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Tonight brings two basketball games...
from 
Roscoe's Quick Notes
...one from the WNBA and the other an NBA game. First up will be the WNBA game between the Washington Mystics and my Indiana Fever. With a scheduled start time of 6:30 PM CDT, I'll be following the radio call of this game on 93.1 FM WIBC. Go Fever!
Next will be the NBA Western Conference Semifinals game between my San Antonio Spurs and the Minnesota Timberwolves. With its start time of 8:30 PM CDT, I'll follow the radio call of this game on 1200 WOAI. Go Spurs Go!
And the adventure continues.
The stickers we made for the smartphone zombies
from 
Image Not Found
You have seen them. We all have.
The person walking towards you on the sidewalk, looking straight down at their phone, not noticing that they are about to walk into you, a tree, a moving tram, or a hole that we have not got around to spray-painting yet.
The person on the metro escalator standing still in the middle of the steps, blocking everyone behind them, eyes glued to a screen.
The kid in the café, sitting across from a parent, both of them on phones, not speaking.
The driver at the red light, who is still scrolling when the light turns green.
We call them smartphone zombies. We are not the first to use that word and we will not be the last. The problem is real, it is everywhere, and most people who see it either shrug, or do the same thing themselves five minutes later.
So we made some stickers.
What is wrong with the zombie
A lot of small things, and a few big ones.
Safety. People walking into traffic. People not hearing the bicycle bell behind them. Parents pushing strollers across the street while reading messages. Kids stepping off a curb without looking up. The first thing that goes when you stare into a screen is your peripheral vision. The second is your hearing, in a way, because your attention is somewhere else and your brain stops processing what your ears pick up. The result is small accidents at best, serious ones at worst.
Attention. The brain is not built to be interrupted every thirty seconds for a notification. People who live like this for years slowly lose the ability to read a book, watch a film without checking their phone twice, or sit through dinner without reaching for a device. This is not opinion. This is what the people who study attention will tell you for free at any conference.
Schools. Walk past a school during a break. Count the kids in groups talking, then count the kids each on their own screen.
Mental health. Doomscrolling is a hobby now. Comparison, anxiety, sleep that does not happen because the phone is on the pillow. People know this. People still do it. We know it because we still do it too, sometimes.
Loneliness in a crowd. Two hundred people in a metro carriage and not one of them is looking at another human being. Imagine explaining this to a person from 1995. They would not believe you.
None of this is news. The news is that we keep behaving as if it is unavoidable.
What we did
We printed some stickers. Simple stickers. The kind that fits on a laptop, a notebook, a lamp post, a bathroom mirror, the edge of a table at a café.
The message is short. The design is not subtle. You can see it on the image above, or, with a bit of luck, somewhere in the wild.
Then we did something on purpose. We did not put them behind a paywall. We did not run a marketing campaign for them. We took them to free and open-source software events, the kind of places where people already think a little bit differently about technology, and we gave them away. For free. To anyone who wanted to take a few home and stick them somewhere.
Where they are now
Last we heard, our stickers have made it to:
- Bulgaria. Where it started.
- Czechia. Where I am now, and where the campaign jumped first.
- Belgium. Spotted around the usual Brussels conference suspects.
- Sweden. Stickers travel well in luggage.
And the list is growing. Every time we hand out a small pile at an event, three or four of them end up in cities we have never been to. People send us photos. We smile. We print more.
Join the fight
If you want to help, it is easy.
- You want a few stickers? Tell us where to send them.
- You want the print files so you can run your own batch on your own printer, in your own city? We will send them.
- You want to design your own version, in your own language? Even better. Send us a photo when it is done.
We will not ask you to sign up for anything. We will not put you on a list. We will just send you stickers, or a SVG, and trust you to do the right thing with them.
A word about ARTivism
If you read our story about painting the potholes, you already know what we are about. We are a small collective called Image Not Found, and what we do is part of a wider movement called ARTivism. The idea has not changed: art is a tool, not only decoration. A pencil. A brush. A spray can. A sticker.
This time, the tool is a sticker.
Our slogan, in this campaign, is the same idea in a slightly different shape:
With one small sticker you can change the world.
And we mean it. A sticker on a laptop is a tiny billboard. A sticker on a lamp post is a tiny billboard that thousands of commuters walk past every week. Multiply that by people in four countries and counting, and you start to see why we keep printing them.
For more examples of art-driven change, take a look at our exhibition SystemErr0.
One last thing
Nobody is going to fix this for us. Not the phone companies (they would prefer you stay glued). Not the apps (same). Not the schools alone, not the parents alone, not the government. It is going to be us, one small reminder at a time, on a laptop or a lamp post in a city we have never been to.
You can do this too. Print a sticker. Give it to a friend. Put one somewhere a zombie will see it and, for two seconds, look up.
Some people will say nothing will change.
Do it anyway.
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The holes we painted (and why we did it anyway)
from Image Not Found
A bit more than a year ago, we did something a bit weird.
We took a few cans of spray paint and we went out on the street. Not to paint a mural. Not to make art for art's sake. We went out to paint the potholes on a road that the municipality had been ignoring for months. Maybe years. Who can count anymore.
Yes, you read that right. We painted the holes.
Why would anyone do that?
Two reasons.
The small reason: we wanted the holes fixed. People were destroying their cars on that road every single day. We called the municipality. Nothing. We sent emails. Nothing. The usual complaints in the usual Facebook groups went exactly nowhere. So we tried a different language. The language of paint and visibility. If they will not see the hole, we will make sure they cannot not see it.
The big reason: we wanted to show people that you can actually do something. That cursing the government on the bus, cursing the mayor at dinner, and cursing destiny at the kitchen table does not fix a single hole. Action does. Even small, weird, slightly silly action.
“Nothing will change”
That is what some people told us before we started.
“You are wasting your time.” “Nobody cares.” “This is how it is here, my friend, nothing will ever change.”
I get it. I really do. Apathy is the cheapest defense mechanism we have. If you decide in advance that nothing works, you never have to feel disappointed when something does not work. You also do not feel anything when something does work, but that is the trade-off some people pick.
We did it anyway.
What actually happened
A few things, in roughly this order:
- People walking by stopped, took pictures, and laughed.
- Local media picked it up.
- The municipality (surprise) fixed the holes within a couple of weeks.
- A few neighbours who told us “nothing will change” went quiet. A few said “OK, but this was a fluke.”
And then, Sofia
Here is the part I like most.
A few weeks ago, on a street in Sofia, Bulgaria, the same thing happened. Different city. Same idea. People went out, found a pothole that the municipality had been pretending not to see, and made it impossible to ignore. Spray, camera, and a bit of noise. Enough to turn a hole in the asphalt into a story.
This time the TV showed up. A real crew. A real segment. The hole, the bright paint around it, the smiling neighbours, all on the morning news. The municipality, again, suddenly remembered that road existed.
Do I know the people who did it?
Let's say I am not surprised. Let's say ideas travel. Let's say they travel through articles, through conferences, through coffees, and sometimes they travel from one painted hole on one street to another painted hole on another street, a year later. Let's say I might have a personal reason to smile at this particular news segment.
I will not say more than that.
The point is not who did it. The point is that someone did. Someone watched, took the idea, made it their own, and went out on their own street.
That is how this is supposed to work.
The campaign was not really about potholes
The potholes were the excuse. The real campaign was against something much harder to fix than a damaged road. It was against the belief that ordinary people cannot move the system.
You can. Not always. Not predictably. Not on the timeline you want. But you can.
So here is the playbook, if you want one:
- Pick something small. Not the whole broken system. One pothole. One sign. One absurd rule.
- Make it visible. Spray paint, photo, video, a sticker, a banner. Something the people in charge have to either fix or explain.
- Get one friend. Just one. Two people is already a movement when most people are doing nothing.
- Expect the “nothing will change” crowd. They will show up. Smile at them. Keep going.
- Document it. So the next person sees that it worked, and tries something of their own.
A word about ARTivism
This pothole story is not a one-off. It is part of something bigger that we call ARTivism.
ARTivism is a collective. The idea is simple. Art is not only for galleries. A pencil, a brush, a camera, a sticker, a song, a poster, these are also tools of change, not only of decoration. We try to show people, by real examples, that you can use whatever creative skill you already have to push the world a little.
You do not have to wait for permission. You do not have to be a famous artist. You do not have to have a budget.
Our slogan is short and we mean every word of it:
With one small pencil you can change the world.
That is not a poster line. That is the whole strategy.
If you want to see more examples of art-driven change, take a look at our exhibition SystemErr0.
One last thing
A pothole on a road is a pothole on a road. But a pothole sprayed bright, photographed, shared, and laughed at, is something else. It is a small proof that the citizen and the system are not as far apart as we like to think.
You can do this. Not for every problem. Not every time. But more often than you believe right now.
Some people will say nothing will change.
Do it anyway.
Subscribe to get notified for more action ideas. No spam!
le-rare-qui-choisit
from DrFox
La vie commence souvent dans une scène de profusion.
Une énergie part dans toutes les directions. Des millions de spermatozoïdes avancent, se perdent, meurent, insistent, tournent, se heurtent au milieu vivant qui les accueille et les filtre. La plupart n’arriveront nulle part. Leur nombre paraît presque excessif, comme si la nature lançait une foule entière vers une possibilité minuscule. Beaucoup pour un seul passage. Beaucoup pour une seule rencontre. Beaucoup pour une chance presque invisible.
Face à cette abondance, l’ovule semble immobile.
Il ne court pas. Il ne poursuit pas. Il ne fait aucun geste spectaculaire. Vu de loin, il pourrait passer pour passif. Il attend, entouré, silencieux, presque retiré au centre de la scène. Mais cette immobilité trompe. Le vivant ne choisit pas toujours avec des gestes visibles. Le corps féminin n’est pas un décor. Le milieu trie, guide, refuse, attire, ferme, ouvre. L’ovule n’est pas une récompense posée au bout d’une course. Il appartient à un système plus vaste, plus fin, plus actif que ce que l’œil imagine.
Cette image dépasse la biologie.
Dans la nature, beaucoup de choses avancent vers le rare. Le pollen porté par le vent vers quelques fleurs prêtes. Les graines jetées par centaines pour quelques racines possibles. Les appels d’un animal dans la nuit pour une seule réponse. Les branches qui poussent vers une lumière étroite. La vie dépense beaucoup. Elle essaye. Elle envoie. Elle gaspille en apparence. Elle multiplie les chances autour de ce qui ne se donnera qu’une fois, ou presque.
Le rare ne se laisse pas toujours reconnaître par son mouvement.
Un fruit mûrit sans bruit. Une fleur s’ouvre quand son heure arrive. Une terre reçoit certaines graines et en laisse mourir d’autres. Ce qui choisit le plus profondément ne donne pas toujours l’impression d’agir. Le pouvoir le plus ancien a parfois la forme d’une retenue.
Cela dit quelque chose de troublant sur le désir.
Le désir aime courir. Il aime se projeter, insister, promettre, se dépenser. Il a une violence lumineuse. Il part en nombre, en images, en gestes, en phrases, en preuves. Il veut atteindre. Il veut être reçu. Il veut que sa force suffise. Mais la vie lui répond rarement avec la même logique. Être nombreux, brûlants, disponibles, prêts à tout, ne donne aucun droit sur ce qui est rare. L’élan ne suffit pas. La force ne suffit pas. La quantité ne suffit pas.
Le rare choisit autrement.
Il choisit par compatibilité, par moment, par ouverture, par reconnaissance presque chimique. Il choisit parfois en silence. Il choisit même quand il semble ne rien faire. Son apparente passivité protège quelque chose. Elle garde un seuil. Elle empêche la profusion de se prendre pour une promesse. Elle rappelle que l’accès au vivant ne se force pas. Une rencontre a besoin d’un oui profond, même si ce oui ne ressemble à aucune déclaration.
Dans les relations humaines, on retrouve parfois cette scène ancienne. Beaucoup de demandes autour d’une personne qui ne bouge presque pas. Beaucoup de mots autour d’un silence. Beaucoup d’intensité autour d’un cœur qui ne s’ouvre qu’à certains moments, à certaines présences, à certaines vérités. Celui qui poursuit croit parfois que son effort devrait créer la réponse. Celui qui choisit paraît cruel parce qu’il ne répond pas à la mesure de ce qui lui est donné.
Cette image me laisse avec une sensation étrange. La vie n’est pas toujours équitable dans sa dépense. Elle donne beaucoup à ce qui n’aboutira pas. Elle laisse mourir des élans sincères. Elle fait courir des foules vers une seule porte. Puis, parfois, dans un silence presque invisible, quelque chose s’ouvre. Une rencontre a lieu. Une graine prend. Une présence est reçue. Un monde commence.
Alors je me demande :
Quelle part de moi croit encore que l’intensité devrait garantir l’accueil ?
Combien d’élans ai je lancés vers des lieux qui n’étaient pas ouverts ?
Quelle rareté ai je prise pour de la passivité parce qu’elle ne courait pas vers moi ?
À quel moment attendre devient il une manière de choisir ?
Quelle force tranquille se cache dans ce qui ne se précipite pas ?
amour-sel-acide-doux
from DrFox
La passion la plus folle a d’abord un goût de sucre.
Elle arrive dans la bouche avant d’arriver dans la pensée. Tout devient plus vif. Son prénom donne faim. Son corps change la température d’une pièce. Une voix au téléphone peut suffire à déplacer toute une journée. On se découvre disponible à l’excès. On répond trop vite. On attend trop fort. On marche avec elle dans la tête, même quand elle n’est pas là. Le monde garde ses formes, mais tout semble traversé par une lumière plus chaude.
Le sucre des débuts rend courageux. On croit pouvoir tout faire. La suivre partout. Changer de ville. Prendre un train au dernier moment. Pardonner avant même d’avoir compris. Attendre sous la pluie. Revenir après une blessure. Ouvrir encore la porte. Dans cet état, aimer ne ressemble pas à un choix raisonnable. Le corps est déjà parti. La pensée court derrière lui pour trouver des raisons.
Puis le sel arrive.
Le sel sur la peau, après les nuits trop courtes. Le sel des larmes avalées parce qu’on veut rester digne. Le sel de l’attente, quand le téléphone ne sonne pas. Le sel des disputes qui laissent la bouche sèche et le ventre noué. On aime encore, parfois même plus fort, mais l’amour commence à peser. La passion descend dans les muscles. Elle n’est plus seulement une montée. Elle devient une endurance.
Être capable de tout pour elle prend alors une autre couleur. Ce n’est plus seulement la beauté de se donner. C’est aussi le risque de s’effacer doucement. On accepte une phrase qui a blessé. Puis une autre. On donne du sens à ses absences. On transforme ses fuites en blessures à comprendre. On pardonne parce qu’on voit derrière l’erreur une peur, une histoire ancienne, une manière maladroite d’aimer. Ce regard peut être magnifique. Il peut aussi devenir dangereux quand il voit trop bien l’autre et plus assez ce que l’on subit.
L’acide vient après, parfois lentement.
Il pique là où le sucre avait adouci. Il attaque les excuses trop bien rangées. Il laisse remonter les questions qu’on repoussait. Pourquoi ai je accepté cela ? Pourquoi ai je appelé amour cette attente permanente ? Pourquoi son manque de clarté est il devenu mon travail ? Pourquoi ai je cru que la profondeur de mon pardon prouvait la grandeur de mon amour ?
L’acide a le goût de la lucidité quand elle arrive sans prévenir. Une phrase revient. Un regard. Une nuit. Un moment où l’on s’est senti petit, dépendant, presque absent à soi même. Le cœur continue d’aimer, mais il ne peut plus tout recouvrir. La passion garde sa beauté, et pourtant une partie de nous commence à comprendre que tout ressentir ne veut pas dire tout accepter.
Je ne veux pas de morphine dans l’amour. Je veux sentir le sucre, le sel, l’acide. Je veux savoir ce qui vit vraiment entre deux êtres quand les débuts ne suffisent plus. Je veux sentir la joie idiote de la retrouver, le feu de la suivre, la violence de l’attendre, la brûlure de pardonner, la honte parfois d’avoir trop donné, et ce reste de tendresse qui survit même quand l’orgueil voudrait tout salir.
Le doux revient parfois après l’acide. Il ne ressemble plus au sucre du début. Il est moins rapide. Plus bas dans le corps. Une tasse posée devant soi. Une marche sans se parler. Une excuse qui ne cherche pas à gagner. Une main qui revient avec prudence. Un rire qui n’efface rien, mais qui prouve qu’une petite chaleur existe encore quelque part.
Je crois que cet amour là, s’il existe, ne demande pas d’être propre. Il demande d’être senti avec assez de vérité. Le sucre pour l’élan. Le sel pour ce qui a coûté. L’acide pour ce qui a réveillé. Le doux pour ce qui peut encore respirer après avoir tout goûté.
Alors je me demande :
Qu’ai je aimé en elle, et qu’ai je voulu sauver en moi à travers elle ?
Combien d’erreurs ai je pardonnées par amour, et combien par peur de la perdre ?
À quel moment le sucre a t il commencé à cacher le sel ?
Quel acide ai je refusé de sentir parce qu’il me disait une vérité trop simple ?
Peut on suivre quelqu’un partout sans se quitter soi même ?
Et quand l’amour a laissé dans la bouche le sucre, le sel, l’acide et le doux, quel goût reste vraiment quand on ne triche plus ?
Slow degrade
from An Open Letter
I went to a concert for slow degrade today and holy shit it was amazing. At one point during the set the crash cymbal broke, and after the show when I was talking with them they told me that I could keep it! I got it signed by all of them along with a cassette. I really love going to concerts and I think it’s such a nice intimate human thing to just be able to admire the beauty of all of the instruments and the effort and love that goes into playing music.
I also remember today when I was I think driving to work or driving home, I thought about what happened with E. I don’t think about her often nowadays if ever, but I remembered how I had this big project that I was responsible for that was due on Friday the day before Valentine’s Day, and also two days before Hash’s birthday. And on that Thursday was when she came to my house unannounced with three other people and broke up with me and refused to listen and went through my house taking stuff. That was also with her recording me against my knowledge, ambushing me and having her roommate ganging up on me and saying things about how I wanted to fuck with my house, steal things, and even steal my dog. We had to call her mom to get her to calm down and listen to reason and finally leave. I had to miss an important work meeting because they wouldn’t listen and also because there’s just no way that I could have that meeting while I’m crying and my dog is desperately trying to go and see her. This was something that a week later when we talked she apologized for and said that she had no clue how she could make it up to me. A big reason why she wanted to break up was because she felt like she kept fucking up and at least from my point of view that’s such a fucking shitty situation to be in, where she is upset and feels horrible about all of the shitty things that she consistently did throughout the relationship, and how I didn’t do things like that to her. And because of that she does something exceptionally shitty. I felt so unsafe for so long, and even now I feel kind of unsafe thinking about how powerless I was and how I was ganged up on in my own house. But it’s also insane with how that sabotage to my work and I think that’s a line that is not OK to cross especially because she was like going through a mental episode or something where she just couldn’t control herself. These were all things that she apologized sweetly for after we took a week long break, but it only took two days for the cracks to show where she didn’t regret that I was recorded crying and vulnerable without me knowing. And that’s just not at all fair to me. And I am grateful that I eventually learned my lesson and stopped giving more chances and broke up. One of my coworkers and friends let me know that he had broken up on good terms with his partner of 10 years. They lived down the street from me in a house together, and he said that they were both moving out and they were going to rent it. And I’m glad that it was on good terms but I also think that is so incredibly devastating to break up after 10 years. I’m really grateful that my relationship only lasted five months and that it didn’t go on longer because we might’ve gotten married, and might’ve even had kids at some point. And I don’t know if I would be able to really forgive myself if I had kids and by then she hadn’t changed and was emotionally unstable around children, because that is irresponsible of me to put a kid into that situation in the first place. And I think also the fact that I wanted to be in that relationship for a long time is assigned that there are also stuff that I need to mature about and learn. And I would like to think that I at least learned my lesson from this relationship, and hopefully this is the last one of the big growing pain lessons, at least in the sense of something that needs action or change. But I do digress, the thing I wanted to kind of journal about and get on writing was explicitly how what happened was not OK and it was not fair to me. Those things are never OK, and I’m really sorry that that happened. But at the same time I needed that to happen because otherwise I would not have left. And it is a much worse situation if I stay because it does not hit that point of nuclear, where I have to leave. I would never do something like that to a partner, and so I should not just accept the fact that a partner would do that to me.