his Sunday, as I’m sure you know, the Grammys will be broadcast on some station or the other. If your household is anything like mine, you’ve stocked up on snacks, sodas, magazines to read during the boring parts, and a ball peen hammer to knock yourself unconscious every time Usher wins. (This is a dangerous new teen trend I recently learned about in Sunday Styles.) While any reader of sarahhepola.com is well aware that there are few things I love more than awards shows (short list: booze, peanut butter, Target), the Grammys are not high on my list. The Grammys, as a general rule, suck, because anyone older than, say, 16 is pretty much out of the loop when it comes to the music nominated. Where is Wilco? Where is Elliott Smith? And who on God’s earth actually likes Los Lonely Boys? The hands-down best pop song of the year, Britney Spears’ dizzying “Toxic,” was stiffed, with a condescending nomination for Best Dance Song; meanwhile, Hoobastank’s “The Reason” is as original as a middle-school mash note, and it rakes in four nominations. Feh! Don’t get me started.

But I’ll watch the show anyway. And I hope you do, too. Why? Because awards shows are something to cherish. Awards shows are part of what it means to be an American. Awards shows are freedom. And Sunday, we will let freedom ring-a-ding-ding.