I spent weeks admiring her, everything she did made my heart race — the way she pushed the cart through the aisles of the supermarket, the way she flipped through CDs at my record store, and the way she always gave up her seat to an elderly person on the train — she was perfect.

Finally, I built up the nerve to talk to her. She agreed to have a cup of coffee with me, so we went to a cafe. As we sat there, something changed inside of me. The more she spoke, the more I realized she wasn't the girl I had imagined her to be. I began to feel angry, somehow betrayed. In the middle of one of her ridiculous stories I threw two bucks on the table, grabbed my hat and ran out the door.

The experience I had with Moby recently was similar in a reversed, opposite kind of way. Before the interview I had little interest in him. But as I sat across from him, as I listened to him speak, I became increasingly fascinated. He was humble, but self-assured; he was intelligent, insightful, and extremely unique. He seemed to possess all the qualities I was looking for in a pop hero. And although he reminded me of a pasty-faced, underweight Buddha, in a strange and unsettling way I was attracted to him.

The interview came to an end much too quickly, but afterwards I couldn't wait to see his show. But as I watched him perform, that ugly feeling started creeping over me again. I became restless, edgy, and confused — I couldn't believe that this was the same man I had fallen for just hour before. His music was generic and dull. His attempts to play punk rock, pathetic. And watching him run around on stage like a buffoon was embarrassing. About halfway through the set I turned, pushed my way through the crowd and walked the entire five miles back to my apartment.

I have experiences like this all the time. Maybe I set my standards too high, maybe I have unrealistic expectations. But maybe for you, this interview will spark a curiosity that will lead you to a beautiful and fulfilling relationship with Moby.