Re-living Tiananmen Square, via Panorama

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.

I am Bigfoot

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.

A Brief Recollection of How I Came to Realize That There Are No Jews in Mid-Missouri

I remember the moment distinctly. I was sitting in a Baptist church on 9th Street in downtown Columbia, waiting for Rosh Hashanah services to end. We were sitting in a church because the synagogue had no other place to hold services; the congregation wasn’t large enough to actually own an entire building. The rabbi was new to Columbia. He had just moved from Curaçao to lead this congregation, and surely he’d begun to question why he’d left the Caribbean for mid-Missouri. The year was 2005.

On stage, with a cross hanging over her head in Damoclesian fashion, a member of the congregation’s board of directors was giving an especially strange speech. It had started out with an extended history of the life and times of Adolf Hitler, and I do not remember where it went from there. I do remember her conclusion, however.

“Look around us!” she called out. “We are the Jews of mid-Missouri.”

I looked around. There were about 70 people in the audience.

At this point, I realized that my Bubbe’s dream of me finding a nice Jewish girl at school was likely to go unfulfilled.

But every year since, I’ve enjoyed the strange little moments that come with being a Jew in Columbia, Mo. My favorite annual tradition happened today: the morning before Passover, when I go to the local Gerbes supermarket and attempt to buy matzah.

It’s a ritual unlike any other. It usually goes like this:

  • Step 1: Locate the matzah hidden among the leavened, more delicious bread products in Gerbes’ surprisingly plentiful cracker aisle.
  • Step 2: Attempt to purchase such matzah.
  • Step 3: Smile and nod as the cashier rings up the matzah while saying, “Oh, so you’re the guy we bought all these Jew crackers for!”

But today, in the tradition of the wise child, I must ask: why was this year different from all other years? Perhaps because today, I went out of my way to buy Kosher-for-Passover orange juice (though I should note: nowhere in the Torah does it mention Moses telling the Israelites that they had not the time for their juice to be squeezed). Or perhaps because when I passed through the wine aisle, looking for a bottle of Manischewitz, none was to be found.

So I circled the store twice, looking for matzah (and seeing as the search for the afikoman is part of the Passover seder, you’d think I’d be good at finding hidden loaves of unleavened bread by now). None was to be found. On my third lap of the store, a manager stopped me and asked me what I was looking for. I explained, politely, that I was looking for this seasonal product known as matzah.

“Ah, yes, matzah. Now, would that be in the dessert aisle?”

“No,” I replied. “It’s more of a cracker.”

The manager looked puzzled. She called over another manager: “Hey, where’s the matzah?”

The other manager just frowned. “Sorry,” he said. “No matzah this year.”

“No matzah?” I asked. “Did you decide not to order any?”

“No,” he said. “We ordered our usual supply from the distributor. You know, that’s how we get our food here.”

I smiled and nodded, confused at why he thought that I thought that Gerbes had some secret factory in the back cranking out Tropicana and low-grade pretzels and, of course, matzah at all hours of the day.

“But the distributor called us back a few days ago,” he continued. “He said: no matzah this year. But you can check over at the Broadway store. They might have some.”

So I did what I could: I thanked him for his troubles and walked away, wondering all along why it is that even Gerbes answers to a higher authority.

If Newspapers Had Flight Attendants (or: Keep your tray table in the upright and panic position.)

Hello, I’m Dan, and on behalf of your newsroom-based crew, I’d like to welcome you onboard Media Conglomerate Airlines. As we may continue to lose money rapidly during this flight, I would like to remind you of the safety features onboard.

There are two exits onboard this aircraft: buyouts and layoffs. Caution: the nearest layoffs may be directly behind you.

In case of emergency, newsprint will drop from the compartment above you. Though advertising will not be flowing smoothly through its pages, we’ll still continue to search for ways to inflate our revenues.

We have loaded overwhelming debts and rising printing costs onto this aircraft. Our pilot has also informed us that we may be experiencing some Google-related turbulence. So please: keep your seat belts fastened. Things will be getting bumpy.

We no longer serve bonuses or 401(k)s on this flight. However, peanuts are still available as a sign of gratitude for your years of service.

We remind you to please be careful when opening overhead bins. Your department may have been shifted to India during our flight.

So sit back and try to enjoy this Media Conglomerate flight. Even if we don’t crash, you’ll probably feel nauseous anyway.

UConn Basketball to Forfeit Wins? And What Happens to the Teams They Beat?

Eight days ago, Connecticut Huskies forward Stanley Robinson scored 13 points, grabbed 6 rebounds and blocked 4 shots — in 34 minutes — while leading his team to an 82-75 victory in the West Regional final over Missouri.

Robinson’s an unusual story. The Boston Herald reports that he withdrew from the university last Spring and started working at a construction site. This year, he rejoined the team as a walk on. One 2010 mock NBA draft projects him as an early second round pick.

But today I’m reading something that makes me wonder whether or not Robinson should have been allowed on the court at all. From The Hartford Courant’s Jeff Jacobs:

[UConn forward Stanley Robinson] doesn’t have a grade since fall semester 2007. He reaffirmed Thursday that he withdrew from classes last spring. It never was made clear precisely what happened, with [coach] Jim Calhoun once calling it an “academic redshirt.” It was Calhoun who appealed to the dean on Robinson’s behalf to prevent him from failing out…

He’d post[ed] zero grades during a 16-month period in which he played more than 40 games. While it evidently would have broken no rules, it sure would have made the notion of student-athleticism a sad joke.

So let’s go to the NCAA rulebook, bylaw 12.01.1 (“Eligibility for Intercollegiate Athletics”), which states:

Only an amateur student-athlete is eligible for intercollegiate athletics participation in a particular sport.

Which sends me all the way to Bylaw 14.01:

14.01.1 (“Institutional responsibility”) An institution shall not permit a student-athlete to represent it in intercollegiate athletics competition unless the student-athlete meets all applicable eligibility requirements, and the institution has certified the student-athlete’s eligibility.

14.01.2 (“Academic Status”) To be eligible to represent an institution in intercollegiate athletics competition, a student-athlete shall be enrolled in at least a minimum full-time program of studies, be in good academic standing and maintain progress toward a baccalaureate or equivalent degree.

So a quick summary:

Only student-athletes may compete in NCAA events. And a student-athlete is defined as:

1.) Someone who participates in a university “full time” and “in good academic standing” as a student.

2.) Someone who participates in a university as an athlete.

So, assuming that Robinson fits only the second category, based on the reporting from the above Courant article, we’d move on to NCAA bylaw 14.1.8.2, which lists two different cases for students enrolled less than full time, each with its own penalty.

1.) Student Athlete (SA) competed while enrolled less than full-time due to a “timing” issue, or without the SA and/or the athletics department knowing SA was below full-time enrollment.

Under this ruling, there would be no fine or penalty. But based on what Robinson told The Courant, Calhoun and the school’s dean were both aware of the situation. And as Robinson had not been enrolled in any of the four semesters since (and including) fall 2007, it would appear difficult to argue that there was an issue with “timing.”

Which brings me to 14.1.8.2’s second situation:

2.) SA competed while enrolled less than full-time and athletics department and/or SA knew or should have known of SA’s enrollment status.

This seems like the more likely ruling, based on the evidence presented. According to the NCAA, the official fine for a team breaking this rule would be to “fine the institution $500 (for each contest and each ineligible SA) and require written notification to conference for a determination of forfeiture.

There is no mention in the NCAA bylaws — nor anyway that Google turned up — with regards to what Calhoun called an “academic redshirt.” I cannot find any proof that the NCAA recognizes such a term, though others have suggested that it may refer to students studying with provisional status.

But here’s where it gets really interesting, especially if you’re a fan of any team that’s played the Huskies in any of the games in which Robinson would be deemed ineligible: the Huskies would likely be forced to vacate those games. Bylaw 32.2.2.3 (b), which deals specifically with violations committed during NCAA championship events, says:

Team Competition. The record of the team’s performance may be deleted, the team’s place in the final standings may be vacated, and the team’s trophy and the ineligible student’s award may be returned to the Association. (Revised: 4/26/01)

However: the NCAA Manual does not specify for basketball how those vacated games would affect the standings for UConn’s opponents. The NCAA only makes such a clarification for football. According to 30.9.2. (“Contest Status”):

When forfeiture of a regular-season football victory is required by the Committee on Infractions, a conference or self-imposed by an institution as a result of a violation of NCAA rules, neither of the competing institutions may count that contest in satisfying the definition of a “deserving winning team.” (Revised: 10/18/89, 10/12/93, 4/20/99, 12/15/06)

So this seems to be the most likely solution, if an NCAA investigation does reveal that Robinson is not an eligible student-athlete: UConn will be fined and forced to vacate games, but the NCAA would not award victories ex-post-facto to teams that played UConn. In short: 16 teams entered the 2009 West Regional, and history may show that no team officially emerged victorious. (Sorry, Mizzou fans.)

Of course, all of this is secondary to the matter of what happens to Robinson and his eligibility. My guess: he’ll save himself the trouble and just turn pro this year. His team’s already under enough scrutiny for other recruiting violations.

And as for that construction job he worked last year? It’s worth noting: the construction company was owned by a former UConn basketball player.

UPDATE: According to a Courant report last August, Robinson said that he was academically ineligible, but Calhoun denied that and said that Robinson was eligible to play, since Robinson was taking online classes. The real question here: will the NCAA even choose to investigate this matter?

Newspapers as Ants in a Circular Mill

I’m reading James Surowiecki’s “Wisdom of the Crowds,” and this morning, I came across a passage that I think explains newspapers in 2009 pretty well.

Naturally, it’s a passage about ants1.:

In the early part of the twentieth century, the American naturalist William Beebe came upon a strange sight in the Guyana jungle. A group of army ants was moving in a huge circle. The circle was 1,200 feet in circumference, and it took each ant two and a half hours to complete the loop. The ants went around and around the circle for two days until most of them dropped dead.

What Beebe saw was what biologists call a “circular mill.” The mill is created when army ants find themselves separated from their colony. Once they’re lost, they obey a simple rule: follow the ant in front of you. The result is the mill, which usually only breaks up when a few ants straggle off by chance and the others follow them away.

The simple tools that make ants so successful are also responsible for the demise of the ants who get trapped in the circular mill. Every move an ant makes depends on what its fellow ants do, and an ant cannot act independently, which would help break the march to death.

That anecdote — especially the parts about the ants getting lost and moving in circles — meshed nicely with today’s David Carr column, in which he reminds readers:

Magazine and newspaper editors have canceled their annual conferences (good idea: let’s not talk to one another). But perhaps someone can blow a secret whistle and the publishers and editors could all meet at an undisclosed location.

My fantasy meeting goes something like this: a rump caucus could form where the newspaper industry would decide to hold hands and jump off the following cliffs together….

Now, here’s where we are in 2009: newspapers have happily followed the model of “free” for the last decade or so. Readership is up. Profits are way down. So newspapers are being asked to innovate, though newspapers have never been particularly good at innovation. A few lonely papers — as Carr notes, The Wall Street Journal, Consumer Reports and The Arkansas Gazette are three — are actually charging for content and making some money. The rest are hemorrhaging cash.

So, as Carr has suggested, newspapers must band together in order to break the cycle and survive. Which brings me back to Surowiecki’s last sentence about the ants, which I’ll reprint from above:

Every move an ant makes depends on what its fellow ants do, and an ant cannot act independently, which would help break the march to death.

So elegant. So fragile. The media goliath has become the ant. Welcome to newspapers in 2009.

1.I was planning on pulling this text off my Kindle and onto the web, but then I found the exact passage I was looking for on the web. For the record, I found it on a website deriding Republicans for following President Bush on Iraq. Now I’m wondering: who has a higher approval rating? Bush, or the mainstream media?

A Brief Commentary on the State of Presenter-Student Relations Today; or, Why a Lack of Twittering May Cause Paranoia

A very strange thing just happened to me:

I just finished giving a presentation to my Spanish class. It wasn’t anything fancy; five or seven minutes of blabbering in Spanish about Peruvian poet Cesar Vallejo. That wasn’t the strange part.

No, the part that scared me — literally, to the point where I probably botched more multisyllabic Spanish words than usual — came halfway through my presentation, when I realized that everyone in the class was looking at me.

To another generation, this might not seems strange. I was standing up in front of a class of 15 or so in a small room, talking loudly. You’d probably expect that anyone who’d bother to show up for that kind of class would be paying attention.

But I wasn’t expecting that at all.

In fact, I’d completely forgotten that occasionally, speakers receive the attention of those they’re speaking to. See, most of my presentations have been to journalism classes. And journalism students aren’t like normal human beings. No, journalism students are preternaturally distractible, and even more so now that wireless internet is omnipresent on college campuses. We journalism students sit behind our laptops, Facebooking and Googling, occasionally about the topic at hand but usually not. Just this morning, I sat in the back of the room during a two hour lecture just to watch the rest of the class log onto Twitter and complain to other students about the lecture they weren’t listening to. (Naturally, I grew bored of watching other people complain, so logged on to Twitter and did the exact same thing.)

It’s been a while since I’d actually talked to a group of students who weren’t trying to decide what was more interesting: me, or TMZ. So when I realized in Spanish class that people were looking at me, I started to sweat. I thought that something was visibly wrong with me. Maybe my fly was unzipped. Maybe my hair had blown askew in the wind. Maybe I had blacked out and accidentally started speaking Cantonese.

I kept going, through the presentation, trying not to make any obvious motions toward the hair or groin. I knew something was wrong; I just didn’t know what.

Then I finished my bumbling explanation of Vallejo’s “El momento más grave de la vida.” And the class did what classes usually do at the end of a presentation: they clapped. But they did so in a way that showed this weird sense of appreciation for what I’d just told them, as though I’d presented ideas that might possibly be useful or thoughtful or even applicable to their own lives.

And that’s when I realized what had been weirding me out the whole time: they’d actually been listening.

The Cover Letter I’ve Always Wanted to Write

Dear Prospective Employer,

I am not particularly good at following directions.

Or perhaps I should say: it’s not that I’m bad at following directions. It’s that I tend to follow them too seriously.

I mention this because my professors seem to think that these introductory letters shouldn’t be about what I’ve done; they should be about who I am. Right about here, I’m supposed to say that if you’d like to know more about my experiences – about the time I spent as the Rocky Mountain Newsmultimedia man-about-town in Beijing for the Olympics; or the summer I produced radio stories for CBS News; or the months covering pro baseball for the Washington Examiner – well, you should just turn to my résumé.

This, instead, is what my professors would like me to tell you:

I am a 6’5’’ Jewish kid from Bethesda, Md. I have the wingspan of someone who is 6’9’’. To answer your questions in advance: I do not play basketball, and I do not know what the weather is like up here.

After a lifetime of air guitaring, I started playing for real three years ago, though I haven’t given up on the occasional air soloing. I put Old Bay and garlic into nearly everything I cook. Two years ago, I spent the better part of a month training for a pizza eating competition that was later canceled when the restaurant ran out of oven space to cook the needed amount of pizzas. One year, I ordered the ESPN Full Court package, watched hundreds of college basketball games, developed an encyclopedic knowledge of every NCAA Tournament team, and still finished in the bottom third in my office pool.

I’m not particularly fashion-conscious, though I am the proud owner of a yellow, pinstriped jacket that I’ve worn to every University of Missouri football game since my sophomore year. I’ve never used the afro pick that came with the jacket.

I come from a large, lovable family of well-to-do Washingtonians who, for lack of a better term, are crazy. My grandparents used to paint their lawn green in the winter. We used to have a nanny who walked her pet guinea pig outside on a leash. My father has been known to bring back stacks of Waffle House waffles as his “personal item” on flights.

Which brings me to the jewel of my family: my mother.

My mother once wrote an essay explaining that her favorite Jewish moment involved the time Noah led the Jews out of Egypt. Once, upon my return from a semester abroad in Spain, she waited for me at the airport with a sign for me that read, “Hola, Dan, mí puta grande,” mistakenly believing that the words were a standard Spanish greeting. Recently, my mother fulfilled her lifelong dream of riding around on a fire truck dressed as Mrs. Claus. She is also a lover of animals, which is why this elephant currently resides on the front steps of my house.

I’ll cut this letter short now; I wouldn’t want to spoil any stories for future psychiatric visits. I do hope this letter gives you a more personal look into who I really am. And if for whatever reason any of this makes me more desirable as a candidate for this job, then I must say: journalism is clearly in worse shape than I’d ever imagined.

Sincerely yours,
Dan

How and Why I Ended Up Stalking the "Cash Cab" Guy at Dulles Airport

So I’m at D.C.’s Dulles Airport tonight, waiting for my late-night flight to St. Louis and looking for an airport bar to watch the first half of the U.S.-Mexico World Cup qualifier. The bar near my gate is full and showing CNN, so I keep moving, down Dulles’ interminable Terminal B, an inexplicably long tunnel of white that may or may not explain the title of the new U2 album. The next bar is down at the other end of the terminal, about a 5k away. If I’m going to catch any of the game and make it back for my flight, I’ve got to hurry.

So I’m in full stride, pushing past the B gates when I notice a bald, Irish-looking fellow on the steps near one gate. He’s got a standard carry-on upright in front of him; he’s thumbing through something on his iPhone. And as I cruise past him at Olympic-qualifying speed, I start to recognize something in his face. Maybe it’s the jut in his chin, or maybe it’s the way the top of his forehead slopes forward with all the slickness of an Augusta National green. I’m not sure what it is, exactly, that’s so familiar.

About five steps later, I realize that I may have just walked past Ben Bailey.

For those who don’t flip anywhere north of MTV on their TV guides, Ben Bailey is the cab driver-cum-host of Discovery Channel’s “Cash Cab,” which is basically Trivial Pursuit on wheels. Contestants enter his New York City cab, ambushed by a disco’s worth of lights to discover that they’re on a mobile game show. They’re given a series of questions to answer during the ride to their destination. Miss three questions and Bailey tosses you out on the street. Keep answering right and you might end up with a few hundred dollars in winnings.

I come from a game show obsessed family. We were huge “Supermarket Sweeps” fans as kids. We were that family watching Regis each night on “Millionaire.” We’re the ones who plan our runs on the treadmill around “Price is Right” or “Wheel of Fortune.” “Cash Cab” is one of my most recent finds, and it’s quickly become one of my favorites. There’s just something about seeing New Yorkers struggling to remember what a quadratic equation is, all while fearing that they’ll be booted out in the rain 15 blocks too soon.

I watch the show casually, maybe once or twice a week in the early afternoon, but enough that I’m certain that the guy I’ve just passed at Dulles is Bailey. I stop and look back at him. He’s wearing a blue shirt with the word “STAFF” in huge, white block letters. It looks like the kind of shirt that you’d see TV tech guys wear.

I walk a bit farther up the terminal to a monitor with gate information. I scan for his gate number. A few columns over, I find it: a JetBlue flight direct to New York’s JFK International Airport. I’m no Clouseau, but I’m feeling confident so far that that guy really is Bailey.

Now, I should explain something here: for the last week or so, one of my closest relatives was in the hospital. On Monday night, she died. So I’ve spent much of the last week shuttling amongst Columbia, Mo., St. Louis and Washington, D.C. I’ve spent enough time in the air that I can probably recite line-for-line this month’s American Airlines in-flight magazine. (The profile of the gritty, resilient, never-say-die Paula Abdul is particularly nauseating.) I haven’t been sleeping much at all. So I’m slower than Don Adams to realize most obvious sign that Ben Bailey is sitting in Terminal B:

Three days ago, my parents – also huge “Cash Cab” fans – went to see Bailey’s stand-up set at the D.C. Improv. He was at the Improv all weekend.

I spin around. I know that Bailey’s coming to Columbia in about a month to do stand up. Suddenly, I’m struck by the urge to schedule an interview with him. So I come up with a plan. I’ll walk up to him and casually ask if he knows where I can find a bar to watch the game. And then, just before I walk away, I’ll do a little double take, play dumb and ask, “Hey, do I know you from a TV game show somewhere?”

It’s a flawless plan. I’m thrilled with my brilliance, even in the face of sleep deprivation. And then I turn around and realize that he’s on the phone with somebody else.

So I get take out my phone, call anyone who’ll pick up and explain that I’m basically stalking the “Cash Cab” guy, all while occasionally glancing back down the terminal to see if he’s done chatting. Soon, we’re essentially pacing in simultaneous loops around the concourse, Bailey just a hundred yards away from me, an unknowing partner in the evening’s cell phone walkabout pairs competition.

I keep circling, twenty minutes worth, waiting for Bailey to hang up. The gate agent for JetBlue starts to board the JFK flight. I make my move, down the hall, just idling while idly hoping that whoever Bailey’s on the phone with disconnects. I pass him, still waiting. I stall near the TVs showing CNN, only half watching whatever wall of monitors Wolf Blitzer’s standing in front of.

I stand and I wait, and wait. I wait as Bailey switches his phone from his right hand to his left, as he reaches for his carry on, as he wheels it toward the gate, as he hands the gate agent his ticket, as he boards the plane, phone still in hand.

I wait as Bailey disappears down the jetway, wondering how the $100 question I wanted to ask got away.

T.J.

I was walking around the mall last Sunday, as thousands watched the “We Are One” concert at the Lincoln Memorial, but I couldn’t get anywhere close to the main stage. Then I noticed that the Tidal Basin and the Jefferson Memorial were empty. Naturally, I thought of a line from The Simpsons:

Lisa: Mr. Jefferson, my name is Lisa Simpson, and I have a problem.

Jefferson: I know your problem. The Lincoln Memorial was too crowded.

Lisa: Sorry, sir. It’s just…

Jefferson: No one ever comes to see me. I don’t blame them. I never did anything important. Just the Declaration of Independence, the Louisiana Purchase, the dumbwaiter…

Lisa: Uh, maybe I should be going. I’ve caught you at a bad time…

Jefferson: Wait! Please don’t go. I get so lonely…