So We went to the prettiest girl in town We’ll pay ya ten thousand dollars just to take him down. . . Make him holla now, make him squeal Make him holla now, make him squeal And roll his bone like a wagon wheel And while you raisin’ a ruckus and kickin’ up sand. . . Kill that boy and you’ll get ten grand . . .
Look out Little Georgie, Little Georgie boy Look out Little Georgie, Little Zombie boy
“So I met up with Georgie ‘bout half past three Say hey t’ree hands c’mon home with me I don’t mean to brag but when it comes to lovin’ I’ll bake your bread like a pizza oven I’m fine as wine – don’t mean to boast I’ll turn your heart to butter and your mind . . . to toast.”
Well they shook that bed, they pounded them walls Screams and moans and caterwauls Atomic blasts in between the sheets You could hear ‘em all the way down Rampart Street Well, lovin’ that boy set her mind a-blurr But ten grand was lookin’ mighty good to her She done her job – she done her part
And she stabbed that boy . . . . right in his heart
Now the people gathered from all over town They wanted ta be right there whwen they lowered him down . . . Six feet under – hole in the ground All the people in that whole damned town
They wanted ta make that scene on a Saturday night when they lowered his funky ass down in the ground........
Now the earth started shakin’ and the sky toined black And lightnin’ slashed the sky with a mighty crack An’ the doit started shiftin’ underneath their feet There was no escape, there was no retreat And their feet started sinkin’ in that swampy ground And they knew right then n’ there there’d be no mercy found People let me tell you there ain’t nothin’ meaner
Than to have your toes sucked on by Big Daddy Satan’s vacuum cleaner. . .
The ground was a-bubblin’ . . . . the oith was a quakin’ Hair stood on end as that zombie boy awakened N’ out of the grave that boy did fly I said out of the grave that boy did fly N’ he spat on the ground as the town folks cried “Lord have mercy don’t let us die Oh, God in heaven we don’ wanna die” And Georgie spun in the air and he toined his head An’ he laughed at the people with the eyes of red He say, “Prayer won’t help you won’t survive An’ now you know what it’s like to be buried alive” And far and away that boy did fly . . . . Into the heart of a blood-red sky Them foolish peoples they been misled Them foolish peoples they been misled I said them foolish peoples they been misled
Don’t you know you can’t kill something That’s already been dead!!!
Oh.....Little Georgie ....Little Georgie Boy Oh.... Little Georgie ....Little Zombie Boy Oh.....Little Georgie ....Little Georgie Boy Oh.... Little Georgie ....You Little Zombie Boy
THE BALLADE OF LITTLE GEORGIE ....George Rossi, HunniHive Music, BMI
Crazy Angeline was a voodoo queen She lived in the swamps outside of New Orleans An’ one night in the cold an’ drizzlin’ rain Angeline was pickin’ through garbage again Under eggshells, chicken bones and rancid cheese She found sumpin’ man, make your blood freeze ! Under all that garbage and rotten crud She found an itty bitty baby Georgie boy.... inna bucket of blood
“Oh little one – how could they have done this to you? What kind of peoples throws out a little baby child – like a worn out shoe? So I took that baby home – I took him cause I was all alone I said I’ll make you whole – my, my, my . . . little one An’ bring you back to life – bring you back to life my son And all the wrongs that been done – to – me and you Are gonna be paid back in spades – through and through . . . . . .”
Oh.....Little Georgie ....Little Georgie Boy Oh.... Little Georgie ....Little Zombie Boy
She brewed herself a voodoo stew Poured in the blood of the loup garou Eye of newt – chicken claw Mandrake root anna monkey paw Threw in the parts of an ole pianna Dead pianna player’s bones from Loo-sianna Took the baby by the foot and she dipped ‘em in Filled his lungs with thunder and his mind with sin And with all the evil in her head She broght that boy back from the dead, well. . . .
Oh.....Little Georgie ....Little Georgie Boy Oh.... Little Georgie ....Little Zombie Boy
“Son, when you reach the age of twenty one – You gonna burn up the folks like the noon day sun Play more pianna than any man. . . . Dey’ll say datcha play like ya got t’ree hands. You gonna outlove any man alive Make the wimmens go down in a power dive. An’ when you reach the age of three times seven. . . You gonna give ‘em hell an’ make it feel like heaven. . . . . . .”
Well, Georgie reached twenty one at last Every thing she prophesized came to pass Poundin’ rhythm with fists of thunder His voodoo beat set the town a-wonder Piano rattlin’ like a gattlin’ gun Piano rattlin’ like a gattlin’ gun And the word spread out all over the land ‘Bout the that played like he got t’ree hands Dontchew know he was doin’ evil He was messin’ up their heads like an ole boll weevil Took his revenge. . . .exacted his toll . . . . Rocked ‘em into hell with a whole lotta soul, well. . . .
Oh.....Little Georgie ....Little Georgie Boy Oh.... Little Georgie ....Little Zombie Boy
“Dontchew know we gotta get that boy . . . He havin’ way to much fun T’ree hand kid gotta be destroyed Wo got de hatchet ? gimme a gun ! (Yeh, yeh) let’s poison his whiskey (Yeh, yeh) he won’t be so friskey (Yeh, yeh) but he don’t fall down in the mornin’ Georgie won’t fall down in the mornin’ Little Georgie boy-o”
Some Albums Are the Very Newest Orleans Available
Little Georgie and the Shuffling Hungarians, Roll Up the Rugs and Crank It: Live from Styleen's Rhythm Palace, Syracuse, NY (Queen Bee Brand Records), 1996
Reasons for bad people to hate this record:
1 There are eleven musicians in this band. 2 They play New Orleans-influenced blues and blues-influenced funk and funk-influenced r&b and r&b-influenced spirituals and spiritual-influenced rock and rock-influenced prog and prog-influenced New Orleans music. It is a live album. 3 It is a long album: "Over 2 hours of music on 2 CDs!" It features a long-haired stand-up piano player with a major Dr. John/Bruce Springsteen fixation. 4 The bass player's nickname is "Big Daddy," and he gets to solo. 5 One of the songs here is "When the Saints Go Marching In.
Reasons I love this record:
1 I found it in all its two-disc glory for $1.00 at the Frugal Muse Annex. 2 The band is split into three sections: "The Mighty Men" (guitar bass drums percussion), "The George-O-Lettes" (three background singers), and "The Hungarian Horns" (sax sax brass). 3 George Rossi, the "Little Georgie" of the band's name, has a whole bunch of soul for a jheri-curled white dude. 4 Styleen's is located in Syracuse New York, which apparently is nicknamed "Salt City" for some undoubtedly awesome reason. 5 There are covers of "Thank U Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin" and "Low Rider" and "Jim Dandy" and "Come Together" (Beatles version) and "Hey Pocky Way" and "Let's Go Get Stoned" and Allen Toussaint's "Hang Tough." 6 It begins with some creepy deepy voice going "You really must try...the sweet potato pie..." 7 At the end of "Gutbucket," trumpet player Jeff "Love God" Stockman quotes "Rhapsody in Blue" during the group riffage. 8 There is some HARDCORE GOSPEL HEAVEN on the original number "(Working on My) Addictions," which gets a free pass for the parenthetical title thing alone, but which is really a slow-burn slowdance blues piece. Hey come on, blues people gotta slowdance too. 9 Mick Walker's frightful heavy-metal look and skillful metal guitar runs. 10 Rossi's pronunciation of "Brassy Bessy" as "Brawsih Bahseye" while the George-O-Lettes show him up by pronouncing it correctly. Later in the song it sounds like someone's put on a Chuck Mangione record. But they haven't. 11 The close of Disc One (called "Chance," Disc Two is called "Desire," no idea what that means) features The Single Greatest Prog-Blues Song Ever. It's called "Ballade of Little Georgie," and it's kind of a voodoo beatnik "St. James Infirmary" with lots of interweaving of other stuff, like jump blues and Tom Waits interjections (Satan's vacuum cleaner sucking yr toes?) and...oh man, I'm gonna have to give this its own review someday. It's almost 13 minutes long. 12 "Tear It Down" sounds like "Gimme Three Steps" by T.Rex. 13 "You Like It" sounds like Boz Scaggs giving a deposition in a Southern Baptist church, sexy and God-haunted and angry. Except he's really talking about sneaking up behind someone and hitting her/him with a shoe and biting her/his lips until they bleed. This love object has some serious freaking problems and it unnerves him, he's not in favor of all this masochism, but what can he do? That's the way uh huh uh huh. 14 The cover of "Low Rider" links that song explicitly to "Come On Ride the Train" by Quad City DJs. Tell me that ain't genius.
So the good points outweigh the bad, obviously, and I haven't even pulled out the biggest pro- yet: None of you have heard it, or ever will probably. So I can claim Best Album Ever status on it and you can't say me nay. TOTAL CRITICAL BEATDOWN.
Although reverbnation has a nice "pressblurb" feature (dig the animation), sometimes long form, when you give yourself the time, is more rewarding....so we'll be using the blog to post some choice articles.
They'll be labeled according to publication....check 'em out.
First shot: The Freelance Mentalists
I don't know what possessed me, but at that moment I flipped the phone to its closed position, I stopped working on the demonstration, googled youtube, registered (my maiden youtube voyage), and typed in the search box "James Booker", as if in a dream.... I'd like to say it was a cognizant act on my part, but it was more like moving the "cursor" on an Oiuja board.
Amazingly, several videos choices popped up. I had never seen this major influence on my entire being actually perform before. I threw the headphones on, plugged them in, and clicked onto "Send Someone to Love", not surprisingly due to the content of the recent phone call.
There was my old, old friend. Hello, James...its been awhile...where y'at? I been knowin you been 'round, sorry I haven't checked in on you lately.
I sat in that dingy computer lab a middle aged, balding, 60 pounds overweight, totally depressed to the point of suicide, soon to finally being diagnosed as Bi-Polar (as some have surmised James was himself), with a dying father; an about to be unceremoniously dumped in six months schlub working towards a high school diploma at forty-seven (how absolutely and completely pathetic).
I was finally witnessing the moving image of my muse, the manifestation of what I once thought to be definitive proof of the existence of the graceful greatness of God.... and as I listened to his sorrow drenched voice plaintively pleading and praying, "and if it's not asking too much.... please.... please send me someone to love".
That's it folks...pretty much as close to rock bottom as a man can get. Or so I thought...it is possible to get closer.
As I sat in that lab occupied by twenty 18 year old students at their digital stations standing at the cusp of their adult lives, filled with hope for their bright futures to come and unwittingly in the sitting position for their eventual slide down the razor blade of life... I openly wept. Tears streaming, snot running down your nose weeping.
I cried for my loss of hope and the loss of my dreams, I cried for all the people in my life that loved me and that I was incapable of loving back that I had driven away and I cried for the upcoming mourning and the attendant pain and processing that I was about to go through. I cried for the ghosts of folks that haunt me daily, even the ghosts of those who haven't died. I cried for James Booker's lifeless body, dumped in a chair in Charity hospital. I cried at the soul shaking music that was digitally streaming into my heart through the portals of my watered eyes and headphone muffed ears; if the existence of a Booker proves there's a beautifully benevolent God, than why has He forsaken me? I cried because Booker knew me, he still spoke to me... he still loved me, and Booker never gave up on me. He never abandoned my soul. He's right there on that computer screen, and he was there at the start of my adult life, and he will comfort me now at what seems to be a logical time to end it.
And I thought...I can't think of a better person to have function as the bookends of my life.... and I laughed at this incredibly horrid pun. And felt a little better. Because I felt a little better then, I'm still here on this planet feeling better still.
It's so swell, when you're well.... words of wisdom. All you need is love? Maybe, but I'm not entirely sold on that philosophy. But I do know beyond a shadow of a doubt that most assuredly, all you need is a little James
In my life's journey, Booker has always been my runnin' podner. Sometimes he maintains a low profile for long periods of time, but he's always there for me when I need him. I never met him, and I never saw him play. He died fifteen years before I got the chance to finally leave the confines of Central NY for good and live as a resident in the city that care forgot.
Life doesn't always end up as a fairy tale, and mine has turned out to be no exception. I mistakenly and naively thought that if you worked hard enough, greatness could be attained, delusionally cutting God out of the equation. Bad move. But no matter how hard I worked, Booker would always have more talent in his big toe nail clipping than I would ever possess in my entire body.
After scuffling to make a living for about eight years, finally establishing myself enough to make an actual living as a musician in New Orleans and then losing the carefully crafted, arduously attained second chapter of my life as a New Orleanian all courtesy of Hurricane Katrina, I found myself in November of 2006 back in Central NY.
After the storm I had to clean toilets, scrape paint, gut houses, and sling a hammer to make ends meet in New Orleans, trying to keep the life I had built intact on a quarter of the money and 5% of the self esteem I had access to prior to the levees breaking. My first straight totally manual labor gig since the day I heard Booker and decided to play piano and be an artist, not just a working musician.
My father was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, and since my siblings had actual lives, and mine was currently discombobulated, I went back home to the place of my birth, the land of lakes, where there are actually four seasons (the longest one being winter, of course), to take care of him and assist in his care.
It very possibly would be the last chance I would ever have to spend an extended period of time with my best friend, my Pops, so it wasn't that hard of a choice.
Since his chemo and radiation schedule was going to last from late August through December, I decided that it might be a good idea to go back to college and finally finish my two year degree and score my GED in the process (I dropped out of high school eventually to enroll in a community college and study classical piano. No Chopin equals no Booker).
So on that day in November, I was in a computer lab, finishing off a PowerPoint demonstration for my Astronomy class. I had just gotten off the cell phone, having had a conversation with my girlfriend (who was keeping our life together back in NOLA). And fellas, you know this particular conversation.... the first tendrils, the feeler, of the prolonged, passive-aggressive, shit-on-his-head-until-his neck-breaks dumping process. Not verbally expressed but more in tone and tenor...the conversation where you know that the woman you love has given up hope on your sorry ass but she's not going to tell you she has, the one where you know in your heart that she will never be capable of telling you the whole truth and nuthin' but the truth ever again, and has just become your future ex-girlfriend but the official be-heading is months down the road.... and its gonna suck.
Note: The one advantage of getting old kids, is acquiring the vision to see shit like this coming from a mile away, rather than getting surprised by it. The disadvantage is, other than getting old, is the realization that you have to let it organically play out, and its going to be a six-month, tooth extracting, Mexican pissing match, resulting ultimately in heartbreak...and no matter how much time you have to prepare for it, heartbreak will always take you by surprise. You will be hurt, and there is no way to avoid getting hit by that bus. All you can do is prolong the moment of impact to fully prepare to gird yourself for the eventual moment when you find yourself thrown under it's wheels.
That part of the experience was a constant...but I was wholly unprepared for "New Orleans Piano Wizard, LIVE!' The slow fade in increasing volume of enthusiastic, hearty applause.... look out, here it comes, that five note descending pickup to "The Sunny Side of the Street".... then the deep as a ditch groove, the artful bending of the melody and phrasing as he establishes the head, the slight ramping up of emotional investment in his playing as he transitions from the bridge back to the final statement of the head before the solo.... Christ, it not only sounds to my virgin ears like he's got hands the size of Virginia hams, its sounds like he's playing with three of them.... the mind wrecking, stratospheric careening-around-Pluto-without -any-brakes solo (holy fuck!)...And then, that voice.
Some have said in retrospect that Booker was a singer of limited ability. They clearly not only have ears of stone, they are stone deaf.
He saved the best for last.... that freaky melismatic, rhythmically powerful yodel ( aahhyifff ahhh nevah, nevah, evah ) a combination preacher, sand papered, nakedly emotive tour de force vocal performance that actually focuses your head in real time to the fact that these words that he's singing are not only important, but very possibly the last lyrics on earth that he will ever sing kind of important, so listen up, ye non-believers...he really don't halfta worry, cuz he's got golddust at his feet, ( see what I'm sayin'?), on the Sunny-unny-unnysaaahhheeed...Sunny Side of the Street! Yes, babies, A-friggin-men! You can actually sense the energy of what seems to be thousands of people simultaneously orgasming and falling in love through the speakers, but they aren't making a peep....
The teasingly humorous, repetitive ending tags (He's not done with me yet, that rascal) and then the nuclear explosive sonic mushroom cloud release of love and applause, AAARRGH, all triggered by a single individual, just a man and a piano. Talk about white noise.... are you kidding me? It's the sound of collective humanity that in a split second has all just realized they have witnessed and been in the presence of true greatness. They all just had the collective religious experience of the re-affirmation that there truly is a God, and He has decided not to bestow his gifts mysteriously this time...He has decided inexplicably to hit you right between the eyes with a ball peen hammer, manifested in the form of one James Carroll Booker, one of His more inspired creations.
And as I realized that when I exhaled that during the running time of side one, track one, the breath that I had held when I connected needle to vinyl, I had held through that entire emotional two and a half minute roller coaster ride of a performance. I hadn't bought just any record at Mr. Gurseny's record store. I had stumbled upon the Ten Commandments of Art. My life officially changed, radically, right then. And I totally knew it.
See ya later, Keith Richards...I now had better fish to fry.
I finally went up to the counter with my risky selection and forked over to Mr.Gurseny the only seven dollars and change I would see until next Saturday.
With an introductory exasperated combination grunt and wheezing sigh, Mr. Gurseny would grumble, "Jeezus kid...are you sure you want to buy that? Or would you rather pitch a tent in the middle of the fucking store and live here? Gimme the money."
He would chuck the cash into the register, slide the record in a paper bag, and carelessly toss it on the counter with a "Here ya go, kid.... now get the hell outta here, and try to never come back."
Secretly, I knew that Mr. Gurseny loved our Saturday morning rituals as much as I did.
I would then purposely clomp down the well worn wooden stairs to the instruments division to artlessly test drive all the latest keyboards, loitering a bit more before I had to catch my bus, and drive Mr. Gurseny's son, Howard junior, crazier than I had just driven his father. Junior made Senior look like Mary Poppins in comparative temperament, and was a notorious coke freak. Driving him crazy early on a Saturday morning by loudly playing blues licks on cheesy synthesizers (the latest thing...this was the '70's, remember) wasn't really much of a challenge.
Every return bus ride from the Gurseny family store store was a ride filled with hope and nervous anticipation. Each sequential bump, swerve and jolting air compressed stop and whoosh of the pneumatic door flying open and shut that slowly got me closer to home escalated the feeling that I was more Jack with a bag of magic beans in his hands than a pimple faced socially awkward teen jostling around on a highly suspect stained bus seat thumbing the cover of a record jacket. ...Gazing at it, in a dream state, gearing myself for the potential gifts I was about to receive.
The greatest moment of my teen aged week was when I would pull a record out of the bag, slowly tear the shrink-wrap away like Charlie Bucket would to his life-altering Wonka chocolate bar, pull the potential golden ticket of a disc out of the dust jacket and inner paper sleeve making sure to only handle it with my palms and gingerly placing the vinyl platter upon the turntable. Turn the amp on, twist the volume knob up, and wait for that 60 cycle hum.... the final aural cue that I was good to go, countdown will commence, lift-off soon.
And then there's that moment, my favorite part of the ritual, when I would lift the tone arm with my finger tip, hold my breath, crouch to make simultaneous level eye contact with the edge and the needle, and precisely slide (easy now, baby, don't drop it) my diamond tipped stylus to the groove...white noise, feint crackling and the intermittent pop...and then snap. Here we go. Sorry kids, but finger fucking an I-Pod pales miserably in comparison.
Here's a short story for y'all....a musing on music, and its restorative powers.......
BOOKER FROM THE "EDGE" pt 1
As a teen aged, aspiring piano player in the great frozen tundra known as Skaneateles, NY, I used to take a 35 mile bus ride into the city of Syracuse every Saturday morning to visit Onondaga Music.
Onondaga Music was owned by a rather sour faced man by the name of Howard Gurseny, Sr. Completely bald, with glasses that covered half of his gaunt visage, replete with what it seemed to me to be an amazing amount of bushy growth of hair sprouting forth from his ear canals and nostrils, Mr. Gurseny would crouch over the cash register grumbling as he eyeballed me the entire time I would be perusing the racks, and hurl expletive laced exhortations at me periodically such as "are you going to buy that fucking record or what? I don't have all fucking day ya know" as if I was buying a friggin' comic book instead possibly the key to my entire future as a musician...but truth be told, I actually liked the yelling...it heightened the urgency of the shopping experience, and part of the fun of my weekly visit was to find new and creative ways to antagonize him into a prolonged harangue of streaming verbal filth.
And he had, as I learned much later down the road while in the midst of my piano plunking journey and education, impeccable taste, and one of the finest record stores I would ever have the pleasure of shopping in.
Onondaga was a one stop-shopping destination for all things musical. The family store sold sheet music, musical instruments, and records and it was the only place in town that where I could find cool records; especially discs of solo piano. At the time, I was trying to deeply immerse myself in the great boogie-woogie triumvirate of Pete Johnson, Albert Ammons, and Meade Luxe Lewis, because The Rolling Stones told me so...ultimately, I figured if I could play like those guys, my eventual gig with Keith Richards would ensue shortly. I had a rich and varied fantasy life at the time.
So to be able access artists like these in the vast cultural wasteland that is Central NY was a miracle, really. As I was pawing through the bins, I came across a record with a series of photographs running down the left side of the cover featuring a wild looking black dude with an eye patch and the title exclaiming "New Orleans Piano Wizard LIVE" or some such nonsense.... I'm embarrassed to admit that at that point in my musical life and bumbling self-education, I bought records more on the basis of what the covers looked like rather than any internal knowledge of the sounds that may be contained within the confines of the shrink-wrapped sleeve.
I didn't no fuck all about New Orleans, and New Orleans music, but I did know that there was something oddly compelling about that dude with the eye patch and the winning smile. I couldn't keep my eyes off of him...he practically shouted at me from the cover, "Buy me, dumbass...you NEED this shit, baby, right now...right now!"
Now understand, my weekly trek to the store was a discipline of high order for me...the bus ride was a drag, and I was a lad of limited funds...my general adolescent mission quest was to amass the greatest record collection in the world, but my paltry allowance would only allow me to amass it at the rate of one record per week.... so even though I didn't have much musical knowledge at the time, it was imperative that I not come home with a dud. So rolling the dice on a total unknown was akin to betting the farm and going all in.
(TO BE CONTINUED IN BLOG...."BOOKER, PART 2")
Welcome to the Hungarian's facebook/reverbnation site.
We're currently under construction, under new management, new and improved formula-ized with 25% extra free....so periodically, check in and see what we're up to. New stuff will be posted daily. Joining the fan base and street team will get you access to a lot on "insider" stuff, particularly songs that may or may not end up on the new recording, in various stages of development....so if you're looking for sonic integrity and anal retentive perfection....errrr, yer looking up the horse's ass, pally.
Currently the band is working in the studio on new material, and preparing for a big wing ding in my old hometown of Syracuse, New York...(I've lived in New Orleans for the past 12 years, so its a bit of a homecoming debutante coming out party....with lotsa beer and naked people) The show is going to be a real doozy....those who know me will attest to the fact that when I say, "There will be many surprises", I am most definitely NOT fucking around...if you are around the area on Sunday, August 17th..you might wanna make the scene. It will be taped live on 10 cameras for a future DVD release, in all its non-stop 2.5 hour glory....working title :The Resurrection Will Be Televised"....
Speaking of resurrection, some folks may be wondering just where I disappeared to these past few years (No, Bruce Iglauer, I'm not a heroin addict....but it does make for good "legendary status", so keep repeating that kernel of gossip for the operatic gristmill)...I'll wax rhapsodic about that in further posts, but short form, I tried to kill something that would not die ("Don't you know you can't kill something that already's been dead?"...shoulda taken my own advice on that one!)and have decided to roll with it in my typical livin' large fashion, foot firmly on the floor.
News of the day: I've been pretty much ignoring the music business for awhile now...I have been corresponding with a "myspace" acquaintence talking about the vagaries of bi-polar disorder for about six months...she just sorta found me, as is the rule on social networking sites. Yesterday she dropped this letter bomb on me:
"I'm very impressed that Bob Dylan plays your music on his radio show, and that he's a huge fan of your music....but I can't find your records on line, and I'd like to hear more than the five songs you have up on myspace"
I, of course do not know what the fuck she's talking about, and relayed that sentiment back....she just assumed that I would know something like that.
Evidently, the way she found out about the band is that she heard, (according to her) multiple tracks over multiple shows, with Dylan opining about how fucking brilliant the band is....and that we are a great American music mystery.
So she googled me, and found my myspace page...the rest, is history
OK....there's no way I'm going to be able to verify this (anybody out there happen to have Bob Dylan's phone number?), but I will say this....if in fact true, its a comforting (and validating) thought that Uncle Bobby digs our shit....and alternately frightening as well.
The pressure, is on, so to speak.
And if it isn't true....(maybe he played Professor Longhair and the Shuffling Hungarians and she just got confused):
Well, it still makes for a nice story.