I’d tell you to get off my lawn, but …
Oh, goody. It’s summer again, and it’s Sammie season, which in this age of social media means that some of us are getting inundated by people begging us to nominate them, or their band, for the Sacramento Area Music Awards. Let me just say that I’ve got nothing against the Sammies; I used to work at the Sacramento News & Review, and while I never was the most over-the-moon believer in award shows, I’ll admit that they do help focus attention on this town’s music community — well, some of that community — and that a lot of people seem to like the awards.
So who am I to complain?
Where I get a little crinkly is with the begging. Now, come on: If your music is so darned wonderful, don’t you think the whole town would be beating a path to your door? Why do you have to beg people who don’t even know you that well to nominate you, and then turn around and beg them again to vote for you once you’ve gotten yourself nominated? And should you win, what does it prove — that you’re a better politician than everyone else? More like, oh, Tracy Flick with a guitar.
Then again, I have a problem with social-media hype in general, like, say, people coming onto my Facebook page and hyping their stuff. It would be like me coming over to your house and pounding a ten-foot-tall billboard into your lawn with my face plastered on it. You wouldn’t like that, would you? I mean, if you’re going to come onto my page and beg people to listen to your band or nominate you for a Sammie or sell your book, at least have the decency to send me a message and ask permission first. Anything else is just so goddamned gauche.
Yeah, I’m a grump. Sorry. I just got some devastating news two nights ago from somebody who has been finding fresh ways to say “fuck you” to me for over 20 years, and it’s still slicing me inside like a pizza made from rusty nails. I’m finding it hard to be happy, so stupid little things are setting me off: cutesy-poo couples burbling their affectionate little sweetnesses to each other in public places (this means you, yuppie couple in the bulk foods aisle of the Co-op this evening), idiotic entitled drivers (you bints in that white Isuzu Rodeo by the Weatherstone? Fellate me), dumbfuck fat-tire bike riders in Midtown who ride on sidewalks at night with no lights, ad infinitum. Then again, I’m just a grumpy asshole who needs a big hug.
But I’ve always thought the Sammie beggars were Kardashian-level tacky. —Jackson Griffith