Of Decals, Would-Be Napoleons, And Other Cockamamie Stuff

I admit, beer was involved. Which may be the reason I forget the exact context (though I'm pretty sure the word wasn't directed at me or one of my pontifications), but the other night while socializing with a friend, said friend used the word "cockamamie." Naturally, even without the company of my good friend and the fine product of the Guinness company, just the appearance of such a rich word immediately bumped that conversation into Top Ten status (yes, I keep tabs) for the calendar year that is quickly evaporating.

Now obviously I was aware that the word means "nonsense, ridiculous, pointless, etc.," but of course I was instantly intrigued with where and how such a goofy word came from and into being. As usual, I soon found out I didn't know as much as I thought did: I thought the word was actually cockamanie, figuring it was shorthand for a crazy, probably headless, chicken running amok--ridiculous to the extreme, right? Wrong. It's cockamamie. Getting warmed up to this game of figuring out where words come from, I thought maybe the word was a recent invention, from the 1950s, and had something to do with, "That's a crazy idea, Hugh, you might as well propose punching the First Lady. Cock-a-Mamie, I say." Surprisingly, wrong again.

Here's where it really gets, well, cockamamiacal. Believe it or not, there is a word "decalcomania," which, though seeming to mean a shared obsession with stickers, actually is the "art or process of transferring pictures or designs from specially prepared paper to wood, metal, glass, etc." (that etc. no doubt includes, mainly methinks, skin, which accounts for those great lick-on tattoos, the kind that got me into trouble with a nun in sixth grade when, after applying one, I was pulled aside by said nun and told that I was hanging around the wrong kids). So, in case you were wondering, that's where the word "decal" comes from, which is an easier, though very less poetic, word for cockamamie, which originally meant a "paper strip with an image which could be transferred to skin when moistened" (moist, of course, being a five-star word in itself). Somehow, wordsmiths believe, in America during the 1940s (not too far from the Ike & Mamie 1950s), decalcomania/cockamamie got thrown in a blender with such expressions as cock-and-bull and poppycock, and voila, cockamamie, in its present sense of nonsense, was born. So there you go: Next time somebody accuses you or your ideas as cockamamie, just respond, "No, my ideas and I have absolutely nothing to do with transferring images from paper onto wood, metal, glass, or skin," and walk away in a self-satisfied huff. That'll fix 'em.

Or, better yet, for the sin of using the word cockamamie with no knowledge of its artistic, sticky origins, accuse the person of being a cockalorum (yes, my friends, when looking up one word in your dictionary, make sure you take in the surrounding neighborhood). "Cockalorum" means "a self-important little man," or in general, "bragging talk or crowing." Which, obviously, leads to the possibilty of using what might just end up being my "newly discovered sentence of the year" (yes, I keep tabs)--"Oh, stop all your cockalorum you cockalorum!" Fling that just once at somebody and see if it doesn't become a habit.

All of which leads us, naturally, to Frank Sinatra. Frank, I think the jury's in on this, was a rather self-important and, at 5 feet 7.5 inches tall (sic), little man. But I'm not here to accuse the dead of being a cockalorum. No, more interestingly, in the early 1960s I believe, Warner Bros. Records, to appease Sinatra (I bet that was a long line back in the day) pretty much created the Reprise Records label for Frank. Although it would be fascinating to believe, it doesn't seem that Frank had much input on the artists who wound up on Reprise. Case in point, the great Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band, who, in 1970, released on Reprise a great album titled Lick My Decals Off, Baby, the titular song being a sort of anti-Beatles, anti-innocent love song with its memorable opening line, "Rather than 'I wanna hold your hand,' I wanna swallow you whole ... " and proceeds to raunchier, though more philosophical, heights. I guess that if the Captain had known, the song/album might have been Lick My Cockamamies Off, Baby, which would have been quite interesting. Finally to show how much the world has changed in 40 years, it seems Reprise even produced a one minute commercial for the album. Remember, this was before cable TV and the Internet, so I imagine this was an actual network TV commercial. Cockamamie, indeed.

Connect The Dots: Video Version

Did she really pronounce man's best friend as ur-EYE-nal? I love the British. And speaking Britishly, I suppose I could take the piss out of this news segment and the pub, and stand up for a long time and make little comments about streaming video games and such, but in loo lieu of all that, I'll just remind you of this video from 24 years ago, proof once again that R.E.M. was not only ahead of its time but, with their recent break-up, knew when it was time to quit, that their prophetic mission had been finally accomplished.

Where Should We Shelve You?

Some notes from the front line on Black Friday: In a much appreciated decision regarding my beauty sleep, the boss had me work the late afternoon/night shift on the year's biggest shopping day, as opposed to the early, as in 6 a.m., shift, so I missed out on the doorbusters madness. Happy to report, though, that there was no pepper spraying, trampling/trampled customers, or other such ugliness. It seems that the only casualty was the toilet paper dispenser in the men's room. It was busy but not crazy, and the only real difficulty I had was with a customer over the intricacies of the words "may" and "shall" (trust me, too insipid even for me to expound on any further). My best interaction, besides seeing a good old former bookstore colleague I hadn't seen or talked to in years, came early in my shift when I asked a woman, who had the undeniable look of someone looking for something she couldn't find, if she needed any help. "No," she replied, "just tell me where you put my husband." Not as quickly as I might have hoped to qualify as a true witticism, I said, "Antiques?" She chuckled.

Which made me think of a great philosophical question, of the parlor game variety: Where would you be shelved in a pretty comprehensive bookstore? The possibilities are myriad, and I realize the answer for most of us might be subject to change at anytime, given all sets of circumstances, but think about it--if ten of your friends were asked to shelve you in a particular section, what would it be? Self-help? Psychology? Ancient History? Crafts? Science Fiction? Humor? Mystery? New Age? Auto Repair? Clearance? Meditate for three days and get back to me.

Homework Beer? I Never Got That Syllabus





Kids today. Drinking in a computer lab. And complaining about getting caught at it. Try "banging out" your business paper on a manual typewriter and believe me, boy, by the time page 48 comes around you'll be tapping the second keg, if you haven't already passed out due to an OD of liquid paper fumes.

To be honest, though, I almost want to defend the undergrad, because really, what's the harm, but anybody who describes what, from all apparent evidence, seems to be a rather kind and generous security guard's handling of the situation as, "got all up in my grill," needs a little law and order exacted upon him. If your neighbor starts yelling at you about your unmown lawn as you're barbequing some ribs, or if the ghetto drug dealer starts pulling your teeth against your will because you don't have enough money, then the expression "got all up in my grill," qualifies as appropriate. Otherwise, nope, dude. Meander over to the hard science labs and they'll assure you it is physically impossible for the phrases "banging out my business paper" and "got all up in my grill" to coexist anywhere, especially in a computer lab.

Secondly, while I admit I have absolutely no idea what "business capping" is all about (I do give you credit for banging out 48 or so pages on the subject [and readers of this blog think verbosity is a problem!]), let me instruct you in some Latin, as in non sequitur, as in, loosely translated, what the hell does that mean? Look son, grab a twelve pack and write me a 58 or so page paper explaining what this sentence means: "Fact: Drinking in the Donnelly Computer Lab is undeniably frowned upon, making this write-up absolutely valid." Now, sure, I understand the stress of the incident (whose blood pressure doesn't geyser when somebody gets all up in one's grill?) combined with the KO of a Rolling Rock can seriously mess with one's equilibrium, but am I to deduce from this logic that anything that is "undeniably frowned upon" (technically, frowns, and, when you think about it, the act of frowning upon something, are pretty clear-cut entities; has one ever manufactured a deniable frown?), is ergo something that can be validly written-up? Good God, man, unleash the kegs, there's going to be a lot of writing-up around here. Let me clue you in on something, kid: If every interaction between a college kid drinking where he isn't supposed to be and a (perhaps, though I see no evidence of it, overzealous) campus security guard validated a "write-up" from the student, well, the world would have drowned in write-ups about two years after higher education and alcohol first met (which brings up a rather interesting side question, ala chicken and egg: which came first, college or beer?). And congratulations, kid, you're the one billionth beer-drinking college kid in history to have his grill all gotten up into by a campus security guard. Welcome to the club, here's an insulated beer cozy for your efforts.

And furthermore, kid, do you know how lucky you are to being attending college in this PC Age of sensitivity training? My favorite part of this whole thing is that security guard demanded the student save his paper before ushering him to "security." Talk about good cop/bad cop being embodied in one man. One minute the guy's all grill getting up into and the next he's looking out for the kid by "demanding" the kid save his work. Take a stand, son: If The Man demands you save, delete instead. That would be the only valid thing to do, from my 99% viewpoint.

Oh to be young again and so impassioned. I certainly hope the young man treated himself to a diatribe beer after all the all-up-in-his-grilling his homework beer got him.

Exercises In Inauthentic Grammar, Number Two: The Reflex Clause

Yes, it's time for another installment of Exercises In Inauthentic Grammar, in which we veer from the educationese term "authentic grammar" and delve into the alternative, yet equally credible (since it too is spoken and written with regularity among some people), world of inauthentic grammar. Today's lesson concerns the reflex clause. I'm sure we're all familiar with the so-called authentic entities known as the reflexive pronoun and the relative clause; well, the reflex clause is a modifying clause (loosely; it's more of an involuntary, culturally ingrained editorial comment) that, like a hammered kneecap or an onioned nose, is difficult to control, as it too, when triggered, quickly asserts its own mind and body with spasmodic emanations. Reflex clauses have long been in existence (read, a bane) but with the advent of computers, word processing software, and continuing generations of so-called smart keyboards, the inauthentic grammar that is the reflex clause is now universal. We've all been there: You start to type something and before you finish the word your screen lights up with what it perceives you intend to write. One quick wham on the return button and the whole thing appears, saving you precious time and energy. The reflex clause is similar--when writing certain words or phrases, an entire clause presents itself to modify the word or phrase you have written. Blame computers who are too familiar with your thought and composition patterns, but even in manual writing (wikipedia that one, kids, if you're clueless) reflex phrases are known to afflict the seasoned scribbler too. Among the governing board of inauthentic grammarians (of which I'm an ex officio emeritus, thank you very much) the standard example of a reflex clause is this dated, but still worth a chuckle or two bon mot: The AMC Pacer, which is built so wide so as to contain the owner's stupidity ... Get the point? If not, here are more examples, both pretty much acknowledged ubiquitous ones and ones more personal to my own partcular writing habits. Study them well so as to beware of them and save yourself time erasing, scratching out, deleting; or, if you're not much a proofreader, to spare yourself future public embarrassment.

• Pittsburgh, ooohhhh, yuck ...
• Metal detector aficionados, really folks, get a life already ...
• Lindsay Lohan, the troubled hoyden ...
• Clevelanders, my sympathies ...
• Sarah Palin, just go away ...
• Mushrooms, look out, I'm gonna heave ...
• Bob Dylan, god ...
• LeBron James, #$@&*! ...
• Bacon, right here, garcon, schnell! ...
• The upcoming Presidential election, Oh god, not again ...
• Exacerbate, stop laughing class; it simply means to aggravate, to increase the severity of ...
• As Al Gore said, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz ...
• Dancing With The Stars, nope, never seen it ...
• Guinness, you had me at G- ...
• Stuffing, I'm staying! ...
• Regular readers of spitoutyourgum, I love you I love you I love you ...

P.S. Sin Of Omission

Bless me, Father Rock, for I have sinned. How, in my previous post about the Postal Service, letters, and rock's most famous letters, I could ever leave out former mail carrier and all-around mensch John Prine and his great song "Dear Abby," is beyond me and beyond embarrassing. I apologize. Please add this song to my top five list, making for an overstuffed mailbox, the best kind. 

Dee-Li-Vah De Let-Tah

I mailed something other than a bill yesterday. I sent a small birthday present to a friend of mine. Chances are, with her living just across town, that she received it today. I hope she does, today being her birthday. When I stopped to think about the process yesterday, once again I was amazed by the U.S.
Postal Service. Despite all the technology, and despite the fact that the package is only traveling a few miles, it still wows me that you can put something in a slot one place and within a day or two it arrives exactly where it's supposed to, with nary a problem. I mean, how many times have you had serious problems with the mail? Once, maybe twice in your lifetime? For all the mail you've sent and received? Say what you will about the federal government, but can you imagine the hassles that would ensue if something like the banking industry took over the mails?

Sadly, I can't remember the last time I actually mailed something other than a bill. Multiply me a few million times and I guess it's no wonder we keep hearing about the financial problems of the Postal Service and how it's in danger of going under. What a pity. Is there a greater inexpensive thrill than seeing a letter or package in your mailbox? Is there better nervous excitement than waiting that day or two for something you sent someone to arrive and hear back from that person? I've never been a consistently prolific letter writer in my time, but I've had periods when I sent and received a lot of personal mail. It's a singular sensation that is vastly different from a telephone call (which has pleasures all its own) and one that emails and texts and tweets and such can't even touch.

Now I'm not here to rant about the disappearance of letter writing; times change blah blah blah. But, but. Maybe if we had a national day of letter writing/mailing, people might be reminded of the pleasures once again, and then maybe make the effort a bit more frequently to do so, and then maybe the Postal Service will survive better. And maybe pigs will fly and the Cleveland Browns will make the Super Bowl too. But I'm going to do it, dammit. I promise to mail a letter this Friday, November 18th. I don't know to whom I'll write or what I'll write about, but I'm going to do it because I love the USPS. Join me, won't you?

And while we're on the subject, I'm wondering what are the five most famous letters in rock music. Actually I have wondered for some time because I'm admitting a kind of defeat. I've long wanted to actually write those famous rock letters. It would be a great exercise in imagination and voice. How would the body of Paul's (it is Paul, isn't it, Beatles fanatics?) letter that ends so famously "P.S. I Love You" read? Or what kind of heartfelt sweet things did poor Elvis write in that letter that kept getting returned to sender/him? When you think about it, the words in the Box Tops' "The Letter" must have been pretty hot. I mean to send adolescent Alex Chilton scurrying to an airport because he "ain't got time to take a fast train," and not caring about the cost of it all, phew! All we get of the letter is that "she couldn't live without me." There must be more than that in the missive, no? What? I want to know.

So those three are among the top five most famous letters in rock history, we all can agree, right? The next one on my list is perhaps the most intriguing--the letter that appears at the end of  Bob Dylan's "Desolation Row." After verses and verses and verses and nine minutes, thirty-four seconds of Bob describing the weird goings on in/on Desolation Row, he pulls back a bit and begins the last verse talking about a letter:

Yes, I received your letter yesterday
(About the time the doorknob broke)
When you asked me how I was doing
Was that some kind of joke?
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they're quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name ...

God almighty how much for years I've wanted to write that letter! But how to do it justice? And how to solve its various conundrums (conundra?)? That parenthesis is used in the official Lyrics 1962-2001 book (which is hardly definitive, I know), but even then it still poses the question I've long had--was the letter concerning the time the doorknob broke, or did it arrive around the time Bob's doorknob broke? (Trust me, in the glorious world of Bobarcana, no small point to ponder). And "all these people that you mention"--specific to the letter, or are they the people (rearranged/renamed) Bob has just told us all about? How can one even attempt to write this letter with these questions unanswered? God I love it.

The fifth letter in my all-time Top Five Rock'n'Roll letters (and these are not in any kind of ranked order--I think you can tell what would be my #1) is one you're all probably saying, well of course, get to it, after all it's chronologically the first one your list. Ah, but there's a catch. Is there an actual letter in the Marvelettes' marvelous "Please Mr. Postman"? No, there isn't. She's waiting on/hoping for/begging for a letter from her "boyfriend so far away," but nothing (for all we know he's run off with the girl who keeps sending Elvis's letter back). Now isn't that sad, the poor girl pleading with the postman to look one more time in his bag to see if maybe there's a letter? Just like all of us in these days of no-more-letter-writing. So, do your part--not only for the USPS but for that someone pining near the mailbox. Someday soon write and actually mail a letter to someone. You'll make their day. And maybe inspire another great song--by my reckoning here, there hasn't been a great song about a letter--real or imagined--in nearly 45 years. Name me one.

In The Meantime ...

Dearth of inspiration of late, which only means a 1500 word, geniusly amusing, digressive screed is imminent. In the meantime, taking my clue from some other blog, here are not one but three songs that never fail to make me happy.



(didn't know that about Marilyn Monroe, did you?)



(onions)



(actually I was looking for a good clip of Joni Mitchell's "Carey," but this, which I never knew existed, is much better; tell me after seeing this you wouldn't want to have a beer with Cass Elliot over discussing art with Joni or politics with Mary anyday)

Doughnuts For Dummies, or, Donuts Are Good, Eat Them

A co-worker of mine who likes to eat (okay, she lives to eat) asked me today if I had blogged lately. I told her I would be doing so after work. A couple minutes later she suggested I blog about donuts (my preferred spelling). I said okay. But then I started to think, what can one possibly say about donuts? They're kind of like air, aren't they--ubiquitous, one would hope, and so essential that there's really nothing to say about them. Everybody loves them, and I guess you could pretend to get antagonistic and start showering favor on one kind of donut at the expense of another, but really, what's the point? They're all good, some are just better than others.

I'm certainly no mathematician, but I guess it's possible that with now 7 billion + people in this world, there may be one or two who haven't encountered a donut, maybe even don't know what a donut is. If, by the thinnest of odds you are one of those people and have found your way to this blog, here's all you need to know about donuts. They're a supreme being's idea of bread, way better than pizza. They've never been known to let a human being down. Go out now and find a couple and eat them. Welcome to the human race.

Quick, Somebody Teach Me This Game

Even though the World Series ended only a couple weeks old, I already miss baseball. Tonight there's snow on the ground for the first time in months, which, cutting to the quick, means there are months of it to come. Three days ago I played golf. Driving home tonight I felt for the first time all year that I should be listening to a basketball game. You see, it's not just the game of baseball I love, but the daily joys of following it. Once a week football is okay, but it's not daily and besides, football, especially in these parts, is not much fun these days. Who knows when basketball will return. So I'm jonesing for a sport to follow day in and day out.

I don't know a thing about cricket. Don't even know if it's much of a daily sport. When I was in England for a summer I read about it in the papers, but never really understood it. And once I saw an exhibition of it where they tried to explain the rules, but they might as well have been explaining colored fractals for all the sense it made to me. But I was thinking of a beautiful song, Roy Harper's "When An Old Cricketer Leaves The Crease," and I started wishing I knew the sport, to understand the song better, and so that maybe I could follow it in this fallow, wintry time. So if anybody out there knows anything about cricket, please let me in on the pleasures. Until then, I'll just count the hours until spring training and hum this song.

Waves Upon Waves

We were chatting idly while working diligently this morning (yes, the professional that I am and the professionals I work with are capable of such negative capability, oxymoronic functioning) when for no apparent reason the word 'redundant' raised its Hydra-head and duly became the word of the day. In a moment of fantasizing I wondered how much fun it would be to reply to everyone who spoke to me with a curt raising of the hand and an even curter "Redundant!" Ah, Walter Mitty has nothing on me.

Redundant, of course, means "excessive, superfluous; characterized by verbosity or unnecessary repetition" (and how about those two n's, two s's and two ti's in "unnecessary repetition"?). This month, of course, is the year's redundant month, when you have to write two 11's every time you date something (and let's not even mention the arrival in a few days of the sure to be overhyped 11/11/11 [is that a threedundancy?]). Maybe my fondness for the particular word today stems from my early morning voting experience. Being a part-Irishman who spent part of his life in Chicago, I've long possessed some weird, maybe natured/nurtured desire to just once vote several times in one day (outside of a poll worker loudly telling everyone in the cramped, small room not to vote a certain way on a certain state issue because it would do away with "Obamacare," my voting experience was pleasantly rapid and garnered me not one but [see the pattern taking root?] two "I Voted Today" stickers [which both lost their stickiness about five minutes later]).

Later in the day somebody's phone went off with the distinct ringtone of "This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius." I know like 40 years ago the song was a bit redundant, but not having heard the song for something like, oh, 39 years, I kind of grooved to it. I looked up and spied the twelve people or so in the vicinity. Before I could make an educated guess as to whose phone it might be, the one genuine hippie in the crowd opened his phone up and started talking. Now I don't like trafficking in stereotypes, but I believe this guy would self-describe himself (Bingo!) proudly as a hippie. Not some nouveau, look at my store-bought $50 tye-dye, but the real thing, going on 45 years in the club. Anyway, I know it doesn't quite fit the definition, but all I could think of when Hippie Apotheosis Man's phone went off singing "This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius" was, "that's kind of redundant." Now I know you can have all sorts of different ringtones for all sorts of different people who might call you, and that "Aquarius" might not be Hippie Apotheosis Man's "default" ringtone, but come on, unless Marilyn McCoo or Billy Davis Jr. is a personal friends of his, I've got to suspect "Aquarius" is in fact Hippie Apotheosis Man's default ringtone. Which is perfectly fine, and it sure beats "San Francisco (Be Sure To Wear Flowers In Your Hair)," it just seems, well, redundant.

So I'm thinking about redundant all day and of course at some time I fixate on the re- part and I start to wonder whether there's a word dundant out there (along the lines of the reiterate/iterate thing, where reiterate is in fact a bona fide redundancy); if redundant is superfluous, maybe dundant is just right. Sounds like it, doesn't it? Dundant=doned it. "Don't sweep the floor, dude! That would be redundant since I already doned it." But no, a little research taught me that redundant comes from the Latin word redundare (to flow back, overflow, be excessive). The really interesting thing is that it all starts with the Latin word unda, a wave. Which of course is only too perfect. An early Latin guy, charged with coming up with words for all sorts of things, takes his assistant along with him to the beach. They see waves--though of course don't know what they're called just yet, that being their job--think they're cool, and the guy sends the assistant out to the surf to test them out. The assistant wades out, is exhilarated by the experience, waves (not a redundancy, a whole other word, a moving of one's hand in genial greeting), and shouts to his boss, "So what are you gonna call them?" Just then a big white-cap totally swarms the poor assistant. "Unda, what else?" the boss shrugs his shoulders and picks up some weedy stuff soon to be named kelp. 

Our Lady Of Perpetual Chewing Gum's Parish Bulletin, Tidbits Column

Kudos to Jerry Gilligan's 800 series in the parish Top Tier bowling league last week, just three weeks after his double hip replacement/hernia ordeal ... And "shame" on Ralph Lawson for missing his second 9 a.m. Sunday mass ushering assignment in 28 years in order to accompany his lovely bride, Marge, to the Inter-Parish Association of the Great Lakes' Bingo-thon! this weekend in Peoria (Here's hoping the weekend's full of B 7's for you, Marge) ... A note from Ed Flick: Please refrain from knowingly putting Canadian coins in the collection basket; it slows the count considerably ... God Bless Mr. (and especially) Mrs. Patrick McLatchey on the births of triplets Omar, Levon, and Plutarch, which by our count brings the brood to 13; better save two pews at the front left of the 10:15 from now on ... The Miller sisters once again report a bumper crop of their scrumptious melons. They'll be displaying their wares and selling them to benefit (as always) the Retired Priest Fund after all masses this weekend. Getcha some ... Dorothy Luger apologizes for two of the three batches of chocolate chip cookies sold at last week's Garden Club bake sale; she promises to offer free brownies at next week's Bridge Club bake sale ... In a related note, Iggy Reilly is resting comfortably at home following his recent three-day hospital excursion ... Little Timmy Dobek requests prayers for his hamster Zoltron who went missing during last weekend's visit to his Firlik grandparents ... Speaking of prayers, this week Luckie Pennington would like to thank saints Jude, Anthony, Tobias, Annika, Philbright, and especially Aurelio for favors granted ... Sign up now for the Marginally Mature Club's (that's the "old" Fifty Plus Club) day trip to Wheeling (ID required at the bus door!). As past president Lou Ferragamo likes to say, "Whatever goes on in Wheeling is usually forgotten on the bus ride home." ... Betty Springer reports that "the hay's in the barn and my corns are gone; thanks all for your kind thoughts and prayers." ... Chuck Berrigan seems to have forgotten again to whom he loaned his sump pump; if it's you, kindly return ... Father Fugi says that Rick Strick says that the new cushions for the kneelers should arrive and be in place by Advent ... Sister Jane laments that the school's basketball pump has once again gone missing ... Even though we're heading into winter, it's not too early to order your year's supply of sunblock and sunscreen to benefit the 8th grade's annual trip to Zoar ... Finally, Father Stein reminds one and all to please refrain from texting in the confessional. 

Five Flicks For A Friday

In my world it's not Friday but Wednesday today (long story, of no consequence). Anyway, I'm busy, but I thought I might give you all some suggestions for weekend entertainment in case all the big football games, the continuing stories of Justin Bieber's alleged thirty-second procreative performance and Herman Cain's immolation, and 48 hours of sleep don't pique your interest. Here are the trailers (except for Life Is Sweet, 2 minutes of representative dialogue) for five movies I love but which don't seem to appear on too many people's radar screens anymore, if they ever were. Seek them out and watch them--the pleasure will be all yours. 

When Twitter Twits Get Hitched

• dear mailordergroom.com: I ordered a bold one! bOld.
• sorry abt yr flat, ma, but the organist has a bar mtzvh in like 30 mins. we cldnt wait
• kinda busy for the next 2 wks, sergio. i'll call you later ; )
• pre as in pre-nup means after, right? i always get those things before words mixed up. postfixes i think.
• it nvr seemed like the right time, anyway he likes surprises. he'll find out my real name is Doug eventually.
• 2nd cuz, Shelly! I said he's my second cousin.
• quick, Tina, what his name again?
• that 'poorer' part is just figurative language, right?
• so what if it's white, Sarah? at least I didn't sleep with all the groomsmen and the minister too!
• does my new husband make me look fat?
• can anybody tell me what was in that punch last night?
• can you believe I said 'I do' like five times? as if! LOL
• how come when I Google 'Facts of Life' all I get is pix of Charlotte Rae?

ps: is that photo-bombing STOP sign symbolic or what?