At an inappropriately late hour, we’ve glued ourselves to the television’s static. Noise that makes no sense as it pounds into our ears and whites of our eyes. Why is the signal so shitty? Adjust the ears, fiddle the knobs. Is this even the right channel?
It’s 3am, the ‘oriental’ cutlery-set infomercial is followed by dead air. Frequency noise. We habitually wait for the next moment. What’s coming after. The gamble we play against ourselves. How long do we wait for the song to air? We don’t really care because we’re exhausted and bored insomnias.
Finally, we’re greeted by our countries’ tune, the national anthem. Defense of Fort M’Henry — that borrowed British jingle.
There’s a dulled sense of pride in this unwaking hour. The flag raised, scenes of majestic bald eagles fly across unmarked native graves and glorious capitalist obelisks.
Estranged and oddly familiar, these vaguely patriotic moments remind us of who we are. Lacking taste, the scene still exhibits the classic ingredients of Americana. God lives within our grandest of canyons and fields of golden whatever. Let us not forget, it’s our gosh-darn given right to be numero-uno, to better our brethren as is our duty and our struggle. The truest power we stumbled upon is that which defines our melancholic inhabitance.
The anthem has finished and our regular television programming will resume.
Good morning, America.