IT’S SUCH A GAMBLE WHEN YOU GET A FACE

Back when I was 17, I worked as a dishwasher at a Howard Johnson’s.

The chief benefit was that I was able to boost the occasional industrial-sized carton of cheddar Goldfish when I made my nightly Dumpster runs.

(OK, my conscience requires a brief PSA at this point: Workplace theft kills, kids. Don’t do it. Keep your eye on the sparrow. Thank you.)

Anyway, the night manager was a bit of a well-meaning tool. He was in his mid to late 20s, and intoxicated by the power that comes with managing the restaurant at a HoJo’s.

One night, I was cleaning up my area and listening to music on my JVC box. Suddenly, the manager slid into view, air guitaring and singing along, right near the top of his lungs.

“I’m waiting for my maaaaan!”

I had a look of horror stenciled on my face. “You like the Velvets?”

“Oh, yeah. Me and my frat brothers loved this album!” he enthused, still windmilling at the ether.

Needless to say I was troubled by the image of a whole house full of fratboys like this huckleberry swigging PBRs and listening to the Velvets. This was my music, damnit. My private music.

Well, this past Saturday morning I went to Hollywood Video to rent a copy of stop-motion Rudolph for that evening’s family movie night. I was greeted by a lone clerk, probably 17 himself. He was dressed in black from head to toe, except for the interruption of his moon-blue name tag.

And instead of the usual endless loop of promos for Failure to Launch and Barnyard, the clerk had Richard Hell cranked up on the store’s PA.

As I went to pay, I handed him the DVD and my membership card. “Richard Hell, huh?” I said, nodding in the direction of the ceiling.

And of course he shot me a look. “This is my music, damnit. My private music,” said the look...