You were IT, man.  My first.  We were inseparable.

At night, from under the pillow, you brought me baseball, static, "W.. da-da-da.. QQW... Nonstop Music!" Charles Osgood, "Midnight at the Oasis," school cancellations, "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald."  Hell, you even brought in Baltimore when the sun went down.

And every morning, you somehow got yourself back up on the headboard, hanging by your strap. 

I thought of you the other day, glancing up at the DVD screen hanging from the ceiling of the Family Truckster.  The kids dig it... the name's the same, but it's not you.  Not YOU.  My supersonic.  My Panasonic.