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On ‘Back to School Night’ in second grade, we were asked to leave our parents a note. “If you have a special nickname,” Mrs. Onufrak told us, “you can use it.” I did not have a special nickname, but I didn’t know the next time we’d be granted such liberal name-signing power.

At the time, my two biggest influences were Lawrence (”LT”) Taylor and the WWF. Since “JE” wasn’t very special, I opted for an uninspired moniker in the tradition of Gene Okerlund. “Mr. Mean” was born.

The name didn’t stick.

When I asked all-star mental_floss designer Terri Dann to whip up a banner to promote this WWF Action Figure Quiz, she asked what my WWF nickname would be. I told her that story, and now Mr. Mean has a second chance to catch on.
* * * * *
The quiz received an overwhelming response, which inspired my dad to dig out my old action figure collection. He was hoping I’d come remove them from his basement. Instead, I stopped by with a camera and created a completely unnecessary sequel.

The title of this post refers to a prediction I made around 1988, a quote my Uncle Len won’t ever let me forget.

Eleven years ago today, Morris Knolls defeated Malcolm X. Shabazz 36-20 to capture their third straight NJ state title. I found this picture in my parents’ basement and borrowed a scanner from my in-laws’ garage. The crazy looking guy numbered 50 is me.

Eleven years ago tomorrow, this photo ran on the front page of The Star Ledger. Golden Eagle historians will recognize Bryan Pojanowski’s head behind my left shoulder. Poj was LaDainian Tomlinson before LaDainian Tomlinson (Poj is four months older), and far more deserving of full color ink. Over my right shoulder is Hemal Patel, whose five pass deflections in the previous playoff game helped get us back to Giants Stadium.

Surprised this isn’t getting more press.

[Yes, you've seen this before.]

I’ve created a Facebook Photo Album with some photos from my 2004-2006 stint at JWT/RMG Connect. This one’s my favorite.

See all the precious memories.

Last year I shared these photos of Ellen and me from Halloween 1981. But you might have missed last year.

Halloween 2007 proved uneventful. Some rude little children barged into our house, souring me on the entire Livingston community. I hate panhandlers.

Back in 2005, thirteen days before we brought home Bailey, I kept a mini-diary of the Halloween happenings. Let’s review:

The Suburban Halloween Report
November 1, 2005
I was only home for three trick-or-treat rings of my doorbell last night, but each fascinated me.

1. At 8:02 PM, a “kid” stopped by, alone, wearing a cape. He was pushing 20. Despite having my permission to “grab a handful,” this crusader took just one bag of Sour Patch Kids and, at my urging, a Tootsie Pop.

2. At 8:45 PM, I had my second visitor: a middle-schooler wearing a red t-shirt with the words “Skittles Candy” lazily ironed on. Even if executed brilliantly, this was a crappy costume. She was half-assing Halloween in every respect. Never even said trick-or-treat. To be fair, she couldn’t say anything to me, since she was talking on her cell phone. She took one Butterfinger. I did not offer her more.

3. Finally, at 9:37 PM, a group of four tweens dropped in. I have no idea what they were supposed to be; they looked like remnants of a more elaborate group costume. Perhaps other members of this group — members whose roles were essential — weren’t allowed to stay out past 9:30 on a school night. They sensed Halloween’s end was near and shamelessly horded my remaining candy.

Let’s do this again next year.

My brother-in-law Mark recently bought a condo. We had been storing two large dressers for him — dressers I’d filled with clothes well past their prime. A nursing home of sorts. But of course he needed this furniture back, which forced me into some tough decisions.

All my other drawers and closets were full. So the T-Shirt Graveyard is the next best thing. Every now and again, I’ll post pictures of my favorite t-shirts with which I’ve parted ways, preserving them for eternity. Or at least until a server malfunction erases the jasonenglish1.com archives.

Probably my favorite fraternity t-shirt. I believe this was designed by Sean Meakim.

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After an eventful weekend, Bailey bowed out early Sunday night. She missed an unbelievable episode of The Sopranos. I say unbelievable because, at the time of the accident, Tony and Christopher were on their way back to the greater Caldwell area from New York City. Yet they were taken to St. Clare’s Hospital in Denville. This would bypass several closer major hospitals, and represent major inefficiencies in our health care system.

Odds/Ends

• Congratulations to our friend Jaime Levy Pessin, who was recently named one of the Top 30 Business Journalists Under 30.

• More praise, this time for our wedding videographer. Kevin Higgins – at the time, a film student at Boston University and, more importantly, Ellen’s brother’s friend – just sold his first movie to Warner Brothers. Plasterhead represents a departure from Mielke-English Wedding, and will be available for rent later this year.

• Last year, I provided a list of gifts not to get mom for Mother’s Day, some of which appeared on CNN.com. Here was the uncensored version, full of gifts we again avoided this year:

• Anti-Aging Cream. Unlike your birthday, Mother’s Day is not an occasion to reflect on how old you are, or how bad you’re looking.

• Virtual Flowers. Nothing says “I forgot to send you flowers” like virtual ones.

• Cadbury Cream Eggs. When you want to give chocolate, don’t buy off the Easter discount rack.

• Bad News. Now’s not the time to tell Mom you won’t be graduating with your class later this month. Wait until Monday.

• Swiffer Duster. Any household cleaning appliance is risky. Especially one you picked up in Aisle 10.

• Tacky ties. Bad for Father’s Day. Even worse for Mother’s Day.

• Live bait. Especially if she’s not big into fishing.

• A juicer. Sounds fun, until you realize eight oranges equal an eight-ounce glass. Then comes the clean-up.

• Replica O.J. Simpson #32 Buffalo Bills jersey. As a general rule, regardless of the occasion, steer clear of Juice memorabilia.

Hope nobody made one of the giving mistakes listed above. Happy Mother’s Day Mom (and mom-in-law)!

It’s reunion time. Ellen’s, not mine. Since she’s bringing me back to Duke as her guest, I’ve decided to break my strict no-guest-writers commandment.

When I said I wanted to post her “senior column” from 2002, she balked. “My 9/11 column is much better.” That may be. But her immediate take on the defining and most depressing moment of our generation does not fit well with my giddy reunion theme. Or with this picture of good friends having good times:

(That’s me in the middle, forty pounds heavier. On the right is a young Patrick Dempsey.)

With that, I’ll turn things over to Ellen, circa April 2002.

CLASS OF 2002 WILL REMEMBER THE OLD DUKE
By Ellen Mielke

I’m not quite certain what to make of this whole graduation thing. Most people I know dread the event; after all, it’s the culmination of four years that are supposed to make up the best of your life. As I’ve always understood it, no one is supposed to want to graduate.

Believe me, I don’t. I’ve never been one for goodbyes, and frankly, I think there’s a good part of me that, like my fellow seniors, is currently choosing to ignore the looming end to our college days. It makes sense–there’s really no point in treating each day as if it were our last, even if it is.

But I think there’s more to it than that. I know a number of seniors who lately have begun declaring, “I’m so glad I’m getting out of here,” and for a while it surprised me. After all, that’s not how graduation is supposed to be, and the real world is the enemy, not the goal. Still, if you listen carefully, you can almost hear the quiet murmuring of seniors admitting, “I’m getting out of here before it’s too late.”

That’s not to say Duke isn’t still going to be a great place to spend future years, or that I think transferring elsewhere will become the next trend. But the Class of 2002 has had to face the reality that the Duke of our freshman year, the Duke we first fell in love with, isn’t going to be here after we leave.

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• You will not find “Humor Columnist” anywhere on my resume. That’s not for lack of trying. In 2000, Duke’s student newspaper called for entries, and I responded. They called back without good news. In retrospect, this was probably a good thing. The first column – written with roommate Sean Meakim over several nights, over several beers, over several games of Kobe Bryant’s NBA Courtside – left empty our bag of material. I can’t imagine what the twelfth column would have looked like.

The selection committee – which included my future wife, whom I did not yet know – deserves credit. The next semester, they anointed Dana Vachon. Fast forward six years. Mr. Vachon’s first novel, Mergers & Acquisitions, goes on sale Thursday. He’s already sold the movie rights. His two-book advance was $650,000. In the last year, I spent that much running this blog (in man hours, at an admittedly high hourly rate).

• Speaking of resumes, you will not find “NCAA Champion” anywhere on Ellen’s. Had Ohio State won, she’d have earned $350. We talked about hedging our bet – putting $175 on Florida – but we lack a bookie. Is that how you spell ‘bookie’? There’s so much we don’t know.

• We’re in our second week in the new Renegade space. Pictures once again courtesy of “Flash” Surtees. A lot of energy. I like it. Though I sit a little too close to the freight elevator. Today, the FedEx guy and I had this exchange:

Him: Is this OXO?

Me: No. They’re on five.

Him: Well I was down there and rang the doorbell and nobody answered.

[Silence, followed by silent nodding]

[I turn and walk away]

We’re still waiting for the window-tinting guys to work their magic.

[This is the second installment in the You Show Me Yours series I'm running on YesButNoButYes – I toss out an anecdote, then you tell yours. Today's topic is inappropriate co-workers. Already we've gotten some very funny contributions.]

One summer in college, for $7 an hour, I worked as an assistant shipping and receiving clerk at my old high school. I had three responsibilities:

1) Show up at 7am.
2) Man the warehouse when my boss went to lunch.
3) Not piss off my irritable co-workers.

I could do that. And I did. After a few days, I was bringing a pillow and sleeping until 10. Face down, at my desk. I found other nap rooms throughout the school and used them frequently and no one cared. But a few weeks in, I had a problem. This problem was verbalized by a frequent warehouse visitor – a custodian named Gus.

“We have a little tradition around here, Junior. At the end of the summer, I wrestle the summer help.”

And with that, the mindless summer warehouse job lost its cachet.

Let there be no suspense. I knew this match would never happen. While the looming clash of the titans did not keep me up at night, it sure did end my nap routine. The awkwardness was frequent. One day Gus asked if I wanted to know his hobby. “You’re going to make fun of me,” he warned. “It’s not something many grown men do.”

I could imagine.

His hobby, he claimed, was playing with model trains, and taking pictures of real ones. He invited me to come with him to our local train station and “take a few shots.” Whether he meant photos or liquor or first-degree murder, I’ll never be sure. Lucky for me, I’d seen the (very special) episode of Diff’rent Strokes where Arnold and Dudley were lured into dangerous territory by Horton, the creepy bike shop owner played brilliantly by Gordon Jump. It was with him – the custodian, not Gordon Jump – that I perfected my non-verbal, non-committal fake laugh/head bob. The most effective gesture in my arsenal.

Another time, Gus walked into my office area with his pants unzipped. He laughed and zipped up. He was not coming from the bathroom.

“This will all be worthwhile when I tell this story nine years from now,” I told myself.

“Let me go get the mats,” he said on my last day. I was impressed that mats would be involved. But not impressed enough to see this through. Gus left to get the mats and I went home. We never saw each other again. One day, I fully expect to be on the business end of a double-leg takedown. He’s lurking, I’m sure.

After all, it’s tradition.

Yesterday was the twenty-one year anniversary of the Challenger Explosion. I was in first grade at the time. When I try to remember the events of that day, I picture my class in the library, ready to take part in a lesson from space. Then we all watched in shock and awe and horror.

This almost certainly never happened.

Had my memory been correct, I’m sure I’d recall how our frantic teachers reacted. I’d probably be haunted to this day. Our relationship with Lakeview Elementary School librarian Babs Danilack would have been forever changed. None of these things occurred.

The only time I remember watching breaking news in the classroom came nine years later, the day we learned Orenthal James Simpson was not guilty. I know I’m not making this up, because it happened in Mass Communications class, and the teacher filmed us watching The Juice go loose. The footage is in the 1996 Morris Knolls Eagle’s Eye video yearbook (in case you don’t believe me).

So if any Lakeview alums out there have more accurate accounts of what we did January 28, 1986, enlighten us.

Ellen and I were watching the series finale of The Golden Girls yesterday. If you haven’t seen it or don’t remember, Dorothy Zbornak marries Leslie Neilsen and moves out. The last five minutes are a painful collection of hugs and tears. I was largely dissatisfied with the way the show ended, and thought the writers were unnecessarily melodramatic.

This reminded me of a goodbye email I once sent (soon to be) former co-workers.

My biggest decision of the year came back in February. I traded in my job at a large midtown ad agency for a smaller company thirty blocks south. The last job was filled with promise, a great cast, and a never ending stream of unintentional comedy. But it was time to move on. I’m in a far better place right now, in both the figurative and literal senses.

Here was my goodbye message, with the subject “Last Words.”

Feels like my whole tenure has been leading up to this email.

The last one of these was a masterpiece. The subject? “Bye.” The email? “It’s been interesting.” Since the whole brevity angle has been mastered, I’m going to take my time. And yours.

Some people I owe a great deal of thanks:

To Steve, for plucking me from the nondescript waters of Deloitte Consulting two years back, despite no evidence of advertising experience. Bold casting.

To Michael and Scott, for not cutting me loose when that inexperience showed. Time and time again.

To art directors Eric, Mike, Nancy, Pete and Antoine, for not requesting a better copywriter partner. Or for at least keeping those requests from me.

To office-mates Mike and Mark. What I gave up in personal space I got back in witty banter.

To some old timers, like Emer, Jeannette, Mario, Julie, Rich and Melton. Good old times. Good old times.

To Alexandria and Joe, for postponing their diets until I left. I can never pay full price for cookies again.

To Christina, Allison, and Nik, for something or other. I can’t remember what. I should have been taking notes.

To April, for the cookie she just brought me. Tasty.

To Jackie and Erica, for planning the best holiday party in company history. And to Philip, Patty and Mark, for paying for it.

And now it’s time to wrap this up. I’ll end with a quote from a character and a show I’ve felt a strong kinship with these last two years:

“The people you work with are people you were just thrown together with. You don’t know them. It wasn’t your choice. And yet you spend more time with them then you do your friends or your family. But probably all you’ve got in common is the fact that you walk around on the same bit of carpet for eight hours a day.”
–Tim Canterbury, The Office (BBC Version)

So thanks to all of you for sharing my (very) little bit of carpet. If I ever write that memoir, you best believe this experience will last for several chapters.

Hugs, Kisses, and a High-Five,
Jason

P.S. — For writing opportunities, for fun or profit, give me a shout. You have no idea how fired up I can get on a Saturday for my Weekend Rate.

P.P.S. — Do your f**king timesheets. You won’t be warned again.

Ten years ago today, Morris Knolls defeated Malcolm X. Shabazz 36-20 to capture their third straight NJ state title. Last month I found this picture in my parents’ basement and borrowed a scanner from my in-laws’ garage. The crazy looking guy numbered 50 is me.

Ten years ago tomorrow, this photo ran on the front page of The Star Ledger. Golden Eagle historians will recognize Bryan Pojanowski’s head behind my left shoulder. Poj was LaDainian Tomlinson before LaDainian Tomlinson (Poj is four months older), and far more deserving of full color ink. Over my right shoulder is Hemal Patel, whose five pass deflections in the previous playoff game helped get us back to Giants Stadium.

Surprised this isn’t getting more press.

Every time I need to use my old iBook, I wind up scouring my old Inbox. Quite the time capsule. That computer believes it’s 1969 and probably won’t live to see the pseudo-seventies. So let me preserve the best of those messages here.

This one is from August 16, 2001. I was Adam’s Apple deep in the search for Chandra Levy, an obsession that played a minor role in my failure to find employment. These were occasionally depressing but very fun times, my sanity preserved by the tremendously high unemployment rate for 22-year-olds in Denville, New Jersey.

I went to Charlie Brown’s for dinner the other night. After being seated, our waitress came by and said, “Wow, I didn’t expect you to be here tonight. You’re a regular on Wednesdays, but Tuesday? What’s up?” I couldn’t believe it. This is the mark I’ve left on the world - an eating/drinking routine so well adhered to that the kitchen staff could set their time clock to it.

While it was a slow news summer, I sure did send a lot of e-mail. Don’t worry, you’ll see.

This one will require some explanation.

At my last job, our building was undergoing major renovations. Construction was scheduled to last well over a year, and would prove to be one long headache. I was invited to join a committee appointed to lessen the burden on the rank-and-file. Since that’s my thing, join I did.

One of the early inconveniences was the closing of the cafeteria. Our committee decided to sponsor a free last meal, where employees could get a free hamburger, hot dog or grilled cheese, plus a free beverage. A nice gesture like that couldn’t go wrong. But just in case, I decided to play the Bill Simmons role and keep a running diary for the company blog.

Note: The times have been wildly approximated.

11:42 - People start to hover outside the cafeteria.

12:03 - About 50 people are already in line. They are commissioned as artists and folks begin to draw on the soon-to-be-demolished walls.

12:05 - First comment written on wall: “This place is great. Don’t change it!” D’oh.

12:07 - First complaint (”They should have figured it would be busy and bring in more workers!”)

12:09 - 63rd complaint (”I had to pay for my french fries!”)

12:24 - Another committee member physically removes a half-dozen people who were in line for thirds. And I mean forcibly.

12:32 - A third committee member overheard mumbling “Serenity now, serenity now” as the complaints come down like softball-sized hail.

12:45 - No more burgers.

1:04 - On her way out, a confused woman writes “Grilled cheese with raisin bread? Hmmm…” on the wall.

1:05 - I throw up in my mouth.

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