ast night I watched American Idol.

Sometimes, when I'm watching entertainment programs that begin with the word "American," I like to scramble them all up. Like I pretend that "American Pie" is the scathing suburan satire beloved by critics and that "American Idol" is a juvenile slapstick comedy about pie-boinking and that "American Beauty" is a hit reality TV series, and I don't know why, but it amuses me. You can do this with American Movie, American Gigolo, American Psycho. The list goes on and on.

So I watched American Idol. And it was great. Here was some blond lovely singing Olivia Newton-John's "Hopelessly Devoted to You," followed by a torn-shirt cutie belting out "What a Feeling" by Irene Cara. And there, in the front row, sat Paula Abdul and Gladys Knight. What nostalgia, what better days, what carefree concerns: Who will be YOUR next American Idol? It was as though these smiling people hadn't picked up a newspaper, hadn't lumbered through the day with a helpless queasiness in their stomachs, hadn't listened to anything but pop radio. It was as though I hadn't, either. "Make sure to tune in tomorrow at 8 for the elimination round," said the host. I made a mental note.

This morning felt different. The sky is blue and unbroken, but the daily paper was bleak. "War Planners Say US May Attack Early" screams the banner headline on page 1. The Op-Ed section is practically a comedy of finger-pointing: that Bush is wrong, that Bush-bashers are wrong, that anti-war protesters are wrong, that Democrats are wrong, that America is wrong, that war is wrong, that everything is wrong wrong wrong. And I agree with many of them - except George Will, who really must be ignored -- but fuck intellectualism. I can't help the feeling that people are going to die when they don't need to. "This page has never wavered in the belief that Saddam must be disarmed," writes The New York Times. Right, okay, fine. But then: "This war crowns a period of terrible diplomatic failure." And that's how I feel, in my mealy-mouthed, historically-cloudy, would-rather-watch-movies kind of way. Good idea. Baaaad delivery. It leaves me nervous and strange, eager for distraction.

Tonight I'll be watching the television for news of the invasion. Of course, it has nothing to do my curiosity about who will be eliminated from American Icon (or was that American Idle? I get them all confused).