I sit alone, but not lonely, inside a Mexican restaurant. On the TV above me, two men in a cage, wearing shiny underwear and fingerless gloves, punch each other repeatedly in the head. Occasionally, one kicks the other in the face or stomach. Right now, the one in red is above and behind, exerting his dominance, doggy style. This is what we, in America, call a “cage match,” where “cage” is not an homage to John Cage, composer of easy to dance to symphonies of silence, but a reference to the chain link crab pot in which the two men battle. With the volume turned off, I can hear, within the composed silence of barbarism, dishes rattling in the kitchen, tortilla chips crunching at the next table over, fizz from the coke the waitress has set before me. Four minutes and thirty-three seconds of the American Sublime, before the guy in blue taps out, blood gushing from a broken nose. I am alone, but not lonely. I am an American, surrounded by my countrymen, several of them undoubtedly armed.