I don’t know what day it is anymore, but 24 played last night and Jack Bauer tortured a guy in a storage unit, so it must be Monday. Or Tuesday. The days are blending. The TV says we’re liberators. The radio says they’re hiding weapons that no one can see. And my gut says we’ve all lost our goddamn minds.

At the diner today, someone ordered freedom fries without irony. I think they actually believed potatoes could absolve them. The waitress just sighed and scribbled it down like she’s written “patriotism” on a receipt before. Maybe she has.

There’s a new flag on the neighbor’s pickup. Not the usual one, this one has a bald eagle superimposed over a mushroom cloud. His bumper sticker says “Support Our Troops or Shut the Hell Up.” It used to say “My Other Car Is a Lightsaber.” I miss that car. I miss that country.

Every news anchor is wearing a pin now. Every. Single. One. No one talks about the protests anymore. We’re all just supposed to pretend the “coalition” is more than three guys and a PR team. We’ve uninvited the French from reality. We’ve decided that if we just chant shock and awe loud enough, maybe we won’t have to think about what comes after.

The war came to us in 480p. Wrapped in a green night-vision haze and Tomahawk trailings. There was a moment during the broadcast when the camera cut to Baghdad (or someplace similar) and I thought, “That looks like when CNN showed the Gulf War.” Then I remembered I was twelve then, watching explosions on TV and thinking it looked like a video game. This time, it is a video game. EA’s launching something soon, probably with a DLC for desert camouflage.

Remember when “Axis of Evil” sounded like a Mortal Kombat faction? Now it’s just Tuesday.

In class this week, one of the kids said his dad’s already over there. Another said his cousin enlisted last month. My friend Danny said, “We’re bringing them democracy.” I asked what that meant. He didn’t know. I don’t think anyone does. We’re all parroting slogans like we’re in a Pepsi commercial. Come to think of it, even Pepsi changed their logo last year; everything feels rebranded, sanitized, and made-for-TV.

I bought a NOFX CD today. There’s this one track where they scream about how no one questions anything anymore. It felt good. Like someone left the window open in this airless room we’re all stuck in. Everyone’s worried about “unpatriotic sentiments,” but no one seems to be worried about the truth.

It’s a weird time when the Dixie Chicks say something honest and country radio bans them. Like, that’s the line now? Criticism is betrayal? We’re wearing yellow ribbons like they’re bug spray for guilt. If you don’t tie one to your antenna, do you even support the troops?

Speaking of antennas, I still use rabbit ears to get CBS. The war looks fuzzier than it should, but I kind of prefer it that way. Blurred bombs feel less complicit than HD murder. Though I’m sure Sony or GE is working on an even sharper lens so you can see the “surgical strikes” in stunning detail. All for the price of admission and a wave of the flag.

I walked past the Army recruitment office. They’ve got a new poster up: flames, dog tags, and the words “Be All You Can Be.” I swear it looks like the poster for The Fast and the Furious, just with fewer spoilers and more guns. I wouldn’t be surprised if Vin Diesel signed on for a war bond commercial.

It’s strange. We’re invading a country, but they tell us we’re the good guys. They say it’s because they have evil men. Because they hate freedom. Because they might, someday, do something bad. “Preemptive defense.” That’s the phrase. Like putting someone in prison because they look like they might commit a crime. Minority Report was supposed to be science fiction, not policy.

There’s a lot of talk now about “regime change” and “coalition forces.” It’s Orwellian, honestly. You can’t call it a war, even when there are tanks and missiles and civilians dying. It’s a “liberation.” You can’t say “invasion,” because that implies agency on our part. No, this is just history happening to us, apparently. We’re the reluctant heroes in a summer blockbuster. There’s no draft, just destiny.

MTV’s still pretending it plays music, but now they cut in with updates from the front lines between episodes of Real World. Nothing says “crisis of conscience” like watching reality TV while real people are bleeding out 7,000 miles away. Maybe that’s the point. Keep us distracted. Keep us afraid. Keep us docile.

They said this would be quick. Weeks, not months. They said we’d be greeted with flowers. They said the intelligence was solid. They always say that. Like the script never changes, only the actors. New war, same damn lies.

Mom still keeps the news on in the kitchen. She doesn’t say much. She just watches, sometimes murmurs prayers. She remembers Vietnam. She doesn’t say that either, but I can see it in her face: the ghosts gathering around the TV again, whispering “Here we go.”

And here we are.

I keep thinking about that boy from Tikrit (or someplace similar) who got pulled from the rubble after an airstrike. His face was everywhere for a day, then gone. He wasn’t part of the narrative. Not a threat. Not a soldier. Just collateral. We say we’re precision targeting, but you don’t precision target a playground.

At school, someone tried to wear a peace sign shirt. They got sent home. The principal said it was “too political.” Apparently, you can wear a flag, a tank, or a Bible verse, but not a symbol that says “don’t kill people.” That’s too radical.

I don’t know if we’ll win. I don’t even know what winning means. But I know we’ve already lost something. Maybe it’s our soul. Maybe just our sanity. Maybe it’s the ability to be honest about who we are and what we’re doing.

Anyway, Jack Bauer’s back on tonight. Maybe he’ll find the WMDs.