Month: April 2009

I think I’d miss a number of things about the actual, tangible, printed edition of the newspaper if it ever disappeared. I’d miss the struggle to fold the paper on a crowded subway car. I’d miss working through a crossword puzzle, eraser always in hand. I might even miss that daily test of the sidewalk on a wintry morning, as I gauge whether or not I can make the run from my door to the newspaper without needing shoes.

But beyond that, I’d certainly miss newspaper slogans. The New York Times‘ “All the news that’s fit to print” wouldn’t make much sense in anything other than ink; besides, NYTimes.com has unlimited storage space. (And “All the news that’s fit to click” just doesn’t have the same ring.)

I’d forgotten about other slogans, though, until I clicked over to the website of The Nantucket Independent, a newspaper I worked at five years ago (!). And right at the top of their site, I saw their new slogan. I’ve spot-shadowed it here, but go ahead and click on the image to get the full thing.

“The newspaper that gives a damn about Nantucket,” it reads. Simple, direct, and compelling. If that’s not a good enough reason to keep subscribing to a paper like The Indy, I’m not sure what is.

There are a number of Latin phrases that I’m particularly fond of. Among them: “Ex nihilo nihil fit.”

Which means, “Everything has its origins in something.” ^1. Except, apparently, this.

If you’ve come here from Twitter expecting to find news of swine flu in Doloma, Missouri, well, sorry. There’s no swine flu in Doloma. If you type it into Google, you’ll find that here’s no such town as Doloma. ^2. And you really need to stop clicking on every link related to swine flu. Calm down, and go wash your hands. We’ll be fine. I promise.^3.

I’ll leave you with a final thought: “Ut totus amicitia.”

Which, if Caesar was a Bugs Bunny fan, would’ve meant something like, “That’s all folks.”

^1.) It also means “work is required to succeed,” though I can’t say I support such a viewpoint. >back to article

^2.) For the record: “ex dolo malo” is Latin for “from fraud.” >back to article

^3.) This promise based on no scientific research or proof on my part. >back to article

With the 15th pick in the NFL Draft, the Oakland Raiders selected a fairly anonymous player: Michael Mitchell, a safety from Ohio.

Perhaps anonymous is the wrong word. Here’s ESPN.com’s draft profile of Mitchell:

Official size and weight, says ESPN.com: 0’0”, 0 lbs.

I wonder what size shoulder pads he wears.

Mizzou junior outfielder Greg Folgia had an impressive game against Texas Tech, including a home run in the 2nd inning that extended his hitting streak to eight games. But after one late inning strike out, Folgia took out his frustration on his bat by actually screaming into it.

The bat was not available for comment after the game.

However: I did have my camera with me at Taylor Stadium today. Check out a few additional photos from today’s 9-5 Mizzou victory over at my Flickr page.

Girls hated it. Well, maybe “hate” is the wrong word. They didn’t understand it, really. The strange thing is, every time I’d explain my situation to a girl, no matter where she’d grown up or how popped her collar was, she always had the same look. I got used to it, eventually. It was a look somewhere between incredulity and confusion, the kind of look you’d get if you asked a class of third graders to dissect Dostoevsky. Girls just did not understand this complication of mine. In all their years, I was often the only one they’d ever met in such a situation.

I use the word “situation,” because that’s what it was to them. It was something I’d learned to deal with, I’d tell them jokingly. But truthfully? Life really was better without it.

They didn’t see it that way. They’d cast me that look — always that look — and try to find the right way to phrase their next question. Sometimes, they’d scan me over, searching for more overt signs of my madness. And when none were to be found, they’d part their lips just so, and a few words — always the same words — would slip out:

“If you don’t have text messaging on your phone, then….”

A pause, their minds turned into a personal T9 — the cell phone predictive text feature — trying to sort out the words and cues buzzing in their brains.

“Then…. how do you live?”

The question was never asked with a smile or a laugh; they were always serious. They’d hush, waiting for my answer. Sometimes, they’d even put down their phones, thumbs akimbo, desperately seeking justification.

But how to explain such a life choice? Voluntarily, some two years ago, I called up my cell phone provider and asked them to block all incoming text messages. No longer would I fear that brief whir, my phone spinning on the countertop, a ringtone jingle fading as quickly as it had arrived. No longer did I worry about flipping open my phone to find “R”s or “U”s masquerading as full words, punctuation lost in the rush to 160 characters. No longer would I awake from a mid-afternoon’s nap to see one simple letter — “K” — and wonder why I’d been stirred by a non-vocal affirmative.

Girls did not understand this. I would explain that, no, it wasn’t that hard to survive without texting. It wasn’t like I was depriving myself of human contact. I was still reachable via any of my three email addresses, plus instant messenger or Facebook.

Or — and this typically drew the most confused look of all — I could always be called on my cell phone. I only had about 500 minutes per month, I’d say, plus free nights and weekends. So I was always happy to actually talk via phone.

Sometimes I’d get a nod back, or at least a smile that showed that they didn’t think I was completely crazy. Oftentimes, I couldn’t even get that. I began to realize that I had a personal public relations disaster on my hands.

Last year, I caved and bought a text messaging plan: 200 texts for $5 a month. I’d finally accepted that there were two situations in which I liked texting: 1.) At sporting events, when the volume of cell phones in a single stadium sometimes makes calling impossible, and 2.) For brief, GPS-type purposes during those crowded or just-too-freaking-loud-to-hear occasions.

Initally, I didn’t even tell friends that I’d unblocked text messaging. I let them know slowly, my phone’s message inbox pinging infrequently at first. That was last fall. Some friends kept calling, which I liked; others decided that the sound of my voice — or the threat of entire minutes of small talk — wasn’t worth the bother. They started texting frequently. Lately, it’s only gotten worse.

College students don’t use texting like I do: as a last resort. As a demographic, we use it to make dinner plans or — increasingly — to pass along a random line from whatever Andy Samberg’s latest “SNL Digital Short” was. The two word message — like a stray status update directed, for whatever reason, only to me — is as popular as ever. “Just showered,” SMSed one friend last week. “You would,” said another. “What up” my phone reads, over and over again, the question mark lost in our digital drain.

Last month, I noticed that 200 texts had become an imminently reachable monthly milestone. That became even more evident when I went to AT&T’s website and discovered these words:

“AT&T bills for all messages whether sent or received, read or unread, solicited or unsolicited.”

All of those unwanted texts — every “k,” and especially every “i’m on a boat” or “when bruce willis died at the end of sixth sense'” — had pushed me far past my limit of 200. And each of those overflow texts started costing me, sometimes just a dime, or sometimes more. I didn’t ask my parents to send me a video message of the JumboTron shuffle game at that sporting event. But they did, and it cost me a quarter each time.

The obvious solution for me is to bump up to the next level of text messaging plans. On AT&T, that means going unlimited — and I’m just not prepared to make such a change in lifestyle.

The thing is, I still prefer actually speaking to people. Like yesterday, when a random-but-pertinent thought popped into my head, I gave my friend a ring. I heard him sigh over the phone. “You’re wasting my minutes,” he said. I found that strange. This friend pays for about 1,000 minutes per month and gets free nights/weekends. In the four years I’ve known him, I do not believe he has ever reached that 1,000 minute plateau — and I’m adding up all of the time he’s spent on the phone during those four years combined.

Meanwhile, I’m looking at my latest phone data right now. I have 366 anytime minutes remaining this month (I started 15 days ago with 500). I have 4,852 night and weekend minutes, and 1,748 rollover minutes. Hypothetically, I have enough minutes to talk for nearly five full days without incurring any extra charges. Logically, I expect to use approximately two percent of those remaining minutes.

I should note, though: when prompted, AT&T didn’t send me that update about my minutes via email or the postal service.

No, quite naturally, they sent it to me in a text.

(H/T on the photo above to user kiwanja, via Flickr.)

For the sake of this blog post, let us assume the following three premises are true:

1. The Internet is constantly evolving.

2. McCartney and Lennon were not lying when they suggested that things are getting so much better all the time.

3. I have an unbelievably large archive of photos of Beijing residents going crazy during the Olympics.

So, with that in mind, I tested out a newish multimedia collage program called VuVox tonight. The goal: to repackage a story I produced on Aug. 8, 2008, from Beijing’s Tiananmen Square. Above, find the new version, which really needs to be viewed in full screen to be fully appreciated (or wide screen, via this link).

Below, you can find the original version of the story: “Tiananmen Square During Open Ceremonies.”

In the north, they speak of this creature called Bigfoot. Perhaps you know him as the Sasquatch. He is a creature of great size, they say, often documented but rarely seen. To anthropologists, he is the Holy Grail of woolly beasts.

So you can imagine my surprise when, today, flicking through some old images on Facebook, I realized that I may be the Sasquatch.

Perhaps I should explain.

You see, I have an unusual habit of appearing in the backgrounds of images on television or in newspapers. Often, I appear out of focus, an amorphous blob, cloaked in earthy golds and blacks. I imagine that to the world, I am an enigma, an unknown. I am the bottom line on a DMV eye chart: a mere blur.

Perhaps, at least physically, it is too easy of a comparison. I am 6’5”. I wear a size 13 shoe. My hair swings from kempt to unkempt with the slightest breeze.

So to further explain, I’d like to present examples of the existence of this Dan Oshinsky… er…. Bigfoot (and, though this is not for the faint of heart, click on the images to see a larger version):

Here I am on January 16, 2006. I appear on the far left of the image, slightly pixelated, left hand gracing an uncouth beard.

CBS cameras caught me on March 4, 2007, in St. Louis, mouth ajar, as former Creighton basketball point guard Nate Funk stands statuesque at the front of the frame. Again, I appear to be sporting unruly facial hair.

Just weeks later, on April 7, 2007, I was spotted on ESPN, out of focus as I exchange greetings with a slightly more humanoid figure wearing gold.

Local photographers in Columbia, Mo., captured me more than a year later, on October 10, 2008, lankily striding in front of a black minivan, just paces behind Senator John McCain.

Finally, on March 26, 2009, I was spotted by several outlets in Phoenix. CBS cameras found me, again in gold, here:

And Sports Illustrated featured me, blurry as ever, here:

What can we learn from these images? For one: there is no definite proof that I am not Bigfoot. The physical similarities are remarkable. The dedication to such a tangled mess of facial hair is undeniable.

So to anthropologists, I say: perhaps one day, you will find me. Or, perhaps not. I am, after all, unmistakably blurry.