P.S. Meronek's Blog
March 27, 2014
All Hashed Out with the Guess Who, or, Cards with Burt
I returned to Las Vegas a couple of months ago. I popped into Sin City for a few days to see an old and dear friend of mine who had been in Europe for the last year or so. We kicked around together, had a few drinks at the Yard House, and then it was over.
On the way to the airport and my return flight to San Diego, I asked Duke to drop me off at the Orleans Casino. I had four hours to kill and someone I once met was playing the Ballroom. I thought we might have time to say hello and reminisce a while.
Thirty-five years ago, in Winnipeg, I got a call from a guy I knew who promoted bands for a living. I guess he knew I was flush. He needed a couple of bucks to put on a gig (which turned into two back-to-back sold out concerts) at the Centennial Concert Hall on Main Street.
Burton Cummings had recently quit as lead singer for The Guess Who. From what I came to understand he’d become disenfranchised with the whole band thing. He woke up one morning in his beautiful home on Hansard and simply quit one of the most successful acts in rock history.
Not too long afterward he began to pursue what became an incredibly successful solo career. And that’s when Frank, the promoter, called me.
As I said, we started with one show. It sold out something around twenty-three hundred seats in a couple of heartbeats. We added another, and it sold out as well. All very heady stuff for moi, a nineteen year old kid with eggshells behind his ears.
After the first show we all got together on the top floor of the City Centre Hotel, situated on Ellice Avenue, not too far from the Concert Hall.
Man, what a night.
At some point in the wee hours, just as the first shadows of sunlight began to appear, I found myself dealing what was to become the second to last hand of Blackjack.
Burton was on my left, two of his roadies were to his left; I was dealing. We’d been playing one game or another for several hours, loving every minute of it. The party had thinned out, and eventually only the four of us remained. Burton had taken the roadies for their next two months’ salaries. Hey, you can take the boy out of the North End, but…you know.
The bet was to Burt. The whole night we’d had quite a party. There’d been some great smoke, and plenty of excellent beer. We were all getting pretty tired by this time, and we knew we still had another show to put on later that day.
I dealt the cards out around the table and asked Burton what he wanted to bet. He didn’t even look up from his hand. He said to me, “The pot.”
He was still looking down at his hand when I let him know what a surreal, amazing time I’d had. I remember telling him I’d never forget any of it. I told him he was my hero, as well as a lot of other people’s hero. He’d shown all kinds of us what could happen if you believed in yourself, and followed your dreams, and that if you had those kind of convictions you could accomplish just about anything you put your mind to. I thanked him for all of it.
Then I told him how very special the night had been for me — so inspirational — that I’d be telling it to people for as long as they still wanted to hear it. I said I felt I wanted the moment to last forever, even though I knew we all had to leave soon.
He was still looking at his hand, and I thought I’d perhaps been a little too maudlin when he said, simply, “Half the pot.”
He won, of course. It’s always that kind of luck with the Irish. I then dealt another hand. The bet was again to him. Same thing, without looking up, except this time the greatest rock and roll vocalist of our time said, simply, “The other half.” And won.
Thanks, Burt. I tip my hat to one of the truly greatest of all time. You paved the way for anyone who wants to follow that wonderful road of dreams. Here’s to you, sir.
P.S.M. 3/27/14
On the way to the airport and my return flight to San Diego, I asked Duke to drop me off at the Orleans Casino. I had four hours to kill and someone I once met was playing the Ballroom. I thought we might have time to say hello and reminisce a while.
Thirty-five years ago, in Winnipeg, I got a call from a guy I knew who promoted bands for a living. I guess he knew I was flush. He needed a couple of bucks to put on a gig (which turned into two back-to-back sold out concerts) at the Centennial Concert Hall on Main Street.
Burton Cummings had recently quit as lead singer for The Guess Who. From what I came to understand he’d become disenfranchised with the whole band thing. He woke up one morning in his beautiful home on Hansard and simply quit one of the most successful acts in rock history.
Not too long afterward he began to pursue what became an incredibly successful solo career. And that’s when Frank, the promoter, called me.
As I said, we started with one show. It sold out something around twenty-three hundred seats in a couple of heartbeats. We added another, and it sold out as well. All very heady stuff for moi, a nineteen year old kid with eggshells behind his ears.
After the first show we all got together on the top floor of the City Centre Hotel, situated on Ellice Avenue, not too far from the Concert Hall.
Man, what a night.
At some point in the wee hours, just as the first shadows of sunlight began to appear, I found myself dealing what was to become the second to last hand of Blackjack.
Burton was on my left, two of his roadies were to his left; I was dealing. We’d been playing one game or another for several hours, loving every minute of it. The party had thinned out, and eventually only the four of us remained. Burton had taken the roadies for their next two months’ salaries. Hey, you can take the boy out of the North End, but…you know.
The bet was to Burt. The whole night we’d had quite a party. There’d been some great smoke, and plenty of excellent beer. We were all getting pretty tired by this time, and we knew we still had another show to put on later that day.
I dealt the cards out around the table and asked Burton what he wanted to bet. He didn’t even look up from his hand. He said to me, “The pot.”
He was still looking down at his hand when I let him know what a surreal, amazing time I’d had. I remember telling him I’d never forget any of it. I told him he was my hero, as well as a lot of other people’s hero. He’d shown all kinds of us what could happen if you believed in yourself, and followed your dreams, and that if you had those kind of convictions you could accomplish just about anything you put your mind to. I thanked him for all of it.
Then I told him how very special the night had been for me — so inspirational — that I’d be telling it to people for as long as they still wanted to hear it. I said I felt I wanted the moment to last forever, even though I knew we all had to leave soon.
He was still looking at his hand, and I thought I’d perhaps been a little too maudlin when he said, simply, “Half the pot.”
He won, of course. It’s always that kind of luck with the Irish. I then dealt another hand. The bet was again to him. Same thing, without looking up, except this time the greatest rock and roll vocalist of our time said, simply, “The other half.” And won.
Thanks, Burt. I tip my hat to one of the truly greatest of all time. You paved the way for anyone who wants to follow that wonderful road of dreams. Here’s to you, sir.
P.S.M. 3/27/14
February 18, 2014
Not enough time
It seems no one ever has enough time.
I once found myself in New Orleans right after Hurricane Katrina slammed into the coast of Louisiana. I was there to see if I could help.
America’s forth-sixth largest city was trashed. It looked like I imagined Armageddon would be. Everything — and I mean everything — was flattened. Especially in Slidell where I ran into one of the nicest human beings I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet, Al Savoie.
I stood on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain, up on the levee, which predictably had not held back the water. I gazed southward, across the void, to where I knew the Big Easy lay in tatters. And that ‘s when I smelled death. Lots of it. It was an odd singular mix of sweet and sour. I’d smelled it at least once before, in Athens. I was driving a date back home, to the University of Georgia, when a sudden dark blur came into my peripheral vision. My reaction was instant. I hit the binders too late and heard the sickening thump-thump, followed by the horrible screaming.
I watched from my car window as what was left on the beautiful black lab named Bean I had run over dragged itself from the street between two parked cars and back onto the front lawn. I say dragged because only two of this beautiful animal’s limbs — his front legs — still worked. The useless rest of the dog’s body made me think of that scene in Forest Gump where Lt. Dan drags himself back up into his wheelchair.
I lie awake some nights still, remembering. Until the day I die I’ll never get that screaming sound out of my head. The owner rushed out the front door and we tried our best to comfort the beautiful animal as its breathing grew ever more shallow. He died in her arms as I smelled the smell.
And there it was again across the shallow man made lake in the swamps of Louisiana.
People were leaving still, and I could smell them. Well over a thousand of them. They lingered in the air, maybe even not knowing it was over for them.
It’s a smell I’ll never forget. Don’t draw conclusions. To me it is not an unpleasant odor. It’s just there’s nothing else that even comes remotely close to it.
The only analogy that I can think of which might help someone who doesn’t quite get it would be if the phone rang and I answered and I heard my old man say hello to me. One word and I’d instantly know it was him, even though he died in ’74.
Al Savoie built Slidell. He was the largest homebuilder in Louisiana and he would be dead from cancer at 56 three months after we met. He was a great man. One of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. His wife Sharon was amazing. They were high school sweethearts, and from what I could see they adored each other. Near the end I remember we were sitting in Al’s beautiful mansion and I asked him if he was scared. He smiled. He assured me everything was ok. He knew where he was going. Then he said something that made my breath catch in my throat.
This fine gentleman who had built a city told me he felt like he was just hitting his stride. Those were his exact words. He said that he truly wished that he could have had more time. He spoke wistfully, because he knew he had to leave, but he had enjoyed the trip and he didn’t want to get off the ride.
My old man had said the exact same thing back in ’74, right before he left.
Like I said, it seems no one ever has enough time.
- P.S.M. February 14, 2014
I once found myself in New Orleans right after Hurricane Katrina slammed into the coast of Louisiana. I was there to see if I could help.
America’s forth-sixth largest city was trashed. It looked like I imagined Armageddon would be. Everything — and I mean everything — was flattened. Especially in Slidell where I ran into one of the nicest human beings I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet, Al Savoie.
I stood on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain, up on the levee, which predictably had not held back the water. I gazed southward, across the void, to where I knew the Big Easy lay in tatters. And that ‘s when I smelled death. Lots of it. It was an odd singular mix of sweet and sour. I’d smelled it at least once before, in Athens. I was driving a date back home, to the University of Georgia, when a sudden dark blur came into my peripheral vision. My reaction was instant. I hit the binders too late and heard the sickening thump-thump, followed by the horrible screaming.
I watched from my car window as what was left on the beautiful black lab named Bean I had run over dragged itself from the street between two parked cars and back onto the front lawn. I say dragged because only two of this beautiful animal’s limbs — his front legs — still worked. The useless rest of the dog’s body made me think of that scene in Forest Gump where Lt. Dan drags himself back up into his wheelchair.
I lie awake some nights still, remembering. Until the day I die I’ll never get that screaming sound out of my head. The owner rushed out the front door and we tried our best to comfort the beautiful animal as its breathing grew ever more shallow. He died in her arms as I smelled the smell.
And there it was again across the shallow man made lake in the swamps of Louisiana.
People were leaving still, and I could smell them. Well over a thousand of them. They lingered in the air, maybe even not knowing it was over for them.
It’s a smell I’ll never forget. Don’t draw conclusions. To me it is not an unpleasant odor. It’s just there’s nothing else that even comes remotely close to it.
The only analogy that I can think of which might help someone who doesn’t quite get it would be if the phone rang and I answered and I heard my old man say hello to me. One word and I’d instantly know it was him, even though he died in ’74.
Al Savoie built Slidell. He was the largest homebuilder in Louisiana and he would be dead from cancer at 56 three months after we met. He was a great man. One of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. His wife Sharon was amazing. They were high school sweethearts, and from what I could see they adored each other. Near the end I remember we were sitting in Al’s beautiful mansion and I asked him if he was scared. He smiled. He assured me everything was ok. He knew where he was going. Then he said something that made my breath catch in my throat.
This fine gentleman who had built a city told me he felt like he was just hitting his stride. Those were his exact words. He said that he truly wished that he could have had more time. He spoke wistfully, because he knew he had to leave, but he had enjoyed the trip and he didn’t want to get off the ride.
My old man had said the exact same thing back in ’74, right before he left.
Like I said, it seems no one ever has enough time.
- P.S.M. February 14, 2014
