Bailey has just about given up trying to prevent this.

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.

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.

I know nothing about soccer. But neither did the kindergartners. One day I’ll post photo highlights.

I entered eighth grade a scrawny five-foot-eleven and 120 pounds. After a few months at the Sports Training & Fitness Center of Denville, I was up around 170 and being accused of using steroids. Sadly, nobody’s accused me of using steroids for many years.

Lots more to come.

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)!

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.

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.

That’s what makes it a little bit easier to move on. We’ve spent the last four years learning to get used to change, and although a majority of the changes at the University have been for the better, it still taught us an unfortunate lesson–don’t get too used to anything. When you’re graduating from a school that’s set to undergo a virtual face-lift the minute you leave, it makes it hard to get nostalgic.

I’ve seen The Rat, Old House CC and Phi Psi go, and I remember when getting a spot in the Ocean lot was a bad thing–now I’d welcome it. Believe it or not, there was a time before the ‘Dillo, McDonald’s, ARAMARK and the Loop; we used to be able to Slide-Away to the Hideaway and K-ville used to be a patch of grass right off Towerview Drive.

Next year, when I return for homecoming, I’ll find my envy-producing single on Main West Campus to be a double, the quads and fraternity sections where I spent so many fun nights will have relocated, and it’s likely I’ll need directions to visit old friends. And that’s only come the fall; by my five-year reunion I’m not sure how much of campus will still be recognizable, as parking garages and building additions begin to dominate the landscape.

The fact remains that the Class of 2002 will be one of the last to see the old Duke–before changes like Curriculum 2000 and the residential life plan. Over the course of our years here, we’ve gotten used to seeing much of what we’ve known weaned out of Duke life, and I think that’s hardened us a bit to the usual sadness of graduation.

There hasn’t been a year during my undergraduate days that hasn’t been marked by significant change–and maybe that’s a factor of the Capital Campaign, the era we live in or life itself. But frequent change has made graduation and the thought of even more change a little easier to get accustomed to.

I’m not complaining. A lot of these changes will be great for Duke, and for those that won’t be, well, thank goodness I’m getting out of here. I’ll admit I was glad not to take part in the new housing lottery, and that I won’t experience the parking rate increases next year. And I still don’t understand what happened to the Oak Room.

Rather, I’ll miss the friends who have become my second family, the fun times we’ve had and the joys of being a young college student without real-world worries. But those aren’t specific to Duke; they’re college memories, and I’m not old enough to begin missing those. I like to think the joys of being young still have at least a few more good years left.

So graduation may involve a lot of goodbyes but not to fun, excitement or adventures, and certainly not to my dear friends. Instead, it’s to the place I spent my college years.

The Duke I attended is headed for bigger–and hopefully–better things, so it seems it isn’t the Class of 2002 graduating from the University but rather Duke leaving behind the days of the Gothic Wonderland for a new era in its institutional life.

In the end, it’s easier to move on when you’re not doing it alone, and the upcoming changes are a bit easier to accept knowing we’re all headed for new, exciting things – alma mater included.

Trinity senior Ellen Mielke is editor of TowerView and a former features editor of The Chronicle.

(Don’t worry. We’ll find the 9/11 column.)

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.

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.