You Gotta Admire TV’s Commitment to Meaninglessness

The first story on the 10 o’clock news was about a Britney Spears concert in Anaheim.

“Come look at this,” I called out to my wife, figuring there must have been a terrorist threat at Arrowhead Pond if the concert was leading the news.

I was wrong. Britney topped the news all on her own, and now they were interviewing a parent who had brought her 7-year-old daughter to the concert. The child was dressed like Britney, bare midriff and all.

It goes without saying, of course, that this woman should be locked up. She is clearly unfit to be a parent, and if I had caught her name, I would have called child welfare officers myself.

The next story on KCAL 9 that night was about another concert. Jennifer Lopez this time.

“Would you come in here and look at this?” I called out to my wife again.

Jennifer was on a big swing, like a trapeze artist, hoisted over a stage in Puerto Rico. After showing a fawning montage of her career achievements--which included her infamous public appearance in a dress that was missing its dickey--KCAL broke to a live newsroom commentary from one of its anchors, who carried on as if the subject were Eleanor Roosevelt. Along the way, she kept referring to J.Lo, as the star prefers.

Is my own image fresh enough? I wondered.

Steve Lopez is the old me. When my wife finally came into the room, I told her that until further notice, I wanted to be called S.Lo.

“This can’t be the regular news. There’s a war going on,” she said. “It must be some kind of special.”

One would think. But no.

The third story on KCAL 9 finally mentioned Afghanistan, but not in the context you might think. This segment, which took us inside a strip club near LAX, was about efforts to stem the proliferation of such establishments. The strip club lawyer--a true credit to his profession--said with a straight face that Americans want Afghan women to come out from under the veil, but at the same time we’re asking American women to cover up.

Hire this attorney. Whatever jam you’re in, he’ll come up with something.

The fourth story of the night, switching from culture to commerce, was about shopping for lingerie.

“I don’t believe this,” said my wife.

Maybe it’s because a Laker game just ended, I said. Maybe instead of playing to the lowest common denominator, as usual, they divide by two after a sporting event.

This story took us to a lingerie shop that featured bubbly, half-naked salesclerks who seemed to have fallen into the right line of work.

“They look really smart,” said my wife.

The enterprising reporter, a philosopher king himself, said that when you buy a naughty nightie for your mate, “They think they’re getting the presents, but you’re really the lucky one.”

I took a cyanide capsule. My wife beat herself over the head with a dumbbell.

We couldn’t go on.

No one in their right mind expects to be enlightened or informed by local television news. But in more ways than one, what we were watching had nothing to do with the news. We were witnessing the triumphant resurrection of bad taste.

The world had changed forever, we all thought on Sept. 11. Irony was dead, humor would never be the same and bad taste was suddenly inappropriate.

But no longer.

The fifth story was about the war in Afghanistan, but once again, not in the context you might think. It was about Operation Playmate, in which Playboy bunnies will entertain American troops.

Several centerfolds were interviewed about the important mission at hand. What a perfect nightmare they must be for Islamic fundamentalists, I thought. And then a lightbulb went on.

Instead of having them entertain the good guys, we could send them running through the streets of Taliban strongholds wearing nothing but bunny ears. This could draw Osama bin Laden and his men out of hiding to condemn Western values, and the war would be over.

At this point of the newscast, I found myself rooting for more trash. It was such an unabashed commitment to meaninglessness, you had to admire the conviction. (A couple days later, in fact, I rang the general manager and news director to congratulate them, but they didn’t return my calls.)

Five straight wartime stories on midriffs and bosoms. Could they keep the streak alive?

Story number six:

Hackers break into the Playboy Web site and steal credit card information.

Yes!

I wanted it to go on forever. Internet porn, hair removal, aging playmates entertaining Legionnaires.

But the seventh story, I’m sorry to report, ended the streak, posing a question that bordered on newsworthiness: Is it safe to send our athletes to the Winter Olympics?

Before breaking to a commercial, KCAL teased an upcoming story on a traffic accident.

“Oh no,” my wife said. “Maybe a Playboy bunny died.”

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Steve Lopez writes Monday, Wednesday and Friday. He can be reached at steve.lopez@latimes.com.