TV’s Night Of The Living Salespeople
I’m watching sellavision, the insomniac’s version of TV. Here on my screen is the valley of the whatever-became-ofs: infomercials.
These advertisements, disguised as talk shows, medical breakthroughs and the next amazing wonder of the world usually run late at night or early in the morning. They prey upon the vulnerability of the sleep-impaired. A history of impulsive shopping doesn’t hurt either. Theirs is the stuff of nocturnal worries: wrinkles, hair loss and gopher holes.
The spokespeople for these products are recognizable types: the has-beens, the wannabes, the never-weres and the stupendously rich. Through the magic of television, all of the first three groups have the potential to become members of the last.
The has-beens are people who appeared as supporting characters in failed sitcoms or drama lite. Their faces are vaguely familiar. They are probably no less talented than many of their gainfully employed peers. This is not a reason to get out your credit card.
There’s the woman from the old Real People show selling skin cream. She is joined by one of the lesser Charlie’s Angels, the wife from “Welcome Back Kotter” and the squeaky-voiced friend from “Benson.”
All wax melodic about how the skin-care regimen has changed their entire lives.
Although they may no longer be recognized for who they used to be, they are, they say, often mistaken for someone 10 years younger. This, it seems, is even better than fame.
The love interest from “Silver Spoons” sells everything from tooth whitener to chemical peels. The second ditsy blonde from “Three’s Company” sells ab rollers and pillows filled with some kind of Zen buckwheat.
Not all of the spokespeople come from central casting. Many of them are bona fide stars.
There’s Chuck Norris and Christie Brinkley getting toned with yet another affordable home gym, Bruce Jenner on his latest exercise contraption looking like an escapee from Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum, Connie Stevens selling a face vibrator, and Fran Tarkenton selling darn near anything.
The wannabes and never-weres are not formerly famous. Viewers are meeting them for the first time so the competition is fierce to make, if not a good impression, at least a lasting one. Theirs is the domain of car wax, wet mops and turbo rototillers. With the right product, one that speaks to the late-night soul of America, fortunes are made. Spray-on hair-in-a-can comes to mind.
Tony Little, the pony-tailed exercise guru who looks like Gidget on steroids and talks like the poster boy for road rage, started out as an unknown. Today he could probably buy his own country.
Home shopping channels are another outlet for celebrities who have discovered their inner salesperson or regular folks who have discovered their inner celebrity.
This is retail in prime time. The whole American dream is available by phone. And it’s all on easy pay.
For a one-time, introductory price of just a tad more than it costs to buy the monthly groceries, you can have practically anything you need and lots more that you don’t.
You can finally pick up that amazing gopher trap you’ve always wanted. Or start collecting dolls that will eventually require their own wing of the house. Or spring for an entire fall wardrobe. If you’re really lucky you might even get to chat live on the air with Ivana Trump who, by the way, is just like us, except that she married Donald.
There is perfume from a princess whose grandmother once had a conversation with the cousin of the last czar of Russia and jewelry from a woman who believes she is descended from wood nymphs. Everything on sellavision is fabulous. Absolutely fabulous.
How do I know this stuff? I’m a part-time insomniac. Junk TV is my late night snack. I never intend to watch these things, but some kind of inner compulsion, like eating raw cookie dough, drives me on. It’s a delicious bit of indigestion. For like-minded souls I say, indulge. But leave your credit card with a responsible adult.
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The following fields overflowed: CREDIT = Kathleen Corkery Spencer The Spokesman-Review