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dailytomlinson · 4 years

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“I probably shouldn’t be talking about this but f*** it,” he tells me now. “My point is, I clearly wasn’t in the best frame of mind, you know? And the situation definitely got out of hand and people were goading me. It wasn’t my finest hour but it was a difficult time. I was already on edge and, in that headspace, it got the better of me.”

By “that headspace”, Tomlinson means that he was grieving. The airport incident took place a few months after his mother Johannah’s death from leukaemia at 43. (In March last year, his 18-year-old sister, Félicité, died from an accidental overdose. Quite reasonably, I’ve been asked not to bring this up.) Tomlinson, who is now 28, says his experiences of grief in the public eye have been “really tough. There have been mixed emotions. I’ve hated the fact that everyone’s talking about it, but that’s the way it is. I didn’t like the idea of people feeling sorry for me. But I’ve also felt the support from fans and people reaching out on social media or whatever… and I do feel I’ve got this ability to see the glass as half full. Because what else am I going to f***ing do?”

I meet Tomlinson in an upstairs room of a pub in a residential corner of London’s Notting Hill. He is dressed in jeans, a red tracksuit top and trainers. The only visible evidence of his previous life in One Direction, the biggest boyband in pop history, is his hair, which is artfully swept sideways as if he’s standing in a wind tunnel. An old hand at winning over interviewers, he greets me with a hug before sitting down, leaning back and putting his feet up.

Tomlinson is on the promotional trail for his debut album, Walls, which has been four years on the making. It includes “Two of Us”, a ballad which lays bare Tomlinson’s loss (“You’ll never know how much I miss you/ The day that they took you, I wish it was me instead”). In a change of mood, it also contains the Britpop-flavoured “Kill My Mind”, a throwback to his mid-teens and the indie night he’d go to with his friends in his native Doncaster.

Tomlinson grew up listening to Oasis and Arctic Monkeys, though right now he can’t get enough of Catfish and the Bottlemen: “I like anything with big guitars and a big chorus.” He reckons “Kill My Mind” will struggle to get on the radio but he doesn’t care since, musically, “I’ve often been swimming against the tide.”

He puts the album’s long gestation down to creative insecurity. “A good two years [was spent] treading water and trying to work out exactly what my sound was, and what I was capable of.” Clearly, One Direction, who sold 50 million albums, are a tough act to follow, though Tomlinson has also had to contend with his former colleagues putting out solo work before him (Harry Styles is already on his second LP, while Zayn Malik, Niall Horan and Liam Payne have all released debuts). But he rejects the suggestion that they are all in competition, remarking, “I don’t like to look at it that way.”

I ask if he and his ex-bandmates have a WhatsApp group. They don’t, he replies, “and we should, but we’ve never got around to it”. But he says they are frequently in touch, which must be something people ask a lot since, entirely unbidden, he gives me a breakdown of their recent activities. Let the record show that he spoke to Liam two days ago; he and Niall exchanged texts a fortnight ago; and Harry sent him a congratulatory message when he released his last single. There is no mention of Zayn.

Tomlinson says the face he presents to the public and journalists these days is fully unfiltered, a change from his One Direction days when he had to be careful not to cause inadvertent upset within the band or with fans. “No one was saying ‘Don’t do that’, but there was the [pressure] of being role models. So it took a second to understand that [as a solo artist] I could get away with completely being myself, even though I can sometimes be a bit of a dickhead.”

In fact, there are two Tomlinsons that emerge throughout our chat. There’s boyband Louis, full of sweet but bland blather about self-expression, his gratitude to fans, and the luck that he’s enjoyed as an artist. But another version of him frequently comes through who is funny, sweary and thoughtful about his decade in the limelight.

Tomlinson has had four years to digest his time in One Direction which I note, from the outside, looked a bit like being held hostage. But even with the fan fervour, the police escorts and the nonstop media glare, he says he wouldn’t change anything. “We were always in control of our destiny,” he explains. “We rose to fame pretty quick and, because of that, we had some power and some say within the record label and with management.” The sheer pace and drama of their day-to-day existence was, he says, “like a drug. It’s that feeling of heightened emotion and every day being manically busy, and the hysteria. Although you might complain about it, none of us said, ‘No we don’t wanna do that.’ We were just in it. We were f***ing loving it.”

Still, he says, the initial 18 months were hard as he struggled to see his value within the band. “I would wonder, ‘What difference would it make if I was there or if I wasn’t?’ Under the spotlight that was difficult, but that’s what gave me the fire in the belly to get right into it.” It was through songwriting that he found his place and his confidence – he has writing credits on 37 One Direction songs, more than anyone else in the band. “That’s something I’m really f***ing proud of,” he says. “Now I can say I made a difference.”

The end of One Direction was a shock to Tomlinson, even though he knew it was coming. “We’d done such a lot of work in a short space of time so a break was inevitable. But I don’t think I was necessarily ready for how long. We had a band meeting and everyone just said, ‘Maybe we’ll put it on the back burner for a bit,’ and I felt a bit petulant about that at the time. It actually hit me like a ton of bricks.” Now the band are officially on hiatus – “even though that’s a stupid f***ing word”, he says. “Truthfully, none of us truly know [if we’ll reform]. I just know what my gut says and my gut says we will get back together at some point. I think it was too magical for all of us to never do it again.”

The eldest of seven siblings, as a child Tomlinson says he was “well-mannered but a bit of a show-off. I was a lot cockier than I am now. Being in One Direction made me realise I’m not always the coolest kid in the room”.

He wasn’t good academically at school but enjoyed performing and, for a while, toyed with being an actor. Before auditioning on The X Factor, he did a string of jobs at weekends and in school holidays for some extra cash. One summer was spent as a waiter at his beloved football club, Doncaster Rovers. Another yielded a stint at a well-known cinema chain dispensing popcorn. There, he tells me unexpectedly, he was earning “an extra wage”. An extra wage? “As in taking a few quid from the till,” he says with a grin. “It all started because there was a McDonald’s over the road and I wanted money for my lunch.” His trick was to hand customers two boxes of popcorn but only put one through the system and put the money for the second in his pocket. “I didn’t want to short-change the customer,” he explains. “I’d take from the company. I’m a man of the people.”

It was his mum’s idea for him to try out for The X Factor, though it took three attempts to get through to the televised auditions. He says the experience of going on stage in front of the live audience, under the glare of the lights and with four famous judges looking back at him, remains the most terrifying of his life.

We talk for a bit about Tomlinson’s return to The X Factor in 2018 as a judge alongside Simon Cowell plus Robbie Williams and his wife Ayda Field. He asks what I made of the show so I decide to be honest and tell him that I thought the whole thing looked tired and Cowell appeared bored out of his mind. “Well I couldn’t possibly comment on [Cowell],” says Tomlinson, good-naturedly, “though I actually loved it. But yeah, I feel that, as a show, it needs a rest. There’s a place for a show like it and I’ve got my career to thank for it, but we’ve had a lot of it, so let’s just let it rest and make people want it again.”

Life has slowed down since the madness of One Direction but he still can’t find the time to read a book or watch a box set. Where, in his pre-fame days, he struggled to hold down a job, now he’s happiest when he’s busy. Should the singing career stall, he would like to run his own management company. Five years ago, he launched a record label, an imprint on Cowell’s Syco label, but life got in the way and his plans to create a girl band fell at the first hurdle. Originally he had gathered a list of 20 acts that he was keen to sign, and points out that “like, four or five of them are signed [elsewhere] now… I think I have an instinct for these things”.

I ask, rather unfairly, if the solo career of a former boyband member is ultimately a doomed endeavour – for every Robbie Williams, there’s a Howard, Jason and Mark whose careers sink without trace. For a moment Tomlinson looks stumped but then he prevaricates like a pro. “Of course, there are days where I might have unreal expectations and when I have to tell myself to stay grounded,” he says. “But I had a breakthrough moment last year about what success really means and I think I can look at it for what it is now. I have to look at how happy I am and remember that I’m lucky to be doing what I’m doing.”

#louis tomlinson #stunt mention #independent #wpress #250120

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dcnativegal · 7 years

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I miss Black people

A tall Black man came into the office in Christmas Valley last week to introduce himself as a social services worker for parts of Deschutes County and north Lake County, too. My door and my fellow therapist’s door were open, and we introduced ourselves and chatted amicably. When he and I discovered we had both lived in DC, I became Chatty Cathy, waxing poetic about Ethiopian Food. It became clear that he wasn’t that familiar with it, couldn’t remember the word ‘injera’… but that was okay. I was talking to a Black man who knew DC. I’m pretty sure I embarrassed myself. My colleague was friendly and professional. I was irrationally glad to see him out of all proportion to the occasion.

He probably left thinking to himself, white people are weird. Guilty as charged.

I am one of those white people who study Black people. Their experience, history, personalities, and the systemic, systematic way in which they’ve been imprisoned in one big internment camp called the United States of America. Everything about them, with the possible exception of current music beyond a superficial point. My kids listen to nothing but music made by Black people, so we, as a family, have that covered.

Formative books: I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. The Color Purple. Beloved. Also, Why do all the Black kids sit together in the Cafeteria, and When Race Became Real. Between the World and Me is the most recent.

Formative movies: Sounder (with music by Taj Mahal). Anything by Spike Lee (with the possible exception of Inside Job, which is excellent, but not about Black experience.) Moonlight. Daughters of the Dust. I am Not Your Negro is the most recent. Anything by Ava DuVernay, most recently, 13th. (I dare you, white reader, to watch it, on Netflix, and not have your mind blown.)

Music: Otis Redding. Songs in the Key of Life by Stevie Wonder. Early Michael Jackson and the Jackson Five. Tracy Chapman. India Arie.

I could go on and on… Perhaps I’ll stop with this link to 100 Woke Black women to follow: http://www.essence.com/news/woke-100-women

“Study” does not mean to keep at arms-length. I have been a marshmallow in a sea of cocoa since I can remember being alive. And since, many times, in different schools and neighborhoods, I was one of the few white kids, it behooved me to observe how we are similar and different. When you are the minority, you study the majority.

Little differences, in hygiene practices (Black women are more fastidious), in pronunciation (Andrea is pronounced An DRE uh by Black folks, AN dreeah by white. Darrell is DaRELLE for Black people and DAR rul for white.) In Happy Birthday songs: Black folks sing the Stevie Wonder version. In mythical secret jokes. Some Black people think that white people smell bad when wet. I’m serious. Based on how stinky the white men were when they came across the Atlantic to kidnap Black people. I mentioned this one day to a church friend, a PhD in Math, descended from Jamaicans, and she gasped! How did I know?! (I read it in a book, silly.)

I notice how much African American Vernacular English is used by white people. “You go, girl.” “24/7.” “I’m down.” “Word.” White folks don’t necessarily notice. I do. I try not to use AAVE. For fear of being scolded by my daughter. But also, because it is not appropriate. I struggle with this appropriateness thing. Because it’s the right thing to do. I keep learning how much culture has been stolen from Black Americans. Elvis Presley is just the tip of the iceburg. White people have stolen from Black people for millennia, and not just culturally. I look for examples of this, and find it, daily. I look out of long habit, so that I can give credit where credit is due.

It is absolutely true that Black people have transformed my life again and again. A Black 10th grade English teacher told me I was a good writer and should check out the Urban Journalism Workshop. I did, I applied, I got in, I learned to write, and the article I wrote earned an honorable mention from the Robert Kennedy Journalism awards. It was about the gentrification of Mount Pleasant, a neighborhood in DC. In 1976. I’m pretty sure I got into Oberlin College because of the Urban Journalism Workshop. Because I had zero extracurriculars besides running away from home. Thank you, Mrs. Feely.

I spent 40 years in the grooviest episcopal church on the planet (IMHO) because of a Black seminarian I almost married. He was 9 years my senior, I was 17, when we met. St Stephen & the Incarnation became my spiritual home because he was assigned there. And after I realized I was too young to marry, it stayed my parish home until I moved to the Oregon Outback in August 2016. Thank you, Eddie.

I miss my Black friends. Gay and straight women, with a few gay Black men in there, too. I know a lot of wonderful straight Black men, but I can’t say I’d call any of them in the middle of the night to take me to the emergency room. (One of my criteria for being a real friend. I’m sure they’d take me; I would just be so embarrassed.) Each of my friends is amazing. Of course, that is also true of my white friends. I’ve been mulling over the difference between my white and Black friends.

I’m reminded of something I read years ago about being friends across the racial chasm: the Black woman’s advice to her white friend was, “Forget I am Black. And, never forget that I am Black.” The zen koan of being friends with a Black person.

I feel lucky when a Black person will deign to be my friend. They could so easily reserve their precious energies for other people of color, especially people of the African diaspora. Out of self-care. (deign: verb, do something that one considers to be beneath one's dignity. "she did not deign to answer the maid's question" Archaic condescend to give [something.] "He had deigned an apology.") When I am hanging out with my Black friends who are activists and seemingly tireless in their work for justice in all kinds of situations, I am amazed that they have time for me. I know in fact that they are tired. And I do my best to be someone they can relax with. Even though I am white.

I have a Black friend who grew up in Crown Heights Brooklyn, where my son lives now in an apartment with many roommates. Her parents were from Guyana, an African-Caribbean country. Crown Heights is gentrifying, but it seems to still hold a special mix of Caribbean immigrants and Hasidim. S is a little younger than I am, and also has 2 kids, one in college (same one as my daughter) and the other graduated (as is my son.) My kids’ dad and I met their family when we each had only one baby in diapers and one parent each were home, and craving adult conversation. Play group in Brookland DC used to meet once a week until the community-organizing father of my children got hold of it, and then it met 3 times a week.

Our oldest boys were friends. We had second children. We developed a tradition of going to the Outer Banks in North Carolina for a week every summer and sharing an old beach house that was right on the water, one family per bedroom. We’d have 4 families give or take, and take turns cooking, looking after munchkins, and going on field trips to the Wright Brothers Museum, Walmart, and movies.

When it was time to figure out where to have the oldest boys go to school, our two families combined forces. In DC, finding a decent public school requires a strategy. We got pretty elaborate: what are our criteria for excellence? How much did each value weigh in the decision? We teamed up, with S and I spending the night in her car one icy January to get on the list for a popular bilingual Spanish/English immersion school (Oyster Elementary). My kids’ dad and her husband hit a number of schools that were apparently much less popular but still made our list. My kid got into Oyster, and S, who was right after me, did not. We decided that our boys would go to a DC public Montessori program instead of risking separation.

By the way, S met a nice Jewish young man from Iowa when they both attended Harvard, and married him. After many years, she decided to convert to Judaism, and both boys had bar mitzvahs, which were very cool to attend.

Both families switched to another DC public Montessori program when the original one seemed in steep decline, and enjoyed that community for a while. It became clear that my son wasn’t doing as well in that context, so I got him on a waiting list for a phenomenal charter school that uses the Expeditionary Learning model (affiliated with Outward Bound.)

We remained friends as families, going to the beach, joining the pool just over the DC line that many Brooklanders belonged to. Our boys grew apart, but we still hung out. One amazing bit of fate is that it was S and her son who introduced my boy to film-making at around 6th grade. He now makes his living as a filmmaker and is a Tisch film school graduate.

S is one of those women who is rather butch, and also straight. She is not femme: never wears make up, keeps her hair very short for minimum of fuss, and never wears skirts or dresses (except in her wedding.) I taught her to knit on one of our beach weeks, and she’s gone on to become expert and imaginative. I figured out at one point that I had a crush on her, but I stomped that out, and we have had a great 20+ year friendship.

When my marriage ended, S and her husband extended dinner invitations to both me and my ex, separately, but only I responded. My ex is introverted, and for some reason he let his connection to these folks wither. I was grateful to hold onto the friendship, and enjoyed coming to their house for amazing food prepared by Ed, the son of the Iowan baker. Lots of far ranging conversation. We’d solve the problems of the world, and then I’d go home. We also share a love of movies. I had to call Ed once to get me to an emergency department, and he did with calm kindness.

Neither S nor her husband are on Facebook much, which is where I keep in touch with most of my social connections from DC. I’ll have to actually write them a letter, which I used to do routinely. I miss these people very much. Maybe I should just call them up. How novel.

S was my friend first, and Black incidentally.

B became my friend and her Blackness was way more prominent. Whereas S never uses AAVE, B uses it a lot, and with her I feel like I can say “GIIRRRRRLLLL” in greeting.

B is from a large African-American Catholic family, originally from Florida. Old school Black, which is to say, ancestors enslaved and brought to the mainland United States, then reared here after Emancipation, and always in the minority. Whereas Island folks, from what was formerly known as the West Indies, were also enslaved, they freed themselves from colonial power, and became majority Black countries. B taught me that some Caribbean folks look down on the old school Black folks. I learned a lot about hierarchies within Blackness from Brigette.

We met at a card game for women in our neighborhood. Her son was a year older than mine, and she lived within a block of us. I started to pursue her as a friend; we attended a Black-taught “all sizes welcomed” yoga class in the neighborhood, and would walk there and back every Saturday morning. On those walks we got to know each other.

She is so accomplished; a law degree, an all but dissertation PhD drop out, an author, a management consultant, a philanthropist. I was honored to be the one white person present for a discernment committee she gathered, Quaker style, to help her make a decision. She influenced me a great deal. I hope I was a good friend to her. She was, probably still is, extremely busy, always, involved in one justice-promoting effort after another. I felt like a slacker in her presence. And she was not judging me. She simply lived every waking moment as an opportunity for social change. I also know there is pain underneath that activity, not just ‘post-traumatic slavery syndrome.’ Our sons are out in the world making art. She is making change. I miss her.

There are many others… Imani, D, Isaiah, Fern, Paulette, Liane…and powerful Facebook friends... Claudia, Alan, Reuben, KM

When I see a Black person out here in Oregon, I am riveted and try not to stare. Black people in white places are used to this, it is the ‘white gaze’, just like women are conscious of the ‘male gaze.’ For the observed, this vigilance is automatic and barely conscious until there is a perceived danger. Is that man (of whatever color) following me down this street? Is that white woman following me in this store? I regret that I am adding to this vigilance for people of color in Oregon.

In Eugene Oregon at a huge hippy extravaganza called Country Fair, I took to counting Black people. Less than 20. I follow the SURJ-Eugene Chapter on Facebook. It’s the closest chapter to where I live. (Standing up for Racial Justice is a white person’s organization that hopes to support Black Lives Matter efforts. White folks can ask other white folks to call each other out and help each other grow. This is not the job of Black People.) Oregon is a very white place.

I am an anti-racist organization of one. Which is not to say I am the only one who cares about racism against Black people, systemic and individualized here in Lake County. I have not yet met anyone as steeped as I am, but it’s always possible. (Where are you?) Anybody out here willing to start a book club to read Witnessing Whiteness? It’s for white people who want to reveal and counteract the racism that lives within all of us.

From the context of my upbringing, and my choice, the collective and multi-hued Black American World is my north star. The Black/white conversation, the current animosity, the centuries-long history, is my cosmology: “noun, the science of the origin and development of the universe.” My social universe. The foundation upon which I build my politics, my theology of justice, my self-image. My corrective. Also, my joy.

I am a white person who works on her racism. Even when there are no Black people in my Oregon Outback world, except a phlebotomist, one former client, and the girlfriend of another. My moral universe is constructed around the fact of the injustice of slavery and its current unjust sequelae. (Noun. se·que·la. a condition that is the consequence of a previous disease or injury.) Part of the post-slavery curse is the anti-government bias that is ripping further the tattered safety net. It is hard work to help white folks in mostly white contexts to see how anti-Black racism seeps into every bit of politics and also harms them individually. I’m working on this. I find it exhausting when the occasional conversation starts with “I don’t have a racist bone in my body.” I was so spoiled in D.C.

Yes, I believe in reparations. TaNehisi Coates’ work on this in The Atlantic is a paradigm-shifter. (https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2014/06/the-case-for-reparations/361631/)

I only recently read a book on the native American experience, Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz’s epic, “An Indigenous Peoples' History of the United States.” Now I can include the injustice wrought against native peoples into my cosmology. Except I did not grow up as a white person in a majority First Nation context. A whole new arena to familiarize myself with. First Nations are deeply relevant to life out here due to water rights. (You can watch Roxane Dunbar-Ortiz read from the book here: https://youtu.be/Pn4QTS6S3WU.) And you can read about water rights and the Klamath Nation here: (https://www.rotary.org/en/rotarian-helping-klamath-river-dispute)

I will continue to be a Black-identified white woman living in Whitelandia. I will try not to be obnoxious when I hear something flatly racist, although I will counter it. Someone said something about Black on Black crime early on. I said something, and now she knows I’m a ‘liberal.’ I share about Black experience on Facebook because I rejoice at the artistry and profound accomplishments of people who Overcome, every day. Maybe my new friends in Oregon will have a couple of stereotypes dashed by following my Facebook posts. Maybe not. Some of the clients at our mental health center are white ex-offenders with Aryan nation tattoos. Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace.

My job is to enlighten white people, somehow, with humility, because i know next to nothing. I need to tell the truth, but tell it slant, as Emily Dickinson wrote, so the truth will dazzle gradually. My job is to live with integrity wherever I am, as inclusively as possible, mining my own deep veins of ignorance (see, Native American History, also, the racist history of Oregon vis a vis Sundown laws, et al.) Counteracting the deep ignorance of the public discourse about the roots of our current politics in my own thinking. And praying to know how to be a bridge builder.

Written on the immensely tall wall of the Lincoln Memorial are words from the 2nd Innaugural address. To quote Wikipedia, “Lincoln suggests that the death and destruction wrought by the [Civil] war was divine retribution to the U.S. for possessing slavery, saying that God may will that the war continue "until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword", and that the war was the country's "woe due".’ What I believe is that the great Civil War in the USA right now is the price we are paying for the sin of slavery, the divide of have and have not, early white immigrant/imperialist versus newer immigrant especially from South and Central America, the disconnect of white republican voters-for-trump and the fact of their deep dependence on the government. My cousin, President Lincoln, (4th cousin, 5 times removed) was more right than he knew.

I will be an ally no matter where I am, however (deeply) imperfect. I can’t help it.

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flauntpage · 6 years

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DGB Grab Bag: Three Stars of Comedy HOF, Ugly X-Mas Blazers, and RIP Johnny Bower

Three Stars of Comedy

The third star: Radko Gudas – We've all been there.

The second star: Tyler Seguin vs. P.K. Subban – It's the ol' last-off-the-ice superstition stalemate. Stick around for the twist ending.

The first star: Peter Laviolette and the Predators' coaches – The players bet the coaches that they could take at least five of six points on a tough Western Canada road trip. They did, so Laviolette and his staff had to wear these:

And yes, they made them wear them during an actual game.

The Inaugural Class of the Three Stars of Comedy Hall of Fame

Last week was the 200th edition of the Friday Grab Bag. The column has been running for nearly five years now; it dates back the Grantland days, made a brief stop at ESPN, and has lived here at Vice Sports for the last two years. Based on extensive customer research, for many of you it remains your Very Favorite Hockey Column to Read in the Office Bathroom After Lunch on Friday.™

That milestone, mixed in with the slowest week of the NHL regular season, would seem to make this a good time to unveil the first ever Three Stars of Comedy Hall of Fame. The three stars actually predates the Grab Bag itself, having launched as a monthly feature way back in 2011. And despite my occasional attempts to kill it when nobody is looking, the section continues to hold down the leadoff spot in the lineup.

Some weeks, finding three picks is easier than others. But certain personalities have done their best to ease my burden. That's where the Hall of Fame comes in. We'll do this HHOF style, with room for four picks per year. Ladies and gentlemen, the inaugural Class of 2017.

Ilyz Bryzgalov – The first star of the very first edition, Bryzgalov dominated the early days so thoroughly that at one point we tried to retire his number and eliminate him from future consideration. It didn't take, and even though he hasn't play in the NHL since 2015, he still finds a way to make periodic appearances. He's one of two unanimous picks for the inaugural class.

Phil Kessel – The other slam dunk pick, Kessel has appeared in the Three Stars section more than anyone else. Granted, some of those are cases where he's the butt of the joke, as everyone from Ilya Kovalchuk to Ryan Reaves has taken their runs at him. Sometimes he'll accidentally own himself. But in recent years we've learned that Phil can give as good as he gets, and then some. Here's all you need to know about why he's in on the first ballot: He's the only person to ever sweep all three stars in a single week. And he's done it twice.

P.K. Subban – Unlike Kessel or Bryzgalov, when Subban makes the Three Stars he's almost always in on the joke. And that's fine, because lord knows the NHL could use a few more guys with a sense of humor who aren't afraid to show it. Whether he's stealing The Rock's catch phrases, playing dress-up, or kissing Pierre McGuire, Subban's almost always fun. Even when he's sucker punching guys, he finds a way to make it funny. How this guy isn't the face of the league's marketing efforts in the U.S. right now, I'll never understand.

Roberto Luongo – Luongo is the Howie Morenz of funny hockey players, blazing the trail for the generations to come. It's easy to forget it now, but when Luongo first started using Twitter to make jokes, the idea of an NHL star trying to be funny was controversial enough that he had to pretend it wasn't him. But he's made regular appearances in the Three Stars ever since, with his best tweets often being the ones that poke fun at his own controversies, including his tire-pumping feud with Tim Thomas and his never-ending trade saga. And also, um, poop.

And that concludes the Class of 2017. The big omission here is Jaromir Jagr, who falls victim to the four-pick maximum. It was a coin flip between him and Luongo for the last spot, but I figure Jagr will be a unanimous first-ballot pick in the real Hall of Fame, which will probably slightly dampen his disappointment at missing out on a bigger honor here. Also, Luongo once let me play in (and win) his fantasy football league, so I feel like owe him.

Others receiving votes: Brian Burke, Joe Thornton, Wes McCauley, Taylor Hall, Darryl Sutter's face, Brent Burns, and Evgeni Malkin. Better luck next year, everyone.

Obscure Former Player of the Week

It's World Juniors time, with this year's tournament being held in Buffalo. It's always fun to browse through the list of the tournament's all-time top scorers; the list features plenty of future NHL superstars, like Peter Forsberg, Pavel Bure, and Eric Lindros, as well as some European players who never made it over to North America. But if you keep going, you get into the sweet spot of vaguely memorable NHL quasi-stars, like Michal Pivonka and Ulf Dahlen and Reijo Ruotsalainen. And you also find this week's obscure player: Finnish forward Petri Skriko.

Skriko was a teenage star in Europe, winning rookie honors in the top Finnish league in 1981. This was back when many European stars never made it over to the NHL, but the Canucks used an eighth-round pick on him in that summer's draft. It turned out to be a good gamble, as Skriko would have the second biggest impact on the Canucks of any 1981 eighth-rounder, just behind a defenseman picked by the Blues a few spots later.

That impact would have to wait, though. Skriko stayed in Finland until 1984, starring in a pair of WJCs along the way. But when he arrived in Vancouver, he fit in instantly, scoring 21 goals as a rookie and then following that with four-straight 30+ goal seasons. That included one stretch in 1986 in which he recorded three hat tricks in a span of eight days.

His production faded during the 1989-90 season, and he'd be traded to the Bruins the following year for a second-round pick. That deal ended up helping the Canucks down the line, as they used the pick on Michael Peca. Skriko helped the Bruins get to the 1991 Cup final before being traded to Winnipeg for Brent Ashton, had short stints with the Jets and Sharks before heading home to Finland in 1993 and then finishing his pro career in Denmark. He ended his NHL career with 541 games played, scoring 183 goals and 405 points.

Also, he had fantastic hair.

Be it Resolved

Last week was a big one for the Toronto Maple Leafs. Not only did they celebrate their 100th anniversary by pounding the Carolina Hurricanes 8-1, but they did it while scoring the 20,000th goal in team history.

Or did they?

Here's how the 20,000 breaks down. See if you can spot the problem.

Yeah, "shootout winners" aren't goals. I mean, they are, according to the league. For reasons that have never been entirely clear, the NHL awards the team that wins a shootout one "goal" in the goals-for column of the standings. That makes sense when you're describing the results of a game – you'd rather say "The Rangers won 5-4 in a shootout" than "The Rangers won 4-4 in a shootout," even if the fifth goal wasn't scored during the actual hockey portion of the game. But there's no reason to pretend that it was a real goal for deeper record-keeping purposes.

The NHL's always been weird and inconsistent about this. For example, they consider the shootout winner to be a goal, but don't give the guy who scored it credit for one in his personal stats. (A cynic might suggest that teams don't want their star players padding their stats with an extra half dozen goals a year and then expecting more money.) So it's a goal, but nobody scored it. That makes no sense. And they go the other way too, counting a shootout loss as a goal against even though, statistically, nobody let it in.

And it's not like this is all some sort of semantic argument, since goals for and against can come into play as a tie-breaker in the standings. That hasn't happened yet, but we have seen the league's weird shootout goal math decide the Jennings Trophy, so it's been etched into the record books already.

Needless to say, people who pay attention to this stuff were quick to point out that the Maple Leafs' stat wasn't what it seemed.

As with just about everything that doesn't involve bicycles, Dellow is right. Shootout goals shouldn't count towards a team's historical totals. So be it resolved: The Maple Leafs are well on their way to 20,000 but they're not there yet. Maybe they heard the complaints because they took a big chunk out of it with seven goals last night, but they're still 35 goals away. Real goals.

Classic YouTube Clip Breakdown

This week's YouTube clip isn't really a video; it's more of an audio file. But it's a good one, and under the circumstances I hope you'll indulge me.

This week's clip is Johnny Bower singing "Honky The Christmas Goose."

The hockey world lost Bower this week, as the Hall of Fame goaltender passed away at the age of 93. The rest of the week became a chance to mourn the loss of a legend, while celebrating a life well-lived.

Bower was one of the greatest goalies of all time, and quite likely the best of the 1960s, period. But somehow, that fact ended up being way down the list of what most people remember him for. In all of the many stories and tributes that poured in this week, the point that kept coming home was what a wonderful guy he was. For pretty much his entire life, Johnny Bower was just a very, very nice man. He didn't have to be, because he was a famous athlete and people were going to like him no matter what he did. But it seems like everyone in the hockey world has a story about Bower staying late to sign one last autograph or shake one more hand, or donating his time to a good cause, or having an encouraging word for someone going through a tough time. That's just who he was.

It sounds strange to say it, but it's almost impossible for a hockey player to be a universally beloved figure in Canada. The game just means too much to us up here. It gets too personal. We don't like to see fans of other teams get to be happy, so we instinctively dislike anyone who plays well for someone else. And it takes a lot to get us past that.

Put it this way: If I'm talking to a Habs fan who's getting a little too smug and I decide I want to knock them down a peg or two, I can come up with bad things to say about just about all of their beloved legends. Rocket Richard? He started a riot. Patrick Roy? He quit on the team. Guy Lafleur? What, you mean the guy from the Nordiques? But there's one ironclad exception: Jean Beliveau. No matter how much you hate the Canadiens, you can't find a bad word to say about Beliveau. That's just how it is. And Bower was the Maple Leafs' version of that. That's about the highest compliment you can pay a player.

On the ice, he really was one of the best, as this piece does a good job of showing. He ranks high on just about all of the all-time lists, both traditional and analytics-based. And while many have since been broken, he retired holding several goaltending records.

And of course, he left behind one record that will never be topped: "Honky the Christmas Goose."

You're listening to the story of Honky, a Christmas goose who struggled with his weight until he learned how to blow his nose. No, that doesn't really make sense, not least of which because geese don't have noses. Just enjoy the song and don't think about it too hard.

Honky was the creation of a CBC producer, and in 1965 he approached the Maple Leafs about having a player record the vocals. As Bower recounts it in this Toronto Star article, "He came into the dressing room and wanted to know if anybody on the team would be interested in singing these songs. I’ve never seen so many guys undress and get into the shower so quickly in my life!"

Bower ended up agreeing to do the song because, as the producer said at the time, he was basically "the friendliest man in Canada." There was one minor problem: Bower couldn't sing. But as longtime readers of this column know, that's never stopped a hockey player before, and the rest was history. (The children on the track are apparently Bower's 11-year-old son and some of the neighborhood kids.)

The song tells the story of Honky saving Christmas after Santa gets spooked by all the air traffic that's suddenly clogging up the skies. Continuing his long history of selfishly exploiting animals for their nose-based magic powers, Santa hires Honky to clear out a path.

"Rockets, kites and satellites." Yeah, I'm no aerospace engineer but I don't think there should be too many kites at that elevation. I'm pretty sure nobody in history has ever successfully got a kite twenty feet off the ground for more than six seconds before it nosedived directly down onto Grandma's head, so chill out Santa.

Luckily, the plan works and Honky saves the day. Finally, he'll get some respect, right?

"Though he is fat he is still some use." Holy smokes guys, Honky just saved Christmas for the entire planet, maybe ease up on the body shaming for one minute.

The record came out in November 1965, with proceeds going to charity. It was reportedly a big hit, selling 40,000 copies. They tried to get Bower to record a follow-up a year later, pitching something about "a pelican with a broken wing," but he knew how to quit when he was ahead.

For years, the song was lost to history, with only a handful of copies circulating in the pre-Internet days of the early 90s. But it's resurfaced since, and a new generation has had a chance to enjoy to story of Honky the Christmas Goose. If you can't get enough of the song, here's a clip of Bower performing it on stage at a children's benefit concert years ago.

RIP Johnny Bower. An all-time great goaltender, an even better person, and a passable singer. Not necessarily in that order.

Have a question, suggestion, old YouTube clip, or anything else you'd like to see included in this column? Email Sean at [email protected] and follow him on Twitter @DownGoesBrown.

DGB Grab Bag: Three Stars of Comedy HOF, Ugly X-Mas Blazers, and RIP Johnny Bower published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

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DGB Grab Bag: Three Stars of Comedy HOF, Ugly X-Mas Blazers, and RIP Johnny Bower

Three Stars of Comedy

The third star: Radko Gudas – We’ve all been there.

The second star: Tyler Seguin vs. P.K. Subban – It’s the ol’ last-off-the-ice superstition stalemate. Stick around for the twist ending.

The first star: Peter Laviolette and the Predators’ coaches – The players bet the coaches that they could take at least five of six points on a tough Western Canada road trip. They did, so Laviolette and his staff had to wear these:

And yes, they made them wear them during an actual game.

The Inaugural Class of the Three Stars of Comedy Hall of Fame

Some weeks, finding three picks is easier than others. But certain personalities have done their best to ease my burden. That’s where the Hall of Fame comes in. We’ll do this HHOF style, with room for four picks per year. Ladies and gentlemen, the inaugural Class of 2017.

Ilyz Bryzgalov – The first star of the very first edition, Bryzgalov dominated the early days so thoroughly that at one point we tried to retire his number and eliminate him from future consideration. It didn’t take, and even though he hasn’t play in the NHL since 2015, he still finds a way to make periodic appearances. He’s one of two unanimous picks for the inaugural class.

Phil Kessel – The other slam dunk pick, Kessel has appeared in the Three Stars section more than anyone else. Granted, some of those are cases where he’s the butt of the joke, as everyone from Ilya Kovalchuk to Ryan Reaves has taken their runs at him. Sometimes he’ll accidentally own himself. But in recent years we’ve learned that Phil can give as good as he gets, and then some. Here’s all you need to know about why he’s in on the first ballot: He’s the only person to ever sweep all three stars in a single week. And he’s done it twice.

P.K. Subban – Unlike Kessel or Bryzgalov, when Subban makes the Three Stars he’s almost always in on the joke. And that’s fine, because lord knows the NHL could use a few more guys with a sense of humor who aren’t afraid to show it. Whether he’s stealing The Rock’s catch phrases, playing dress-up, or kissing Pierre McGuire, Subban’s almost always fun. Even when he’s sucker punching guys, he finds a way to make it funny. How this guy isn’t the face of the league’s marketing efforts in the U.S. right now, I’ll never understand.

Roberto Luongo – Luongo is the Howie Morenz of funny hockey players, blazing the trail for the generations to come. It’s easy to forget it now, but when Luongo first started using Twitter to make jokes, the idea of an NHL star trying to be funny was controversial enough that he had to pretend it wasn’t him. But he’s made regular appearances in the Three Stars ever since, with his best tweets often being the ones that poke fun at his own controversies, including his tire-pumping feud with Tim Thomas and his never-ending trade saga. And also, um, poop.

Others receiving votes: Brian Burke, Joe Thornton, Wes McCauley, Taylor Hall, Darryl Sutter’s face, Brent Burns, and Evgeni Malkin. Better luck next year, everyone.

Obscure Former Player of the Week

It’s World Juniors time, with this year’s tournament being held in Buffalo. It’s always fun to browse through the list of the tournament’s all-time top scorers; the list features plenty of future NHL superstars, like Peter Forsberg, Pavel Bure, and Eric Lindros, as well as some European players who never made it over to North America. But if you keep going, you get into the sweet spot of vaguely memorable NHL quasi-stars, like Michal Pivonka and Ulf Dahlen and Reijo Ruotsalainen. And you also find this week’s obscure player: Finnish forward Petri Skriko.

Skriko was a teenage star in Europe, winning rookie honors in the top Finnish league in 1981. This was back when many European stars never made it over to the NHL, but the Canucks used an eighth-round pick on him in that summer’s draft. It turned out to be a good gamble, as Skriko would have the second biggest impact on the Canucks of any 1981 eighth-rounder, just behind a defenseman picked by the Blues a few spots later.

His production faded during the 1989-90 season, and he’d be traded to the Bruins the following year for a second-round pick. That deal ended up helping the Canucks down the line, as they used the pick on Michael Peca. Skriko helped the Bruins get to the 1991 Cup final before being traded to Winnipeg for Brent Ashton, had short stints with the Jets and Sharks before heading home to Finland in 1993 and then finishing his pro career in Denmark. He ended his NHL career with 541 games played, scoring 183 goals and 405 points.

Also, he had fantastic hair.

Be it Resolved

Or did they?

Here’s how the 20,000 breaks down. See if you can spot the problem.

Yeah, “shootout winners” aren’t goals. I mean, they are, according to the league. For reasons that have never been entirely clear, the NHL awards the team that wins a shootout one “goal” in the goals-for column of the standings. That makes sense when you’re describing the results of a game – you’d rather say “The Rangers won 5-4 in a shootout” than “The Rangers won 4-4 in a shootout,” even if the fifth goal wasn’t scored during the actual hockey portion of the game. But there’s no reason to pretend that it was a real goal for deeper record-keeping purposes.

The NHL’s always been weird and inconsistent about this. For example, they consider the shootout winner to be a goal, but don’t give the guy who scored it credit for one in his personal stats. (A cynic might suggest that teams don’t want their star players padding their stats with an extra half dozen goals a year and then expecting more money.) So it’s a goal, but nobody scored it. That makes no sense. And they go the other way too, counting a shootout loss as a goal against even though, statistically, nobody let it in.

And it’s not like this is all some sort of semantic argument, since goals for and against can come into play as a tie-breaker in the standings. That hasn’t happened yet, but we have seen the league’s weird shootout goal math decide the Jennings Trophy, so it’s been etched into the record books already.

Needless to say, people who pay attention to this stuff were quick to point out that the Maple Leafs’ stat wasn’t what it seemed.

As with just about everything that doesn’t involve bicycles, Dellow is right. Shootout goals shouldn’t count towards a team’s historical totals. So be it resolved: The Maple Leafs are well on their way to 20,000 but they’re not there yet. Maybe they heard the complaints because they took a big chunk out of it with seven goals last night, but they’re still 35 goals away. Real goals.

Classic YouTube Clip Breakdown

This week’s YouTube clip isn’t really a video; it’s more of an audio file. But it’s a good one, and under the circumstances I hope you’ll indulge me.

This week’s clip is Johnny Bower singing “Honky The Christmas Goose.”

Bower was one of the greatest goalies of all time, and quite likely the best of the 1960s, period. But somehow, that fact ended up being way down the list of what most people remember him for. In all of the many stories and tributes that poured in this week, the point that kept coming home was what a wonderful guy he was. For pretty much his entire life, Johnny Bower was just a very, very nice man. He didn’t have to be, because he was a famous athlete and people were going to like him no matter what he did. But it seems like everyone in the hockey world has a story about Bower staying late to sign one last autograph or shake one more hand, or donating his time to a good cause, or having an encouraging word for someone going through a tough time. That’s just who he was.

It sounds strange to say it, but it’s almost impossible for a hockey player to be a universally beloved figure in Canada. The game just means too much to us up here. It gets too personal. We don’t like to see fans of other teams get to be happy, so we instinctively dislike anyone who plays well for someone else. And it takes a lot to get us past that.

Put it this way: If I’m talking to a Habs fan who’s getting a little too smug and I decide I want to knock them down a peg or two, I can come up with bad things to say about just about all of their beloved legends. Rocket Richard? He started a riot. Patrick Roy? He quit on the team. Guy Lafleur? What, you mean the guy from the Nordiques? But there’s one ironclad exception: Jean Beliveau. No matter how much you hate the Canadiens, you can’t find a bad word to say about Beliveau. That’s just how it is. And Bower was the Maple Leafs’ version of that. That’s about the highest compliment you can pay a player.

And of course, he left behind one record that will never be topped: “Honky the Christmas Goose.”

You’re listening to the story of Honky, a Christmas goose who struggled with his weight until he learned how to blow his nose. No, that doesn’t really make sense, not least of which because geese don’t have noses. Just enjoy the song and don’t think about it too hard.

Honky was the creation of a CBC producer, and in 1965 he approached the Maple Leafs about having a player record the vocals. As Bower recounts it in this Toronto Star article, “He came into the dressing room and wanted to know if anybody on the team would be interested in singing these songs. I’ve never seen so many guys undress and get into the shower so quickly in my life!”

Bower ended up agreeing to do the song because, as the producer said at the time, he was basically “the friendliest man in Canada.” There was one minor problem: Bower couldn’t sing. But as longtime readers of this column know, that’s never stopped a hockey player before, and the rest was history. (The children on the track are apparently Bower’s 11-year-old son and some of the neighborhood kids.)

The song tells the story of Honky saving Christmas after Santa gets spooked by all the air traffic that’s suddenly clogging up the skies. Continuing his long history of selfishly exploiting animals for their nose-based magic powers, Santa hires Honky to clear out a path.

“Rockets, kites and satellites.” Yeah, I’m no aerospace engineer but I don’t think there should be too many kites at that elevation. I’m pretty sure nobody in history has ever successfully got a kite twenty feet off the ground for more than six seconds before it nosedived directly down onto Grandma’s head, so chill out Santa.

Luckily, the plan works and Honky saves the day. Finally, he’ll get some respect, right?

“Though he is fat he is still some use.” Holy smokes guys, Honky just saved Christmas for the entire planet, maybe ease up on the body shaming for one minute.

The record came out in November 1965, with proceeds going to charity. It was reportedly a big hit, selling 40,000 copies. They tried to get Bower to record a follow-up a year later, pitching something about “a pelican with a broken wing,” but he knew how to quit when he was ahead.

For years, the song was lost to history, with only a handful of copies circulating in the pre-Internet days of the early 90s. But it’s resurfaced since, and a new generation has had a chance to enjoy to story of Honky the Christmas Goose. If you can’t get enough of the song, here’s a clip of Bower performing it on stage at a children’s benefit concert years ago.

RIP Johnny Bower. An all-time great goaltender, an even better person, and a passable singer. Not necessarily in that order.

Have a question, suggestion, old YouTube clip, or anything else you’d like to see included in this column? Email Sean at [email protected] and follow him on Twitter @DownGoesBrown.

DGB Grab Bag: Three Stars of Comedy HOF, Ugly X-Mas Blazers, and RIP Johnny Bower syndicated from http://ift.tt/2ug2Ns6