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The Digital Roundabout: Understanding Phone AddictionWake up, 100 messages from group chat overnight about something – what? another assassination attempt; a village destroyed in Lebanon; the football result in England; the weather in Iran being manipulated; the pesticides causing lung and bowel cancer, so everyone who eats salads is now at risk of cancer; meditate for 20 minutes, then fire up x.com, a place I thought I'd never want to revisit, with its carnival barkers and supplement salesman, and have you seen the Lego thing calling Trump a paedo?, you gotta see the Lego thing, and this is before my first coffee, yet x.com is the coffee and the tea, whatever Elon has done to the For You algorithm is evil genius, it's like the global collective id, nasty and funny and addictive and compelling – like gawking at a car crash, like soaking in a hot bubble bath of anger, and memes, and geopolitical dramas, and Trump, Trump, Trump – soaking in Trump, and then, For Me (just as Elon promised).So begins the circuit around my phone, that goes all day and night, around the tiny screen with its icons (when a born-again Christian once told me he had favourite icons, for a long time I thought he meant apps, not pictures of the Virgin Mary). I started to feel like I was in Canberra, on one of those enormous roundabouts, rotating between the icons – not Joseph, not Jesus, but X and WhatsApp and TikTok and even LinkedIn for Christ sakes – round and round from one app to the next, just checking, checking in case something is happening. I watched tiny videos and maybe, occasionally, got distracted by the novel I am meant to be writing, which is due on 31 July. But the novel is boring, just a static Word doc on a screen, it's not giving; it's taking hard work. So I spend six minutes with my novel, and then it's time to go back to my phone, to circle the roundabout visiting all my icons again, like a demented Stations of the Cross, because I can't focus, I just can't focus on work right now when there is so much good scrolling to do …Clearly, this had to stop or I would become deranged and my novel wouldn't get finished by 31 July.But what could break the hold of a phone that seemed more and more addictive every day?The Physical Solution: Brick and Locked DevicesThen, while listening to a Guardian podcast (on my phone) I came across an author talking about a device that locked her phone and gave her her time and attention span back.I had tried apps to lock my phone before, but somehow having them embedded in the phone itself was like placing a piece of fruit in a box of chocolates. Sure you go in there to retrieve the fruit, but you end up distracted by the chocolates. Before you know it, the chocolates have been eaten! The fruit, of course, remains untouched and rotting.I needed an external device to lock my phone. This author was talking about something called Brick ($59US; £54 or $120 AUD including postage), a small plastic puck that you place on your phone which locks its most appealing apps. Hard!The Brick and its cheaper rival Locked ($39USD; £32; $59AUD) use Near Field Communication (NFC) technology to block whatever apps you nominate. To unblock them, you have to physically return to the puck and tap it against your phone. You can set a timer – I set it for one or two hour blocks when I want to focus on my novel – and if you try to unBrick beforehand, it asks you if you want to have a life, or if you want your phone back. That prompt is enough to make me affirm that, yes, I want a life.The Economics of Digital AttentionWhat Brick understands, and what every app-based screen time limit fails to grasp, is that the problem is not information or intention. I already knew I was using my phone too much. The problem is friction, or rather the total absence of it. Digital guardrails collapse the moment you need them most: one tap and you're back on Instagram. Brick makes that tap a physical hurdle.Using the Brick at night has been transformative. The hours I was losing in the roundabout, I now spend reading, thinking and occasionally just sitting in silence.The novel is moving again and I can focus in longer and longer increments.The algorithm doesn't get me after 8pm any more, and it turns out the algorithm, deprived of its evening session, has less purchase on me during the day too.The Psychology of Digital BoundariesBrick hasn't cured my addiction, but it has restored the thing addiction most destroys, which is the moment of pause between impulse and action.These physical devices represent a growing recognition that our relationship with technology requires more than just self-control – it needs environmental design and intentional friction to counteract the sophisticated algorithms designed to capture our attention.As digital products become increasingly sophisticated at capturing and holding our attention, the market for tools that help us reclaim our time and focus is likely to expand beyond simple app blockers to more comprehensive systems of digital wellbeing.The Future of Digital WellbeingLooking ahead, we can expect to see more innovative solutions that address the fundamental design principles of digital products. The success of devices like Brick suggests that consumers are becoming more aware of how their attention is being monetized and are seeking ways to regain control.As awareness of digital addiction grows, we may see regulatory interventions that require technology companies to build more ethical design principles into their products, potentially creating a market for both wellbeing tools and more responsibly designed digital experiences.Ultimately, the journey toward healthier digital habits will likely involve a combination of personal discipline, technological solutions, and systemic changes in how digital products are designed and monetized.

The Shift from Doomscrolling to Analog EscapeFor a decade, a journalist in their 30s was tethered to a cycle of digital exhaustion, spending evenings doomscrolling through news headlines, toxic social media comments, and workplace notifications. The constant influx of dystopian news and online vitriol led to restless sleep and anxiety-ridden dreams. However, a pivotal decision to prioritize mental health during the political turbulence of late 2024 sparked a radical lifestyle change: swapping the smartphone for a stack of comic books.Reclaiming Attention Span Through Graphic NovelsThe transition wasn't just about reading; it was a retraining of the brain. After years of fragmented attention spans caused by rapid app switching, the journalist found that immersing themselves in lengthy graphic novels like The Sandman and Watchmen forced a return to deep focus. This shift provided a sense of accomplishment that was previously missing when hours were wasted on passive scrolling.Measuring the Impact on Sleep and AnxietySleep Quality: The most immediate change was a drastic improvement in sleep patterns, moving from restless, nightmare-filled nights to more restorative sleep.Dream Content: Dreams shifted from being marked by "banal terrors" of the news cycle to becoming more fanciful and imaginative.Mental State: The journalist reported a newfound sense of creativity and a reduced urge to check work channels after hours.Why Analog Media is the Antidote to Digital BurnoutThe article argues that comics offer a unique form of escapism. Unlike the unhelpful fearmongering found in online comments, reading dystopian sci-fi or horror comics allows the mind to process fears of the apocalypse and AI in a "safe environment." This practice of "carving out time for self-care" demonstrates that analog hobbies are not just about burying one's head in the sand, but about actively protecting mental headspace.The Future of Analog Habits in a Digital WorldAs the digital landscape becomes increasingly demanding, the trend of returning to analog hobbies is likely to grow. This personal success story suggests that rediscovering childhood interests—whether through comics, books, or other analog mediums—may be the key to maintaining mental health and creativity in an always-on society.

The Consolidation of a Folk Star's RiseAfter a meteoric rise fueled by the viral success of 'Stick Season,' which sold 10 million copies, Noah Kahan has released 'The Great Divide.' The new album serves as a direct follow-up to his previous work, focusing on themes of small-town life, relationships, and the anxiety of sudden fame. While the record is musically competent, it lacks the radical evolution that typically defines a sophomore effort, instead opting for a familiar formula that may struggle to capture the same lightning-in-a-bottle magic.Aaron Dessner's Touch and the 17-Track StructureProduced by Aaron Dessner of The National, the album opens with a lambent piano figure that signals the misty, autumnal ambience fans have come to expect. However, the tracklist is extensive, containing 17 songs. This length suggests an uncertainty about where to edit rather than a desire to make a grand statement. Critics note that the album feels like 'Stick Season 2.0,' with songs like 'Headed North' essentially repeating the sonic blueprint of its predecessor without adding significant new layers.The 'Stick Season' Legacy and Commercial MomentumKahan's career trajectory challenges the post-lockdown narrative that listeners only crave glitzy escapism. Instead, he represents the 'dressed-down introspection' wave, alongside artists like Myles Smith and Teddy Swims. The commercial pressure is immense; Kahan previously introduced himself as 'the Jewish Ed Sheeran' and has been catapulted into arenas. The question remains whether an album of this length and repetition can maintain the commercial momentum required to sustain a stadium-level career.The 'Dressed-Down' Introspection WaveThe release of 'The Great Divide' highlights a significant shift in the music industry's landscape. The success of Kahan and his peers proves that earnest, acoustic-driven folk-pop is not a niche of the past but a dominant force in the current market. This genre has successfully bridged the gap between indie folk authenticity and mainstream pop accessibility, creating a new standard for 'heartland rock' that blends vulnerability with anthemic choruses.The Risk of Repetition in the Playlist EraWhile 'The Great Divide' is unlikely to fail, it faces the challenge of becoming a 'Groundhog Day' album—good, but repetitive. In the current streaming landscape, where attention spans are short, an album that sags in the middle due to a lack of variation risks losing listeners before the final track. The prediction for Kahan's future is that he may need to step back from the relentless pace of success to hone his craft further, as the current approach risks becoming creatively stagnant.

The Shift from Provocation to Corporate StorytellingWhen Grimes (Claire Boucher) announced she would only release music on LinkedIn and subsequently launched a profile to promote an appearance at Nvidia's GPU Technology Conference, it appeared to be another eccentric provocation. However, this move represents a significant strategic alignment. By decamping to the world's least gratifying social platform, Grimes is not just changing her distribution channel; she is aligning herself with the engine of the AI revolution, effectively becoming a 'talking head' for the industry's image.Grimes, Nvidia, and the 'Image Empire' ExperimentThe author, Alan Warburton, offers a first-hand account of this phenomenon through his own project, Image Empire. Released on LinkedIn as a public information film about 3D worlds and AI deepfakes, the project aimed to bridge the gap between AI disruptors and victims. However, the experience highlighted the platform's limitations: a clunky algorithm that stockpiles content and a user base described as 'boomerish.' Despite generating decent numbers, the film sank quickly, illustrating the difficulty of organic growth on a platform dominated by stale job ads and corporate noise.The 'Enshittification' of Creative PlatformsThe root cause of this shift lies in the 'enshittification' of the internet. The creative community has fled platforms like Twitter and Vimeo due to floods of bots, NFT hustlers, and AI forgers. As attention spans, sales, and funding decline, artists are forced into a precarious position where they must hustle harder for diminishing rewards. The data shows a migration of organic talent to platforms like TikTok and Instagram, leaving LinkedIn as a refuge for those seeking corporate legitimacy over community engagement.Artwashing in the Age of AI AccelerationismBig Tech is aggressively hunting for 'storytellers'—individuals who can control corporate narratives and 'own' the story. These roles are reportedly lucrative, offering six-figure bounties. Grimes fits this profile perfectly as an 'accelerationist' who embraces the dark futures championed by figures like Elon Musk. Her involvement with Nvidia is not merely a promotional gig; it is a form of artwashing, where art is used to legitimize uncritical corporate narratives and inflate the tech bubble.The Future of the 'Full-Stack' CreativeThe future of digital creativity is moving toward a model where artists are contracted as 'full-stack' creatives to manage corporate narratives. While this offers financial security, it risks sanitizing the artistic process. As AI tools like ChatGPT flood LinkedIn with corporate gibberish, the demand for human storytellers who can cut through the noise will only increase. The era of the independent artist is ending; the era of the corporate storyteller has begun.

Just a decade ago, cord‑cutters imagined a utopia where any game could be streamed on any device for a single, affordable price. Today, that vision has morphed into a bewildering web of platforms, blackouts and fees that strain even the most devoted fans. Major League Baseball illustrates the chaos. The Yankees’ local market now requires fans to juggle seven different providers, from traditional broadcasters to Apple TV and niche apps. A season‑long Gotham Sports App pass costs $119.99, while Amazon’s Prime Video charges $14.99 per month (or $139 annually) for exclusive rights to 21 Wednesday games. Netflix, at $19.99 per month, aired the opening‑night matchup between the Yankees and Giants. Adding these together, a die‑hard fan could face a bill of roughly $800 to watch every Yankees game this year, according to a calculation by The Athletic. Even Apple’s own streaming chief, Eddy Cue, admitted the market has regressed: “You used to buy one subscription, your cable subscription, and you got pretty much everything they had. Now, there’s so many different subscriptions, so I think that needs to be fixed.” MLB commissioner Rob Manfred proposes centralising local rights by 2028, hoping to curb the splintered landscape. Yet legacy broadcasters and tech giants continue to chase lucrative deals. The NBA’s recent 11‑year, $76 billion media contract with Disney/ESPN, Amazon and NBC underscores how high the stakes have become. Rights fees are increasingly volatile. ESPN reportedly paid $550 million annually for Sunday Night Baseball, only to see MLB strike a $10 million per‑year deal with Roku for the same slot. Netflix is said to spend $50 million per season for three years to air marquee events such as Opening Night and the Home Run Derby. The NFL, the most valuable league, embraces fragmentation as a revenue strategy, distributing games across CBS, Fox, NBC, ESPN/ABC, Prime Video, the NFL Network, YouTube and Netflix. By packaging boutique game bundles for streamers, the league extracts “significantly more money” beyond its core media rights. Beyond cost, the viewer experience is eroding. In‑game advertising now blankets pitches and ice rinks, while “hydration breaks” at the World Cup will feature mandatory ad slots. Streamers counter with ad‑free premium tiers, but those come at a premium comparable to airline baggage fees. Financial pressures are evident. Peacock added 44 million paying subscribers in Q4 2025, yet reported a staggering $552 million loss, largely due to expensive NBA and NFL rights. Dazn, another global sports streamer, has accumulated billions in operating losses since launch. Industry analysts warn that over‑commercialisation could alienate casual viewers, especially younger audiences with shrinking attention spans who prefer short‑form clips on platforms like TikTok. As Anthony Palomba of the University of Virginia notes, “The prospect of watching a three‑hour game versus getting bite‑sized highlights on TikTok is difficult.” Data‑driven, AI‑powered programmatic ads promise higher monetisation, turning moments—like Steph Curry’s game‑winning three‑pointer—into instant shopping opportunities. Amazon, for example, leverages its ecosystem to track the full consumer journey from view to purchase. One potential remedy is a consolidated “one‑stop‑shop” that bundles multiple sports feeds, aiming to reverse the so‑called “enshittification” of streaming services—a term coined by Cory Doctorow to describe platforms that sacrifice quality for profit. While nostalgia for the era of a single cable package persists, experts caution against romanticising the past. As former NBA commentator Jon Lewis observes, “The old days were complicated in their own ways; today’s challenge is to balance revenue with a sustainable, fan‑friendly experience.”