorts of sweet vinyl sides. Yeah, I said it: vinyl. I know, I know. I just love it. Is that so wrong? But as it happens at Amoeba all too often, there were a couple of things that I forgot. Which is why I ran in again on Sunday to pick up a particular piece that they happily had in stock.

So I’d procured my treasure, and was heading through the R&B section for one quick pass when I noticed someone that looked extremely familiar. It only took a moment to realize that the slight blonde guy with the basket full of tunes was none less than Martin Gore of Depeche Mode.

OK, I could go on forever about how huge a part Depeche Mode has played in my life. From my first real girlfriend through all sorts of trials, tribulations, parties, concerts, feature films, a certain Detroit after-show where DM came to check out DJ Derrick May—their albums are like bookmarks in my life, the soundtrack to more memories than I can even remember (ha). Which is why I looked like a deer in the headlights when I was finally able to muster the courage to say hi. He was very gracious and shook my hand. I managed to say something about being a big fan and thanks. It was all kind of a blur.

It didn’t fully hit me until I’d made my purchase and stumbled back to my car in a daze that I’d just run into MARTIN GORE. The man that wrote songs like “Stripped,” “Black Celebration,” “Lie to Me”—songs that invoke vivid images and emotions every time I hear them. I just sat there for a moment, quietly freaking out. Martin Gore. Damn, that's just crazy...