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Over the weekend, I did something I apparently haven’t done enough. I went to a yard sale.

But it wasn’t some ol’ mom and pop shindig with over-sized T-shirts and framed prints of flowers; this thing was a carefully planned treasure trove of mostly like rummages.

A few weeks prior, I’d gone to what event planners had dubbed a vintage bizarre. Retailers, many of whom make a living out of reselling what they pick up at estate sales and what have you, filled an entire theater - and its outside parking lot, too - with their antique goods.

One of the day’s vendors - a husband and wife team who sold me a nifty ticking desk clock for a cool eight bucks - endorsed an intimate weekend sale they’d host outside their home in just a few short weeks. This past Saturday was that promoted day.

All that background is necessary because I didn’t want to give the impression that my new acquaintances just happen to be extraordinarily good at throwing impromptu sales on their own property. Instead, there’s more intentionality behind them, as they do these things quite a bit, be it in their own backyard or at some vintage gala or other.

Anyway, on Saturday, I made my way around back and was welcomed by a bevy of desk lamps, old books, kitchenware, clothing, globes, even a professional seated hair dryer they’d picked up the day before. One glance at an 18-inch box of wooden Motorola radio, though, and I just about knew it had to be mine.

So rich in character that it has not a volume dial, but a “loudness” tuner, the player can’t be any older than I am. Light researching says Motorola produced radios from the early ‘50s to the mid ‘70s, so I’m ball parking my find at about 50 years old. Not bad for a funky piece of personality that cost little more than a takeout lunch and beer.

Since installing the radio in my digs - um, plugging it into the wall - the thing has been turned on for about just as many hours as I’ve been home. Last night, even, I passed out on my bed to the sweet sounds of ‘70s rock before willing myself, following an all too-brief respite, to get off my sleeper, power down the tuner and call it a day for good. Right now, and oh how nice really, I’ve got Lynyrd Skynyrd wrapping up “Free Bird.”

The magic won’t last forever, I’m sure, but for now I’m loving my newest gift to myself. I don’t know that I’ve been as excited to flip on the radio since self-educating myself on ‘50s and ‘60s music in the fifth grade. I get home from work and slap on some tunes, or I step outside to read with my bedroom door propped, or I, hey, write deadline ditties for BOP with harmonies dribbling out the speakers to my right. And I have my happy vintage radio to thank.

In an age when many of us impress our peers with essential iPod playlists and seamless Pandora stations, it sure feels nice to let an old gadget - and as clear as a bell, still - do all the work. Live DJs, on the station I’ve been listening to, at least, spin the good stuff. All that’s required of me is to twist a knobby dial a little bit before resting on a station that matches my speed.

And though radio never left, it sure feels reinvented when blasted from a thing like an old radio. It’s like comparing a record player to a docked iPod. I mean, music sure feels more robust when emanated from a thing perhaps twice my senior. The Motorola’s craftsmanship just makes me swoon.

Maybe the radio is just one piece of a definite lifestyle kick I’ve apparently been riding for some time now. Not too long ago, while shopping at a thrift store, I looked at its haphazard towers of VHS tapes and didn’t blow by like usual, but stopped and stared. By the time I left the store, I’d bought Dazed and Confused, His Girl Friday and a movie I haven’t thought of for a dozen years or more: Homeward Bound.

And three flicks for, what, a buck fifty?

Watching VHS is an experience we’ve mostly forgotten when pristine DVD and dazzling HD is so readily available. Having gotten used to such “perfection” in video quality - except, of course, when you Redbox a DVD after a family of four evidently played contact football with the disc - I wholly welcomed the video format’s obvious blemishes. The skips and the burps and the few times my VHS player had to auto-correct itself from technical silliness was, unexpectedly, awesome. The tape didn’t hit a blotch and then sit there like an idiot - awaiting your next annoyed move via remote control. It simply powered through the blip with little to no embarrassment.

And rewinding the video when my screening was over? Holy cow.

Make an Argument this week, then, is about taking a mostly sanitized aspect of your everyday and peeling it back to its more humble beginnings.

Your pick need not begin with media, though I admit it’s a fine place to start. (This is a film and television website, anyway). Sit back and give it a go. I’m hard pressed to think the result won’t be satisfying.