Sometime at the beginning of my journalism career in the spring of 2005 at about 9:15a.m., the door to the elevator on the 13th floor at the Columbia building on Michigan Avenue opened and a tall and handsome man wearing a black coat and carrying coffee stormed out and was searching in his pocket for keys. While all the hopeful future journalists stood in that crammed hallway waiting in anticipation, the man opened the door and sort of motioned for everybody to get in. He didn’t say a word. That is until he spoke with that lovable enthusiasm for the craft that everyone later would come to love.

“So welcome to Columbia, people. There is still time to get out,” Jim said.

This was “Reporting for Print and Broadcast.”

And of course as was his style, Jim’s teachings of journalism would be based on “doing” rather than reading the textbook. Sure, there was a textbook, but over the years I always came back to the book and reread the chapters that I never got to read during class. That’s because Jim would come in on sunny days and say stuff like “Put your shoes on kids, we’re going outside.”

And off we went, to press conferences, to meetings, to City Council hearings and other wonderful things that were happening in the city. Jim loved people, but he also shared a strong bond with those who were devoted and enthusiastic about the craft as he was. To him journalism was life, and he went at it with a kind of wonder that no one will be able to replicate. He was just excited to be working in the business and he wanted as many intelligent people to join his side. And later some did.

“Which famous outlaw gonzo journalist died this morning?” he would ask on the news quiz of the day. (Had to read the newspaper everyday if you were in Jim’s class).

But while Jim’s trademark coat, his beautiful smile and charisma was the stuff that everyone could be a apart of while in the journalism department at Columbia, it was the way he was at the Columbia Chronicle newspaper that truly separated and put him in a class by himself.

“Award-winning Columbia Chronicle. Put that on the resume. ‘Award-winning,’” he would say. God he loved that paper. When I got there, I ended up working with a commentary editor, who in his own way, also loved Sulski and learned and channeled his lessons onto me. As assistant commentary editor, my desk was right across from Jim’s office. I mean, I could see what he was doing all the time.

Which always baffled me what kind of a “pimp” Sulski was. I mean the guy loved life. He would be wearing Airwalk sneakers in the summer, polo shirts, eating Skittles, reading newspaper comics, on the phone, playing the latest videogames while gorgeous women students would walk in and ask him for help. He was a kid in a smart man’s body and he tried to instill that sense of awe and wonder to all those who came into his office. And his door was always open, that is, until about 3:30 p.m., when he would proudly announce that he would be on his “cell.”

However his laid back attitude always took a back seat when you had a problem while working on a story or trying to come up with some editorial ideas. By the time I made commentary editor I learned that a walk to Jim’s office would mean one thing. He would never tell you what to do, but rather make you use your head and try to connect the dots yourself. And then like always, things would fall into place and you knew where to go. However, over the years, people at the Chronicle started calling the visits “the Sulski mindfuck,” which was true, because Jim would throw so many ideas at you, that by the time you came out, you knew that you had something to write about, but it was up to you to figure out what the hell it was.

I always loved the way he thought. When he would be mulling over an idea, he would always pace in his office, or get out and pace around the Chronicle.

“I think better when I’m standing up,” he would say. And he would, he would pace back and forth, gesturing with his hands and talking to himself and would come up with an angle, or what to do about a problem, or just plainly, come up with a way to stick it to the man.

“People talk to themselves. It’s a problem only when you start having a conversation.”

I can’t express how sad I am. In a way, my Columbia experience wouldn’t be the same without him, and I sort of feel pity for the new generation of kids who will not be able to make Jim a part of their lives. But that’s life and I’m sure the school will have more great teachers like Jim, however, I don’t think anyone will be able to fill the bright and deep cheerful void that he left behind.

I remember a moment at one of the newspaper’s Christmas parties at the Billy Goat Tavern, and I overheard Jim talking to somebody, sort of away from the whole Chronicle madness, taking in the whole scene and saying “Wow, look, they are just like we were.”

And we are and will continue to be.

Jim, who caught on to my affinity for dirty humor once told me a joke that surely was not fit to print. It involved a man who fell inside of a woman’s private parts and found another man inside who eventually found a solution to getting back out. “Find my car keys, and we’ll drive out of here.”

God bless, Jim, and tell whoever it is up there or down there that you found your car keys.

Sincerely,

Cyryl Jakubowski