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|Thursday, July 17th, 2003|
|A return to poisonous-gas grenade normalcy
is there anything more a dude could ask for? i have no class tomorrow, my homework is listening to serbian music which i would do anyway, and as i speak a concentrated cloud of poisonous gas is circulating through every recess of my apartment waging a somewhat precipitated offensive against the real or perceived bug problem. i didn't use a spraycan, kids, we're talking about actual grenades of insecticide that you toss in a room and then get the hell out! all my life i thought the knock-out gas batman used was an unattainable dream, but now i know that is within our grasp and that it causes severe vomiting if inhaled. i hope my roommate wasn't hiding in the closet for some reason, just waiting for me to enter my room so he could wish me a happy birthday. though actually a roommate mortality rate of 1/3 would be way better than anything i could have ever hoped for.
|Monday, July 14th, 2003|
Hvaljen Isus za pute kad dobijem razloge za pisati u živom dnevniku...In the third great jasonic era, which is at least indirectly augured by astro.com and a certain landscape painted with tea, it will be necessary to engage in a few more activities than watching reruns of the fifth wheel while waiting for conan o'bryan to start. as a confirmed internet predator, how will my promise of listening to morrissey in my darkened room lure anyone out to berkeley, apart from perhaps morrissey?
so when some dude walked into class on friday with several hundred free tickets to a wallflowers concert, i played with the notion of taking one. on the other hand, i also play with the idea of jumping into my television screen and being transported into the dangerous but sexy world of "transformers: beast wars." but my classbud gina took too many tickets, or more accurately six too many tickets, so we went together.
on the plus side, i have no cogent idea what kind of music the wallflowers play, so for all i know they could be the new alvin and the chipmunks. by the time i realized this was not the case, though, my attention was entirely directed towards the life-and-death struggle i'd unexpectedly been thrust into. the concert venue turned out to be the most efficient death camp arizona has seen since, oh, maybe last week. the nightly 104 degree climate was inexpressibly cooler than the interior of that stifling execution barn, as the locals affectionately call it. if i hadn't inoculated myself with a hefty dose of "Kraljica Trotoara," lord only knows what may have befallen me.
|Thursday, July 10th, 2003|
|My Dishonest Relationship or, Giggly Schoolgirl Reflections
Oh, molly believes i'm amusing. . .how much longer can i keep up this outrageous charade? the truth must come out sooner or later. at least i can keep her from finding out that i'm not really the heir to the Schindler family fortune for a while longer.
|What seems like an interlude now...
The time was 11:40, 20 minutes left of serbo-croatian class, with a 12:15 deadline for handing in all the paperwork for going to serbia this summer. i turn to my friend gina and observe that i have 35 minutes or so to change my mind, buy plane tickets, rush home and grab my incomplete paperwork, get some passport photos taken, etc.
with uncanny speed, i make it home in 12 minutes, only to find that my bedroom door locked itself as it's fond of doing. but then i made the discovery that the lock can be de-locked by turning really hard on the door knob and pushing, so i gather me things and rush back to campus. running towards the computer lab, i call virgin atlantic on the slim chance that i can buy a plane ticket using american express bonus points, though i have no idea how to use goddamned american express bonus points or even how to describe them in english to someone on the other end of the telephone apart from shouting "me want london go, now!"
then i sabotaged the bureaucratic spiteful machine of virgin atlantic by seducing my customer service representative. actually my request was extremely simple to fulfill, but i can still pretend that the only way to get a ticket was to talk to new best friend molly for half-an-hour. i just thank god that she was a virgo and i a libra, so if nothing else there was the age-old rapport between our two peoples.
it's strange that my final decision to go to serbia is less important than meeting someone who had the quick wits to reference the "i wash myself with this sponge" line from simpson's when i was trying to buy a ticket from her.
|Tuesday, July 8th, 2003|
|Yet another confession of tragic love
i'm so secretly in love with jugoslav national airlines. now they've got their own credit card, credit being a thing unheard of in serbia-montenegro, since paying for shit is a thing unheard of there too. in september they'll start a direct line from new york to belgrade, the first america-serbia flight ever, thus proving that despite all the machinations of NATO High Commander Musso the Confederation of Serbia and Montenegro can't lose.
i have an excuse to be preoccupied with the airline that were it human would be my twin sister. i had a show down with the parents about not going to jugoslavija this august, since i cancelled the trip without telling them because i didn't want even the parents to spend the astronomical amount of money it would take to kick me out of the country. they retorted that they didn't care how much it cost, yada yada, but what caught my eye was the fact that my sister is apparently going to japan for a week. so okay, if she can get away with that, why the hell can't i make the parents slip me as much money as a month's worth of rent would cost? it turns out that the reason i can't is that they don't want to, which is a pretty reasonable response. i mistook their arguing with me to mean that they would have considered financing my daring flight from the law, but no, for them it was just an opportunity to shout meaningless epithets at me to make me feel like the miserable profligate i am. well, this miserable profligate has to check out a miserable profligate website for conjugating irregular serbo-croatian verbs, which are sort of the miserable profligates of the world of verbs.
|Sunday, July 6th, 2003|
Why am i the angriest boy ever? i wish that people would just start fights if they had a problem with you instead of engaging in exhaustive cat-like intrigues. meeouch! and although for most of my life the resolution-of-moderate-conflict-by-fists-o
f-fury may have been a major drawback for me, i'm big enough now to get in a time machine, go back to third-grade, and totally pummel that kid who said i was jacking off the unjustifiable screening of "cinderella" that our class was subjected to. last night i was trying to put one of my little ones to bed, and i tried reading her a romance novel--it turned out to be more like a coursereader for the political economy of pre-industrial nations, with only two sex scenes one of which wasn't even intended to be taken seriously (although the other one was meant to reach into the depths of your heart, tear through the very fabric of your soul, and make your ancestors get wet between their badly decomposed thighs). not even for me was the court intrigue of King Henry VI hot. so with my head bowed in defeat, i turned to the only other book in english i had, the philosophical opus of six-hundred pages, and tried to pick out the sex scenes (which you can usually find by scanning the text for sentences that are under seven lines long.) then you'd see something about the hero "visualizing those yawning glands of sensuality," but that's as far as you'd get (much as in real life) because just at that moment he becomes cognizant of yet another transformative mental experience (#3
,120) that's prefaced by yet another flashback to a potent reified symbol from his childhood (#617
), then your eyes gloss over and spiders come crawling out of them. i love this book
|Saturday, July 5th, 2003|
|Take this and stick it in your liberty pipe
Please, i got it just for you. and i can't return it to mervyn's. yesterday i celebrated our nation's liberty by listening seventy-eight times (once for each of the thirteen colonies) to the most patriotic song ever composed in the universe--yes, universe, as in "miss universe"--I Saw Tito Three Times. sure, it starts out with shameless idol worship, but by the third time which is actually after tito's death, when the narrator sees Tito in "blasting furnaces, factory smoke, wide fields, cities that live freely, children and peace, and a flock of birds" then i was bawling like all come home and ready to exhume ol' broz's corpse and give him a big wet smooch on the old kisseroo.
feeling that my adulation of a corrupt communist megalomaniac was not a sufficient affront to everything that this country stands for, i then headed up to the river along tempe's border that just doesn't belong there no matter how you look at it and handed out fliers about the major lies the bush administration perpetuated and which are now through the miracle of uneducated americanry probably being drafted into special collectible limited "liberty edition" fourth-grade history textbooks. unfortunately that just didn't fill the gap in my soul. . . but fortunately that gap had already been filled by a student-discounted viewing of "legally blonde 2." i feel another crisis coming on, something to do with my negative self-image, but hopefully "pirates of the carribean" will be out by then. and if my suicidal tendencies start to defrost and revive themselves like caveman excavated from nordic glaciers, there's always the zombie movie. and i say "always," because i'm totally getting the collectors', editor's cut, and silver anniversary dvd of 28 days as soon as possible, say, in 28 days (that's how long that piece of crap is staying in movie theaters. which fortunately gives me just enough time to see it back in berkeley.)
|Wednesday, July 2nd, 2003|
|School's Out for the State and Federal Holidays, As Usual
And then some, 'some' meaning thursday too. my serbo-croatian teacher is like a modern Rex from Days Of Our Lives--today in class we watched the "toughest movie ever," in my teacher's words (he kept on singing the tough lauds of this movie, of the tough director who made it, of the other lesser but still very tough movies he has toughly directed since--dude, Tough Verbum Caro Factum Est.), and i swear he was in a corner making use of an electric smoldering device or--saints protect us, a laser even! i've happed upon the hottest songs to ever have come out of the former jugoslavia, having originated in the west where they were plagiarized by jugoslavs, spiced up with some violin and accordion music and syncopated keyboard beats, and then exported under the auspices of bands such as "Rambo Amadeus". there's this awfully tender shamefully dramatic song which ends with the love-deprived protagonist hanging himself from a bridge (though my translation is probably adulterated by my subconscious demand that this song end like any self-respecting morrissey diddy. and just like morrissey, this song only has about two verses which repeat themselves incessantly.)
i fear the soap operas are cancelled tomorrow for wimbledon, so looks like it will be one tough day of eight-hour naps that try not to be disturbed by the ruckus of my roommate boffing his girlfriend in the next room. actually, they're from new england, so i suppose they'll just feed each other boston baked beans and politely argue which is the real state and which is the fake one, New Hampshire or New Jersey (a trick, since both of them are no more than cardboard boxes with smiley faces crudely drawn on them in ballpoint pen to throw off the census folks).
|Sunday, June 29th, 2003|
|Time is the one thing we do have
Plus a shitload of pilfered paper towels recovered from campus restrooms in the hope of stemming the tide of direly squallid conditions at my apartment. i realized my roommate is only generating a clever optical illusion of doing dishes, but in fact he is just standing over the faucet while it the clogged drain quickly makes the sink fill up. whatever makes him happy on a saturday night, i say.
Dude, i finally plunged into the supreme coming-of-age character study novel of the only narcotic-using 1930s avant-garde unrecognized polish genius writer i would know if he jumped up and bit me on the ass. having spent dozens of hours on the damnable thing, and only teetering on the edge of page 90 (it has no margins, varies between 8 and 10 point font, and its rampent tangents and digressions would make whatever Indo-European people that came up with subordinate clauses and parentheses kick their pet wooly mammoths in the eye), i think i will pass this up, even if i did just start the chapter "Deflowerfucked." I know how it ends--wah-wah, the absolute dissolution of the protagonist's individual identity after several years of protracted schizophrenia, the penultimate realization of which occuring when he gets oh-so-sweet booty--but then i thought how some 90% of the books i've read in the last three years pivet upon one character committing suicide (unamuno really seems to go for this, it being the most touching way for a catholic author's characters to die) or getting killed (that being the most ubiquitous way to finish off characters in southeastern european novels) as a result of tragic romance. no, what we need right about now is some old fashioned mystical devotions, so i've super catherine-of-siennaized my collection of overdo books from the library and will probably give unamuno one more chance (the main character of 'El Otro' already confesses a metaphorical death on page 8, and i'm sure unamuno wouldn't dare have another person drop dead for at least another act).
must keep all this free time from being wasted on that serbo-croatian fad that all the kids are into nowadays.
|Saturday, June 28th, 2003|
|Trouble at the Old Swiecki-Tochka Place
why does my roommate hate me so much? i made every effort to be his best friend: go to burlesquefest. well, that's about it. i could also include the fact that i do all of the cleaning in the house--i should stipulate, not the possible cleaning, but the cleaning which actually is done--which basically amounts to disposing of the large mammal carcasses that periodically wash up on the kitchen counter. anywho, he's been avoiding me like the plague, instead of merely as someone who carries plague-spreading flees in his mangy hair.
then last night, he asked me in a rather unfriendly tone of voice if i were interested in going to the grand canyon today. i declined the offer, and he asked why. i chortled a little in my disarming little manner, the same chortle i execute when making awful abortion jokes or when i used to unthinkingly make jokes about my ex-lover's dead father or my once-and-future employer's veritable plethora of deceased family members, and responded quite frankly that it's a hole in the ground. he was visibly insulted at this piece of information, and scoffed in his stuck-up new england little way. i think i deserve a freaking medal (yes, a freaking one) for refraining from verbalizing all that was on my mind at the moment, namely: "(What kind of vacuous stereotypical american yahoo gets a thrill out of driving for three hours each way to blow a couple of hours gawking slack-jawedly at) a hole in the ground".
maybe i'm irate because i was disturbed at five this morning by his mocking my unbearably succinct analysis of the situation in front of one of his classmates. the irony lies in the fact that in general i am very susceptible to entrancement by holes in the ground: just monday i spent quite a bit of time and mental concentration staring at this hole that could have been either the crater left by an extremely tiny meteorite, or a steam grate. but the grand canyon, man...anyways, why the hell does he have a problem with my breaking to him the harsh truths of life? is he merely embittered because i've crushed his dreams of uncovering an indian burial ground or a cure for AIDS somewhere more deserted and hotter than this god-foresaken suburban concentration camp?
|Wednesday, June 25th, 2003|
I woke up in a warm puddle of real boyishness yesterday morn. my roommate, his lame little friend from albanian class (i'm qualified to call him lame because he made the gravest insult one can make in my presence, a smarmy precocious rich boy slur against public transit), and I forded the misplaced river to the north of tempe and went to see burlesquefest 2003. as near as i can tell it was a concert for this hella-kick-ass-bitchin'-sweet (as the kids would say) band called "devotchka"-- serbo-croatian for girly--but there was nothing girly about this band, except for its cello, electric mandolin, accordion, violin, sousaphone, and maracas. the drums were vaguely manly though. i tried to keep my attention on devotchka, but they must have had poor security at this burlesque show because a rotating set of women kept on interrupting their performance by walking on stage and taking off their clothes in increasingly elaborate scenarios, until one of them contrived to have her henchmen erect a baptismal font on stage for her to splash around and accept the lord jesus christ as her saviour in. i think that my roommate+hyper sexual atmosphere+his public intoxication=scenario to be avoided in the future. i'd better rescind that invitation to the newman center fourth of july magic show that i extended to him. i don't want to know what he gropes during the debut of Father Tim's film "the magic-man and dog-woman". come to think of it, i don't think i want to know what i'll grope when i see that. Current Mood: lazy
|Sunday, June 22nd, 2003|
i'm feeling more giddy and capable of surviving arizona after launching my return to nocturnalcy plan the last week: sleep in the afternoon and early evening, get up at eight to do homework all leading up to a triumphant conan o'bryan viewing, after which i return to my private chambers where i mull over that days significant happenings: how the ijekavian stem of certain serbo-croatian verbs extends from [j] to [ije], what a gross insult to my intelligence nbc's "passions" is, the forced kisses of days of our lives, the heavily salted yogurt gruel with minced oregano that my roommate's albanian teacher made us drink. just today, i stayed up all night to make it to mass first thing in the morning, and then i went to get a muffin and when i was buying my hard-earned muffin (chris having paid me for attendant work in an elaborate "Muffin Pyramid" get-rich quick scheme of his) i suppose the customer who had ordered some delicious orange julius-like iced beverage had died waiting for them to make it, so the muffin-woman gave it to me for free. from hence forth, on the one hand, i will be known forever afterward in these parts as "mr. woman who sells muffins," but out here anything that's cold or refreshing in any way is carefully hoarded by a small refridgerated elite that lords its control of the natural resources over we simple country kids trapped in the big city.
so many notecards. . .even now i hear their woeful summons across the seas of space and time. one other thing: i had another dream. the brother swieckis were there, the scope and classiness quotient of the party were equal to that of a Mission-Inn afternoon champagne brunch at which triumphant allied forces were signing the Treaty of Versailles. the crescendo found me standing in the rain with percussion in the background as someone hands me what else than a set of notecards with the garbled text of a part-english, part-spanish, part-serbo-croatian speech on them. i guess these gnostic dreams will be fulfilled when truckosaurus finally arrives at a phoenix convention centre near me, as the commercials during judge hatchett have been heralding that it shall do. the spirit of the holy spirit may renew the face of the earth, but truckosaurus and company shall eat old cars off of it and spray flaming gasoline from his nostrils all over it.
|Saturday, June 21st, 2003|
|Homeward Bound: the adventures of yellow jason dog
this was meant to be a well-ke(m)pt secret, but by now everybunny with an I.Q. above 10 or a Heifling-Robutausscher Adjusted Motor Skills Evaluation score of 0.5 or above knows that i'm not really going to serbia. i was on the verge of purchasing my ticket from london to belgrade, which i've been putting off for six hundred years of my people's bittersweet history--by the time i got around to trying to find available flights this week, i found out that the cheapest plane ticket was hovering at around $500. then i thought how even i made the parents pay for that, which i would do with a quivering fervor that would unsettle even the heartless corporate vampires of the american express empire, i would come back to berkeley in september with approximately $4.13 to my name to pay rent and tuition with. and i would only have the opportunity to learn serbian, drink ungodly amounts of plum brandy, smoke anything not tied down, and bribe police officers for a precious three weeks.
so instead i will uninvitedly and as unannouncedly as possible live in mommy rebekah's room for a month while working for chris 28 hours a day, just like last august. i understand that some new fangled alzheimer's foundation of the bay area has a program where you can hang out with alzheimer's patients of serbian extraction. this is of course the dream deal for any learner of a second language, whose language skills and comprehension are at that critical threshold between a 4-month old fetus' proficiency and the speaking ability of a senile elderly person.
|Monday, June 16th, 2003|
|Crazy Felonious Archbishops will be crazy felonious archbishops
i saw on the news this afternoon that our very own episcopal supervillain, bishop o'brien, had been arrested. there was some broohaha last week because the DA's office announced that they had enough evidence to indict bishop o'brian for obstruction of justice because he helped cover up sexual abuse scandals and relocate priests. then they signed some agreement that miraculously absolved the bishop of any wrongdoing, and in exchange the archdiocese now has some professional babe whose job it is to talk to catholics about sexual abuse (how to avoid it, how to do it better). i thought his arrest was in connection with that whole drama, but it turns out he is the perpetrator of a saturday night hit-and-run accident that killed some dude in phoenix. then he lied to his cohorts about why his entire windshield was smashed in. i'm glad i am at last living in a normal archdiocese. Current Mood: amused
|Friday, June 13th, 2003|
however rude that may be, i just want to send a shout out to my too best friends: the person at gentle strenght coop who probably doesn't wash their hands after using the restroom but makes me delicious rice-krispie treat like things, except for instead of marshmallow they contain peanut butter and are covered with some caroby goo. so, they're basically nothing like rice krispie squares. secondly, whoever designed the can for Fry's food and drugs top-valu brand spinach and mixed vegetables. although several cans of spinach i've opened have turned out to be rotten, my cannery compatriots maketh me to lie down in the verdant pastures of comfort in the knowledge that it's pretty easy to pry the lid off of the cans with a bottle opener, which is important when you lead such an emotionally fragile life as i do, a life which is too emotionally fragile to go to the store and buy a bloody can opener. does anyone reading this run a hot internet start-up company called e-canopeners.com or .edu? you know, one that might deliver can openers to people's domiciles? the closest i've found to such a website is "serbianorthodoxchurch.com," but i'm still waiting for my can opener.
|Thursday, June 12th, 2003|
|I have a dream
this is the first dream that i've remembered in months. so my mom was driving her gigantic powdered-blue van through the cemetary in downtown riverside. to both sides of the road were steep inclines, so our car started to veer dangerously when my mom removed herself from the wheel. this may just be my consciousness speaking, but i believe the reason she took a backseat tonight (in clear defiance of the laws of gravity) was to eat some of the delicious butter-pecan flavored gelato that damian sowinski was eating. as our car drifted towards the edge of a cliff, my long-forgotten cousin cindy came to our rescue and took the wheel.
unfortunately, the 'feds' witnessed our graveyard cavorting. additionally, since my dad is such a high-ranking official of the verizon administration, he was accompanying them. well, they immediately conducted a strip search of all of us for drugs, but not that immediately, since they didn't get around to searching us until we were at our grandmother's house. the two agents evidently were not that intelligent, since they strip-searched my sister even though i clearly had bigger bazoombas (not even in the illusory world of dreams can that change). plus i was of course the one with the drugs (not even in the illusory world of dreams can that change.) my mom was charged with searching me (curious how sometimes federal agents will sometimes leave all the responsibility for inspecting narcotics suspects to other narcotics suspects) my mom just made me empty my pockets, and did a crappy job at that since one could easily observe large tufts of pot sticking out of my already-conspicuous Altoids metal tin. then as i looked at the altoids tin where it lay on the bed, i took notice how somehow it's contents (which far surpassed the volume of the actual tin) were strewn all over the place. i figured i probably shouldn't push my luck by gathering my drugs while the family was on the other side of the room being interviewed by the police, so i just put some pillows on it and left.
|Tuesday, June 10th, 2003|
At least in my pathetic world, this probably qualifies as some manner of success. The secretive Mz. Naira from the forbidden Orient responded to some massive email that i sent out to everyone on earth, except for several species of the pea family. So maybe that marriage story was true and she wasn't just trying to ditch me...or my extreme cleverness has simply forced her to reconsider her outlandish lie/irrevocable bond of holy wedlock...or she's just trying to get me to contact her again so she'll have enough evidence to press stalking charges...as any one may observe, the romance here threatens to crush us all under its lavender-scented frilly girth. thank god i made it to church for pentecost in order to appease the godhead, or else it would really be pente-costing me right now.
no class tomorrow--the fates have decreed that i stay up and watch conan o'bryan, the only serbo-croatian-as-a-second-language-teac
her i give a shit about. cigarette watch 2003 is stable, i'm limiting myself to what i uncover in the stone cigarette columns at asu (there are approximately 3.12 of these for every student on campus), and even then i'm being careful that the combined cigarettage i get per day from second-hand butts is less than one full cigarette. Current Mood: surprised
|Monday, June 9th, 2003|
|Getting Monkeys off of my back and onto the backs of my enemies
i need the kids to tell me to stop smoking. especially since in tempe, there does not appear to be any hot place where a large-glassed androgyne can buy sexy cherry or mocha flavored cigarettes. and my sister sister livi ordered me to stop smoking too. and anywho, i'm already wasting the GNP of the United Kingdom with the ol' swiecki gold card (unless of course i find a cache of assault weapons and some ex-cons to help me orchestrate the Veg-All delivery truck hijacking of the century), an action predicated upon the theses that i'm poorer than the Christ Child of Hooverville, so it would be hypocritical of me to continue purchasing $7 packs of cigarettes with my own secret off-shore bank accounts.
so sweet baby green please, everyone order me to stop smoking so i can develop more attractive if less cool oral fixations.
in other whiny news, $625 to go before this bird flies the proverbial coup of the united states to go to serbia. wait, i guess that's not particularly proverbial. but what most certainly is proverbial is my decision to use the parents' gold card to buy my preposterously expensive plane tickets from London to Beograd. all i need is a car wash or bake sale--screw that, if i can just sell some guy a $625 doughnut, i'll be set. the greatest difficulty will undoubtedly be in not eating that doughnut myself, but by st. john nepomotunik's beard i can do it.
|Sunday, June 8th, 2003|
|The Greatest Trial of the 21st Century
Are we up to this one? are we really all courageous enough to win a michelob-sponsored contest, the prize of which is an all-expenses paid trip to New York in order to see "moving out," the billy-joel-inspired rock musical? please, please say that you are. and also please say that you are twenty one or older. and then please go to ultrabroadway.com, and win this one for the gipper or one of his slightly less senile family members.
|Saturday, June 7th, 2003|
|The Sentimental Magyarification of Jason
protesting human rights in tempe, AZ: is there any more futile an occupation? conceivably protesting human rights in a single-man submarine, or wearing a t-shirt saying free tibet when you're in a 19th-century diving suit, or maybe protesting indonesian treatment of the east timorese to a colony of sea anemone. the boneheads in tempe command headquarters have done it again, passing your typical urban camping ordinance that criminalizes sleeping outdoors (the nuances of this particular law are particularly amusing, to wit: to sit on a bench with a backpack represents the intention of sleeping outdoors and hence is punishable; sitting on a bench with a shopping bag is not punishable because you're just being a whimsical yuppie).
so i went to uptown which is really downtown tempe to partake of a little urban camping protest. the balance of personality types was perfect: one to two cooky old guys with dirty feet; enough shirtless gutter punks waving "Honk if you hate the police"/"Fuck the police" signs to make the fucking bourgeoisie of tempe a little uneasy (even though some twenty+ police officers were posted in alleyways and doorways on all sides of us, and additional police officers were going in circles around the block to keep lazy doughnut-scented eyes on us); then the shyest people in the universe like me. i guess i was the least guttery person there, so the dude from the local paper took 18,005.6 photographs of me. a while later, i struck up a conversation with some girl who was at another protest on thursday. in addition to entertaining me for three hours, she also turns out to be hungarian and taught me how to pronounce 'magyar.' it would appear that her grandparents died and made her hungarian.