On August 1, 1981, at 12:01 a.m. Eastern Time, MTV—Music Television—hit the airwaves. It was a revolution in motion, a brand-new concept: 24 hours of music videos hosted by VJs (video jockeys) who connected audiences to artists in real time.

The first video to ever play was “Video Killed the Radio Star” by The Buggles—a prophetic choice that signaled a cultural shift. Music would no longer be heard alone; it would be seen, styled, and performed for the screen.

From day one, MTV was more than a channel—it was a mood, an attitude, a lifestyle. It fused pop culture, youth identity, and the visual language of music into something entirely new.

In its early years, MTV championed rock and pop acts, helping record labels reach the next generation. Yet it quickly evolved into something bigger—a tastemaker that could catapult unknown artists to stardom. Madonna, Michael Jackson, Prince, and Duran Duran didn’t just thrive on MTV; they became MTV.

Key moments in its rise included:

• 1983: Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” redefined the music video as cinema, complete with narrative, choreography, and spectacle.

• 1984: The first MTV Video Music Awards (VMAs) debuted, with Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” performance shocking and captivating millions.

• 1985: Live Aid united the world for a cause, and MTV’s coverage turned a concert into a global event.

• Late ’80s – early ’90s: The network diversified—Headbanger’s Ball, Yo! MTV Raps, and MTV Unplugged brought in every genre from heavy metal to hip hop to acoustic introspection.

• 1992: The Real World marked MTV’s pivot into reality television, offering raw glimpses of youth culture that felt revolutionary.

• 1998: Total Request Live (TRL) became an after-school ritual—music countdowns, celebrity interviews, and the pulse of teen culture, all in one chaotic hour.

MTV kept reinventing itself, balancing between art and entertainment. Yet, over time, its music roots grew thinner as original shows, reality series, and pop-culture content filled its schedule.

Notable Moments

• The premiere of “Video Killed the Radio Star”—a symbolic birth of a new medium.

• Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”, which broke racial and creative boundaries.

• The unforgettable VMAs: Madonna’s risqué debut, Nirvana’s chaotic performances, and Kanye interrupting Taylor Swift—a timeline of pop history’s most talked-about moments.

• The explosion of reality hits like The Real World and Jersey Shore, reflecting the channel’s growing obsession with unscripted drama.

• MTV Unplugged, which stripped artists to their core and gave us raw, emotional performances—think Nirvana, Eric Clapton, and Lauryn Hill.

There are moments in history when an entire generation finds its hero.
And for millions of Americans in the 1980s and 1990s, that hero was Hulk Hogan.

With the rip of a t-shirt, the flex of a bicep, and the sound of Real American blasting through the arena, Hogan became more than just a wrestler — he became a symbol of strength, hope, and patriotism.
He told us to train, to say our prayers, and to eat our vitamins. And somehow, as kids, we believed every word.

Inside the ring, he was unstoppable.
Crowds from Madison Square Garden to WrestleMania watched in awe as the Hulkster pointed to the heavens, cupped his ear to the roar of the fans, and brought Hulkamania crashing down on giants of the sport.
When he said, “Whatcha gonna do, brother, when Hulkamania runs wild on you?” — we didn’t just hear it. We felt it.

But Hulk Hogan’s story wasn’t written only inside the ropes.
Hollywood called, and the Hulkster answered. He gave us No Holds Barred — a gritty, larger-than-life story that blurred the line between fiction and wrestling reality. He made us laugh as the unlikely babysitter in Mr. Nanny. He took us to the stars as a stranded warrior in Suburban Commando. And he brought Saturday mornings to life with Thunder in Paradise, a mix of action, adventure, and pure 90s fun.
Through it all, he proved that his charisma, his humor, and his American spirit were too big for just one stage.

Hulk Hogan was more than an entertainer. He was Americana itself — wrapped in the red and yellow, draped in the stars and stripes, carrying the hopes of kids who believed that good could conquer evil, that pride could overcome doubt, and that heroes still walked among us.

Today, we look back with nostalgia, not just on the matches, the movies, or the memories — but on the feeling. That feeling of hearing the crowd explode, of watching a larger-than-life hero stand tall, and of believing that maybe, just maybe, we could be stronger, braver, and prouder too.

Because Hulk Hogan wasn’t just wrestling. He wasn’t just Hollywood.
He was a piece of our culture, a reminder of an America that dared to dream big, fight hard, and never give up.

Hulk Hogan will forever be remembered as more than the man in the ring. He will be remembered as a true American icon. A hero of our youth. A champion of our spirit.

And as long as the memory of Hulkamania lives, he will always be… a Real American. 

video version here

It was the kind of night that didn’t blink. Just stared back at you, glassy-eyed and wired, like a boxer who’d taken too many hits and still wouldn’t stay down. The river didn’t ripple. It pulsed. Slow and steady, like the heartbeat of a city trying to remember what it used to be.

I was on the Windsor side, boots scuffed, coat collar turned up against a wind that didn’t care. The cigarette between my fingers glowed like a warning flare. I lit it with a match that hissed like the city’s last breath. Took a drag. Let the smoke curl out like a confession.

Across the water, Detroit stood tall. Not proud—just stubborn. The skyline was a cocktail of ambition and exhaustion. The Civic Center gleamed like it hadn’t yet learned how to lie. Cobo Hall, the City-County Building, the Veterans Memorial—all dressed in their Sunday best, pretending the party hadn’t ended.

But I knew better. Cities don’t shine unless they’re trying to distract you from the rot underneath.

Somewhere down there, a man was getting mugged. Somewhere else, a woman was selling something she didn’t want to name. And somewhere, in a boardroom lit by fluorescent lies, someone was signing away another block to the highest bidder.

The city had already stopped pretending. The skyline blinked like it was trying to stay awake, like it knew something was coming and didn’t want to miss it. 

And then he came.

Not in whispers. Not in blueprints. In metal. In motion. In the kind of silence that makes grown men flinch. Robocop wasn’t prophecy anymore—he was present. A badge bolted to a corpse, walking the streets like vengeance had a pension plan. They said he was justice. But justice doesn’t hum like a turbine or bleed motor oil.

He patrolled the Civic Center like it was sacred ground. Cobo Hall, the Veterans Memorial, the City-County Building—he moved between them like a ghost with a gun. His visor caught the skyline, reflected it back in cold chrome. The city looked cleaner in his eyes. But it wasn’t. It was just quieter.

Behind me, Windsor was still watching. Still pretending it wasn’t part of the story. The rail lines rusted. The gravel crunched. The night was foggy and silent. I took a drag. The smoke tasted like regret and transmission fluid. Detroit didn’t move, but it wasn’t still either. It pulsed. It waited. It knew the future had arrived early. And somewhere in that concrete jungle, behind the flickering neon and the echo of sirens, he walked. Not a man. Not anymore. A guardian forged from grief and circuitry. A warden with a badge and a memory full of pain. Robocop didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just moved like justice had a deadline.

Robocop didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His footsteps said everything. They echoed off the buildings like a verdict. The city had asked for protection. It got precision. It got protocol. It got a man who couldn’t forget what was done to him, and a system that didn’t care.

I still have it. That postcard. The one with the skyline all lit up, selling a dream that never landed. It’s faded now, edges curled like it’s trying to hide its own story. But I keep it. Not for the lie it tells, but for the truth it hints at.

Detroit wasn’t beautiful. It was brutal. Honest. And in its own way, sacred. A city that fought itself every day and still managed to stand.

I flicked the last of my cigarette into the river and watched it vanish. The skyline blinked back at me. Somewhere out there, Robocop was still walking. Still watching. Still waiting.

It’s the kind of night that doesn’t ask for permission — it just shows up, loud and uninvited, like a drunk ex with a pocket full of bad ideas. 

The air was warm. Too warm. October was supposed to bite, but this one kissed — humid, heavy, uninvited, like the kiss from a hooker, like the city was sweating out its sins. I stepped off 7th Avenue and into the blur: neon bleeding down wet pavement, steam curling from subway grates like ghosts with nowhere left to haunt. 

Above me, the marquee screamed: 

SEX PLAY — UNCUT — IMPORTED FROM SWEDEN 

Right next to RAMBO II and MAD MAX 2, because why not? Times Square didn’t care about logic. It cared about spectacle. About bodies and bullets and bad dubbing. A cinematic cocktail of lust and violence. Times Square didn’t do subtle. 

I lit a cigarette with hands that smelled like subway steel and cheap whiskey.  The flame flickered against the wind, defiant.  I took a drag and let the smoke curl out like a sigh I’d been holding since summer. Took a look at the crowd. A girl in fishnets and a leather jacket argued with a cabbie. A man in a trench coat leaned against a lamppost like he was waiting for a noir plot to find him. Teenagers in denim jackets laughed too loud, their joy reckless and temporary. 

Inside the theater, the velvet seats were torn, the screen stained with time. The projector wheezed, and the screen flickered like it was trying to forget everything it had ever shown. Sex Play rolled — dubbed, grainy, unapologetic. The crowd didn’t flinch. They were here for the escape, not the plot. 

Back outside — a blur of hustlers, punks, and tourists. the city kept breathing.  Steam rose from the grates like the last gasp of something holy.  

I took another drag. The smoke tasted like regret and asphalt. I watched the lights bleed into the puddles — red, blue, yellow — like the city was crying in technicolor. Dire Straits played Madison Square Garden that week. I didn’t go. But I heard “Money for Nothing” echo off the bricks, bouncing between the buildings like a lost prayer. 

And me? I was just passing through. 

A witness to the noise, the neon, and the night that refused to cool down. 

Times Square in ’85 wasn’t just a place. It was a mood. A moment. A neon-soaked fever dream that smelled like popcorn, perfume, and bad decisions. 

90s Ad Magic Is Back—And I’m Here for It

Of course—like pretty much the entire internet—I’ve seen the new American Eagle ad with Sydney Sweeney rocking her “good jeans” pun. And yes, it’s a great pun! Honestly, it’s hilarious watching people on the left absolutely lose their minds over it. So... big shout-out to American Eagle.  

video version of the article and a collection of old TV commercials below:

Now, craziness aside, it’s refreshing—like really refreshing—to see ads actually getting back to being cool again. I mean, let’s be real: 90% of today’s marketing departments have no clue what makes a good ad. They don’t know the history of advertising, they don’t understand art (which is wild because visual advertising is totally linked to art), and they’re oblivious to what customers actually want. Great illustrators, painters, movie directors—all of them did ads at some point. But nowadays, it’s just politics on repeat. 

I remember growing up in the '90s. The ads from back then? Pure vibes. The colors, the joy, the fun, the sexiness, the spicy humor... From epic playset commercials like He-Man to sizzling car and jeans ads. Oh—and how could we forget the iconic Marlboro Man? 

Every evening driving home, those giant billboards were lit up, showing the Marlboro Man with wild horses galloping behind him. It was breathtaking. It captured that rugged American spirit—the wild west feel of freedom, adventure, and man's resilience against nature. 

And hey, if you're into this kind of nostalgia, stick around. In my upcoming videos, I’m diving deep into the history of American advertising. I’ve got tons of old magazine ads in my collection I’m excited to share with you.