Music Methadone

      About a week ago now, I pressed the power on my old JVC tuner/receiver, and instead of the robust click-clack of the electronics and then the amp coming up, I heard only a feeble cluck--then nothing. I tried CPR, but no. "He's dead, Jim." A moment of silence, please.
      Unfortunately, for various reasons, I won't be able to replace it for maybe a couple more weeks--the moment of silence drags on and on. My CD's, DVD's and satellite TV all run through the receiver; one remote runs the whole show. When I rehooked the satellite and ran audio through the TV's speakers for the first time this century, it sounded as if the show were being narrated by someone standing in the closet, in the next room, speaking through a handkerchief. Someone with a cold.
      I have some mp3's I can listen to, but compressed files run through headphones can't compare to the full digital glory that until recently pumped through my bookshelf B&W's. In desperation--as a sort of music Methadone--I've pulled my vintage 1990 boombox out of the closet to play my CD's. Like a retired veteran called back for his third tour of duty, it soldiers on once more. It sounds like crap.
      I can beat this, man. I don't need the receiver; I can quit anytime I want. I just don't, you know, want to. Like, if I want to watch the game, man, and the announcers are like, totally craptastic, I can turn off the TV sound and put some tunes on over the picture, or, dude if you could just score me a little receiver, man, I could crank up the subwoofer and play Halo in like, Sensoround with butt shakers, or I could...oh man...are those, like, purple lizards coming out of the walls?