Nothing’s On

An essay by Chad Schomber

The popcorn was ready before the show. Which wasn’t unusual. But it had gone cold twice now, which was. Microwave said 8:17. No one had picked anything yet.

The screen was full. A carousel of rectangles. Some pulsing with previews. Others waiting like stubborn dogs—still, loyal, vaguely suspicious of your taste. The remote had stopped being a tool and turned into a mood ring. Scroll left. Scroll right. Not that. Not that either. A moment of interest, then gone. Something about true crime. Something about outer space. A reboot of a reboot. A comedy that looked exhausting.

TV used to be stupid. But at least it was there.

We didn’t choose what was on. Not really. You flipped channels until you landed on something with movement. Maybe a detective with a mustache. Maybe a sitcom dad yelling about laundry. And that was it. You watched it. Or you left the room. No ceremony. No curated mood boards. Just flickering light and somebody selling car wax every 12 minutes.

Sometimes it was boring. But it ended.

Now you’re the one making the decisions. Supposedly. They hand you the keys to the kingdom, and all the doors lead to more keys. Recommendations based on things you barely watched. “Because you liked Murder at Dawn: Miami.” No, I didn’t. I fell asleep 18 minutes in. “Continue Watching.” Please don’t.

We’re all walking a digital hallway where every door is propped open just enough to let out a theme song.

Used to be, you’d bump into someone at work and say, “Did you see that episode last night?”
Now it’s: “What are you watching?”
And then: “Oh I’ve heard of that.”
And then: nothing.

Because the conversation isn’t about what’s happening in the show. It’s about whether to commit to even starting it. Everyone’s always just on the edge of beginning something else. We don’t watch. We hover. We skim.

The screen used to be a window. Now it’s a menu. A never-ending one.

You ever notice how every show now opens like it’s terrified you’ll leave? Six seconds in, someone’s dead. Or on fire. Or giving a monologue in a dimly lit bar about the nature of pain.
They’re not trying to tell a story. They’re trying to seduce your thumb. That little half-second hesitation before you back out and try something else.

It’s like speed dating with no names.

My mom used to fall asleep in front of the TV. Didn’t matter what was on. Cops chasing someone. QVC. Late-night game shows with flashing buzzers and confused-looking contestants. She just liked the sound. Said it helped her relax.

Now I fall asleep in the rabbit hole of YouTube. One video about fixing a leaky sink. Then a guy walking through abandoned buildings. Then someone whispering into a $400 microphone about how to fold shirts faster.

I don’t even know what I’m watching.

I just forgot to stop.

There’s no rhythm. No schedule. Just a slow drip. The illusion of motion.

Sometimes I think the real trick of streaming is that it made indecision feel like activity. vYou sit down to watch something. An hour later, you haven’t pressed play. But you’ve been busy.
Scrolling. Comparing. Reading the little blurbs they write like drunk haiku:

A troubled woman returns to her small town to face ghosts—both real and metaphorical.

A cooking competition. But with knives. Real knives.

He’s a therapist. She’s a serial killer. Together, they solve crimes and maybe… fall in love?

And I’m supposed to choose?

TV wasn’t sacred. Let’s not pretend it was. It was loud. Commercials shouted at you. Plots recycled like plastic. You couldn’t pause it. You couldn’t binge it. And if your mom was on the phone, the antenna turned into a coat hanger.

But there was something about its limits that made it tolerable. You could miss it. And when you missed it, it was gone.

Now nothing is ever gone. It just waits. Collects dust. Lurks in the “My List” like old voicemail messages you never play. There’s no pressure. No urgency. Just the soft hum of everything available, forever.

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By 8:43, we settled on a movie.
We’d seen it before.
Didn’t matter. It was something.
Familiar. Low stakes.

The popcorn was cold.
The opening credits rolled.
I watched them scroll by and wondered how many hours of my life I’d spent trying to find something I didn’t even want to watch.

And why that felt safer than just sitting in silence.

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We used to say “nothing’s on.”
Now everything’s on.
And somehow it’s the same damn feeling. Maybe worse.