I live in a pretty eclectic area. There’s an abundance of Vietnamese, Thai and Cambodian restaurants; used clothing stores litter the boulevard; a patchwork of people cruise the streets at all hours. Mike and I take Rusty on frequent walks through the neighborhood, enjoying the snug craftsman houses and lush yards packed with native plants, as well as the colorful rush of humanity. A few weeks back, we first discovered the record store. A tiny closet of an establishment, it sells used music from the ages before iPods and streaming. The scruffy proprietor agreed Rusty could accompany us into the shabby looking store, and we split to divide and conquer. The…