 I've always had a penchant for watching stuff after dark. It wouldn't come as a surprise to many that the greatest thing about the history of television is the fact that people can use it for their own projects, unsupervised or not. Though we're already past the era of public access television on those lazy transmitters that the average guitar player would use to advertise their dubious music, it's still common, at least for me, to come across small shows dating back to this era on bizarre archive channels that air them. Don't pulverize me though, because it's obvious I can't get my terminology right. Anybody who has grown up during this century will know by now that since signals can run for days at a time, there's no need to cut off to static or pitch darkness after the midnight hour, almost as if the days of the flag signoffs were hundreds of years ago already. For me, television's metamorphosis goes beyond the shift from public access to the era of streaming platforms. In the early days, families gathered around bulky sets, eagerly tuning in for weekly sitcoms like I Love Lucy or groundbreaking moments such as the moon landing. As technology advanced, we witnessed the rise of cable networks, introducing specialized programming like MTV, reshaping how audiences consumed content. And here we are in the digital age, where on-demand services like Netflix revolutionized binge-watching culture, allowing viewers to escape the constraints of scheduled programming. Simultaneously, the internet's integration into television became undeniable. Social media platforms like Twitter transformed shows into communal experiences, with live tweeting amplifying the conversation around events like season finales or awards ceremonies. Any kind of social media emerged as a breeding ground for independent creators, authoring a democratic platform for anyone with a camera and an idea. I'm sorry for going on a tangent but my fascination with that very evolution is what has continued to intrigue me. Though again, you can't as always give someone due credit for complimenting advancements, but sticking to the past, that's not how you make a living as far as I'm concerned. Despite the relentless march of technological progress, there's an enduring charm in revisiting the Biden eras of television. Nostalgia seems to be the driving force as I find myself drawn to obscure archive channels that specialize in resurrecting forgotten gyms. The flicker of black and white classics or the crackling sound of analog broadcasts transports me to a simpler time, offering a unique viewing experience that transcends the pristine resolutions of modern screens. There's a certain magic in stumbling upon the vintage commercials and quaint production styles that were once the norm, providing a glimpse into the cultural zeitgeist of those earlier decades. Even as streaming services flood the market with an overwhelming abundance of content, I can't help but cherish the quaint simplicity of these old shows. The absence of elder rhythm-driven recommendations and the curated playlists of yesteryear television has a certain authenticity. It's a deliberate choice to immerse myself in the grainy textures of shows produced in a different technological era. In a world where everything is instantaneous and on demand, there's a distinct pleasure in allowing oneself to be swept away by the deliberate pacing and genuine storytelling found in these relics of television's past. Go ahead and give me a degree, or even a PhD, in having an old soul for all I care. While every era has its gems, the 1980s in particular captivates me in a way that transcends the content itself. It's not just about the shows, it's about the influence and nature that define the era. The neon-soaked aesthetics, synthesizer-laden soundtracks, and the inapologetic state of storytelling create something to me that holds a timeless appeal. The 1980s were a playground for creative experimentation, birthing iconic genres like sci-fi and fantasy, while pushing the boundaries of what television could achieve. The cultural impact of this era reverberates through contemporary media, and my fascination lies in unraveling the threads that connect the past to the present, savoring the unique flavor of an era that continues to shape our entertainment landscape. It's for this reason that I've gone ahead and made my own projects to try and mimic this style, either through satirical vlogs or just outright soundtracks made from an aging electronic keyboard in my garage. A dated atmosphere that can still grasp the minds of anyone that wishes to comment on it. My particular fondness though, for watching the night blocks comes from both this sense of nostalgia, and the fact that there's just a nature to watching something after dark. Fifty episodes of both Full House and The Wonder Years Act 2 in the morning have left me with a feeling that I generally cannot describe. Imagine being kicked in butter and sitting on the set of a sitcom where everybody laughs at you, not with you, but instead of feeling embittered you're just as happy as they are. It's so satisfying to the point where I could watch someone else's television through a far away window without informing them that I am in their presence. There's no issue with enjoying free content attained with a price, right? Don't accuse me of being a nocturnal animal though, because it's not like I don't fall asleep while watching these. On occasion I've tuned out the television as I drifted off to sleep, my hypnagogic mind taking over the reins of the dialogue to provide me with a continued youth work but nonsensical experience. Quite a few times I've awoken to fine strange or just completely random content on various channels, the weirdest I recall being three men dressed as elves dancing in a hemlock forest to a country Christmas jingle in the middle of July. It was quite funny, but if these men were as skilled in dancing as they were in public entertainment, wouldn't they'd want an audience during the day? Nonetheless, everybody has their own reasoning for how to convey their own form of entertainment. On one of these particular nights, after a roughly average day out and about, I decided to turn off all the lights far before evening in my basement and flip through various channels to see which one would flip to mature oriented content before the others. After unintentionally coming across explicit content that would likely only satisfy the minds of a divorced businessman or a 75 year old bachelor, I was able to come across one channel that was in what I like to call the B-Range, which tends to be at the top to middle of the wide fold of all of them. The channel name almost implied that it was specifically oriented towards people such as me, late night programming. I wasn't able to check to see if they had aired anything in particular before 7.35, nor if I had even familiarized myself with it, since I'll admit while I do flip through various stations, it's not like I don't gloss over others in a personal lust for the interesting ones. It didn't help either that there wasn't an option for me to check their broadcasting future, as my remote does not have an ability to scroll left or right. This particular channel was airing a documentary on ground stations, albeit one that was either dated or inherently low budget, as it just comprised of lore as pictures of them staring into the stars, accompanied by what I would assume to be a technical engineer giving a lecture on how it works. It became apparent to me that they were obviously trying to make it interesting, since for those who aren't familiar with ground stations, they have the ability to send and receive signals from satellites and spacecraft in orbit. They repeatedly brought up, in an ironically trivial sense compared to the other information being described, how they believed that aliens could be contacting them based on some jumbled frequencies they received from up and above. The dialogue became more garbled as I assumed the technical operator himself had either gotten bored of the broadcast, or had decided that what was now an obviously live transmission had yet its time limit, that latter suspicion of mine was confirmed when the entire broadcast went to black, and was followed by what I considered to be very odd but marvelous at the same time. The channel then proceeded to transition into a flag sign-off, which is something that I had not seen before on actual television. It wasn't impressive whatsoever, merely a pre-recorded choir singing the national anthem over a flagpole in what looked like suburban Arizona, but the fact that anybody would have the audacity to do this was fascinating enough to me. I eagerly anticipated the transition to static as if I was waiting in preparation for the next episode of my favorite series to air, but it soon became clear that this wasn't going to be something I expected. The abrupt shift to static was anything but conventional. Instead of the usual electronic interference or technical glitches, the screen slowly dissolved into a mosaic of pixelated stars, reminiscent of the initial documentary. It felt like the broadcast itself was caught in an interference, as if the very stars they were exploring had invaded the transmission, which would have humorously confirmed the suspicions of the operators in the documentary. As the static intensified, fragments of the earlier lecture on ground stations echoed faintly in the background, creating a neary contrast with the visual chaos. It was as if the channel had become a system for the frequencies mentioned earlier. It must have been at least more than 15 minutes of me just sitting there in silence, looking at the screen dissolving and combining again, before the screen changed again. Instead of returning to either regular programming or just outright an altered static, the station then proceeded to transition to a black screen, of which small dots could be seen appearing intermittently. I would have assumed this to be an older film camera if they weren't of varying color. It was similar to the effect if one put their phone camera to the floor and then zoomed in. A gentle tapping sound was playing nearly in sync with the appearance of the dots, and soon enough, a faint logo appeared. It had no readable text, just a strange twirl of colors, with random letters making up some fictitious jargon appearing in the center. It never appeared completely, rather it was just as if someone barely superimposed it over the virtual nothingness that had preceded it, and then just left it without much effort. The tapping noise was replaced by a word, which was similar to what would happen if you somehow merged both the microwave and vacuum cleaner aggressively turning on in the same place at the same time. I had been paying attention to the noise, or something else in my peripheral vision, when I noticed that the screen had transitioned again into a view of a dark cylindrical plank leg moving into the carpet below. It took me a surprising amount of time to realize that I was looking at a table. The quality was grainy, but it wasn't low resolution like the documentary that had preceded it, it was instead reminiscent of the cinematic style of the 80s. As this weird scene unfolded, the camera transitioned from the enigmatic black screen to reveal a man in a purple sweater and blue jeans. He was comfortably seated on a plush purple couch in a room saturated with the same color. The size of the space carried another worldly quality, as if the color itself was holding some form of significance. The man on the couch remained motionless, his gaze fixed on an undefined point in the distance. The camera lingered on him, capturing the enigmatic aura that surrounded him. The room, painted in various shades of purple, seemed to surround him in an isolated reality. The subtle hum of the camera's lens motor accompanied the transition, adding a subtle layer of tension to the unfolding visual narrative. I took a closer look as the camera almost silently examined him as well. He had light yellow hair and dark brown eyes. I noticed that the room itself though appeared to be more out of the ordinary than him, even despite the man's lack of clear emotion. The couch was bent in odd areas, and one of the arms was misplaced outside of the center, creating an unnecessarily short gap between the other at the left end. A painting on the wall, displaying some sort of white gate, was situated carelessly between the corners of two walls, although equal more with one side than the other. Another bizarre and surreal painting was sitting on the wall behind the man, showing a white circle with a frowning face gazing at Graver bothered to look at it. I imagined it to be the moon, but there were no prayers, just a look of disappointment from a disjointed face plastered on the surface of a planet's satellite. Outside the window, there was nothing but the display of a night sky, but with a subtly purple hue, probably because the window itself had been tinged that way from the inside. The right half of the table, and another couch, were partially visible on the other side of the screen. The man in the purple sweater then shifted his focus from the undefined point in the distance to directly address me. His words, delivered with a comiette penetrating tone, had a strange echo that I could faintly hear from the speakers. What are you to believe? The question hung in the air, surrounded by the surreal ambience of the room. I didn't understand what he meant at all. I found myself wondering whether or not he was either pulling some form of surreal entertainment, or just wanted to give an uncontextualized lecture on whatever he was thinking. The strange thing is that I had no urge whatsoever to change the channel, or even move from where I was. All I can recall from the point of the earlier static transition was a full view of the television, indicating that I was arched against the screen by this point, wondering what else this presentation had to offer. The man's demeanor shifted, and he delved into a chilling monologue, his voice carrying an uncompromising vibe. In the shadow of commercialism, the tendrils of consumption wrap around the very fabric of reality. Consider, if you will, the insidious rise of the urge to read on. A serpent of desire, it slithers through the corridors of your consciousness, compelling you to consume without discernment. As one esteemed mind once pondered, in the age of information, ignorance is a choice. The pages you turn, the screens you scroll, each an offering to the insatiable appetite of the consuming void. Media, my dear interlocutor, has become a realm of distorted reflections. A distorted mirror reflecting our collective fears and desires. As the luminaries of thought have remarked, the spectacle is not a collection of images, but a social relation among people, mediated by images. We unwittingly dance to the tune of manufactured reality, entrapped in a perpetual masquerade. The narratives unfold, shadows whispering distorted truths, luring you into the abyss of perpetual dissatisfaction. The man, still fixed on me with an unwavering gaze, intensified his discourse. Do you not see? The machinery of medium-old minds, a puppet master pulling strings. The medium is the message, as one sage declared, revealing the profound influence encoded within the very channels through which information flows. The cocoon of purple that envelops us serves as a metaphor for the seductive illusion of comfort, concealing the tendrils of control that extend into the recesses of your consciousness. In the realm of manufactured reality, my friend, the horror lies not in the unknown, but in the insidious familiarity of the manipulated narrative. Abruptly the con-scene shattered into a violent transition, with surreal and disturbing images appearing with no preparation whatsoever. Among them, the most startling was that of a faceless humanoid suspended in the sky, a hollow silhouette devoid of features. The emptiness of its expressionless face seemed to mirror the void left by the distorted realities the man in purple had just unveiled. Yet even more disturbing was the sight of a milk carton with spindly legs, frantically sprinting into a wall infested with writhing baguettes. I couldn't understand what kind of jigs to position this man was himself trying to convey, was this some form of messed up talk show? The Givid Nightmare's shimmage re-enfolded with a sense of uncanniness, challenging the boundaries of my understanding and plunging me into a surreal nightmare. The images didn't end there. They progressively started turning into more graphic depictions, a woman giving birth to a scorpion, a man using a piston to crush his own collarbone while laughing, and a group of children dressed as gestures dancing in a circle around what looked like the charred remains of a dog. These were themselves interspersed with other strange and surreal scenes, including one showing a man whose face was bent inwards smearing excrement over a man in a wheelchair with an armless elderly woman doing an interpretive tap dance in a mindless frenzy. I started to feel physically sick as these images faded away, with the same soulless expression of the man returning to the screen. Behold the final media. I said, comparing it to a popcorn machine that pops out thoughts instead of kernels. It is the waffle iron of consciousness, pressing reality into bizarre shapes that make you question your breakfast choices. His metaphors, although trivial, carried a surreal weight that left me scratching my head. Then in a bizarre twist, he started talking about the final media as if it were pizza with toppings representing conflicting ideologies. Price and narrative, toppings and perpetual debate, and you my friend, are just a hapless delivery boy caught in the crossfire of pineapple lovers and anti-pineapple purists. The absurdity of his comparisons continued, transforming the gravity of his words into a carnival of triviality. As you have to punch hate his surreal discourse, the man gripped his own face with his hands, contorting it like a human accordion. As a disturbing spectacle, the physical manifestation of the strange ideas he had just presented. His face, twisted and molded like a surreal clay sculpture, nearer the contorted narratives and bizarre realities he had woven into the fabric of our conversation. The room pulsed with an unsettling energy as I watched, unable to look away from his strange performance. In a sudden and jarring turn, the man in purple slumped forward, his once animated presence now eerily lifeless. The surreal performance had taken an unexpected and grim twist, leaving an unsettling silence in its wake. It was as if the bizarre reality he had crafted had collapsed, leaving behind only the residue of its enigma. As my gaze fixated on the motionless figure, the camera ominously panned toward the window, revealing a real frowning moon hanging in the night sky. Its expression, so different from the painted one on the wall, cast another worldly blow over the room. The lips began to quiver as it softly muttered something which I couldn't make out. The only thing that stood out to me though were the contents of its eyes, a reflection of myself, staring into the screen. The moon linked at me, and in the same eye that had briefly closed appeared an apparition of myself, drawn in the same attire as the man that was now probably dead. And then I woke up, in my bed, with the television turned off. The surreal room saturated with shades of purple had dissolved, replaced by the mundane reality of my bedroom. It took a moment for the disorienting images and the haunting synth soundtrack to fade from my senses. As the remnants of what I could have best assumed to be a dream climb to my consciousness, I couldn't shake off the lingering enemies. Shaken, I sat up, the vividness of the dream still vivid in my mind. The man in the purple sweater, the bizarre images, and the frowning moon were still ingrained in my mind. The morning light streaming through the window offered a stark contrast to the other worldly hues that had dominated the dream. Yet the disquiet remained, and as I moved through the routines of the morning, I couldn't shake the sense that the surreal experience had left a mark on me. It was by the time that I returned to my bedroom after about an hour that I noticed there was something lying on the top of the television that I hadn't seen earlier. At first I thought it was a cloth that I had left sitting there in the middle of the night, having probably awoken in a daze and planted it there for no reason at all. However, I noticed upon closer inspection, this was not the case. It was a purple sweater, accompanied by blue jeans and a note reading. The media is the message. You've been acquainted.