Stern - But Wait ... Theres More!

County Fair to Cable Fare

Late-Night Carnival

The Kingpins of Paid Programming

Crooks and Liars

Where the Shopping Never Stops

Circus of the Stars

Remote (Control) Dreams

But Wait, Theres More!

I n some ways, this book began twenty years ago when I found myself watching television in my room late at night when I really should have been doing homework or sleeping. So I suppose I should start off by thanking my mom and dad for buying me a TV at the age of thirteen against their better judgment.

I was fortunate to talk to many, many people who work in the trenches of the infomercial and home shopping industries as part of my research. From inventors to marketers, entrepreneurs to production personnel, Im enormously grateful to the people who took time out of their busy schedules to sit down and talk with me about what they do every day. This is an industry that rarely gets much positive attention in the mainstream media and, understandably, some were reluctant to pull back the curtain. I think my personal passion for the material gave many of them confidence that I could cover the subject fairly and address both the positive an the negative. I hope Ive done that.

I owe a debt of gratitude to my agent, Dan Lazar, who had a vision of this book from the very start and has been exceptionally supportive every step of the way. My deepest thanks to everyone at HarperCollins, in particular Ethan Friedman, who acquired the book for Collins and edited the first draft, and Matthew Inman, who edited the final manuscript and shepherded the book to print. Emma Garman read the manuscript more times than I can count and offered invaluable input and guidance. Pulling together thousands of pages of documents was no small task and I was fortunate to have Ellen Wernecke assist me during the research process. Maer Roshan has been a mentor and friend as well as a source of inspiration. Thanks to Mariel, Shawee, and Karen for their love and support. My late grandfather, Marc Martin, never watched an infomerical in his life, but as an engineer and inventor he instilled in me a love for gadgets and gizmos at an early age. My late uncle, Henry Lange, encouraged me to pursue my writing when I wasnt so sure myself. Finally, thanks to my mom. This is for you.

I ll come right out and confess the truth. There was a point in my life when I watched infomercials with alarming regularity. I didnt sit up all night and watch them, mind you. And I wasnt a shopping addict, running up my credit card with the purchase of countless mops, blenders, self-help books, and cubic zirconia rings. But I did find myself often turning on the TV late at night and bypassing the other shows on television to watch Ron Popeil try to sell me on a pasta maker, Tom Vu explain how I could make millions in real estate, and Tony Robbins convince me that he could help me chart a new career direction and get along better with my wife. The fact that I was a high school student who didnt have any interest in cooking, had no career to speak of, and wasnt even of legal age to get married or purchase real estate hardly mattered. These were some of the most amusing characters on television in the wee hours of the morning.

Of course, there wasnt much competition at the time. I didnt have a digital cable box with 1,102 channels, thousands of hours of video on demand at my fingertips, a TiVo capable of storing my favorite shows, or a subscription to Netflix. There were a couple dozen channels, and almost all of them seemed to magically turn into a flea market late at night as smarmy men took to the airwaves with their dubious wares. A few hours earlier, these same channels had been broadcasting sitcoms, dramas, and weighty news programs. When night turned into early morning, they became home to people like Tony Little, a manic ponytailed personal trainer, and Matthew Lesko, an equally hyperactive man famous for his suits decorated with gigantic question marks who assured audiences that he had the secret to extracting free money from the government.

As it turns out, my interest in infomercials coincided with the golden age of the medium. In the late 1980s and early 90s, the airwaves were flooded with products, many of which were about as dubious as the notion that the government had billions of dollars sitting in a bank account somewhere that they were just itching to hand over to me as long as I filled out the right form. The advent of cable had unleashed dozens of new stations, many of which had little in the way of original programming. Deregulation of the industry had given broadcasters the right to sell the airtime to advertisers. And buying time on these channels was cheap, which meant that almost any marketer could come along and offer, say, a car wax so powerful you could set your luxury vehicle on fire without doing any damage. As this new phenomenon of paid programming flooded the airwaves, Americans responded by doing what theyve always done best: they opened up their wallets and went shopping.

I wasnt the only one fascinated by this parade of bizarre late-night pitchmen. There were millions of perfectly intelligent people tuning in to these characters. What led meand so many others from my generationto this wacky world was an affection for the campiness of it all. Like other kitschy staples from the 80s, the infomercial quickly became a fixture on the American pop culture landscape. But we werent just sitting back and laughing. We were picking up the phone to order these products, too. When I mentioned to an editor at a fashion magazine that I was working on a book about infomercials, she whispered that shed purchased the Showtime Rotisserie oven a decade earlier but had made sure to keep it hidden away. An investment banker described how he purchased a get-rich-quick program as a teenager. Before realizing that Wall Street would be the quickest path to making millions, he briefly thought that Dave Del Dotto held the key to everlasting riches.

The first product I ever purchased was Didi Seven, a stain remover that came in a small tube and was imported from Germany. Didi Seven inundated the airwaves in the late 80s with a demonstration that is much like the one you can see today in commercials for OxiClean, InstaGone, and OrangeGlo. A large bowl of filthy water turned clear instantly when a bit of Didi Seven was added to the mix. Grass stains and mustard splotches disappeared instantly; yellowed curtains that hadnt been cleaned in three decades looked brand new. Didi Seven could remove iodine and blood stains, the infomercial assured viewers. I still have no idea who handles iodine on such a regular basis that they need to have an iodine cleanser on hand at all times (and Id venture to say that if youre drenched in your own bloodor anyone elsesyou probably have bigger things to worry about than a ruined shirt), but as the host ran through all the potential uses for the product, each one seemed to serve as ample proof that not having a tube of Didi Seven in the house would be a major liability. And so off I went with my fathers credit card. A week later it came in the mail, and I went around the house ready to conquer every blemish in sight. I still dont know what Didi Sevens active ingredient was (it remains a secret even though youd be hard-pressed to find Didi Seven these days), but I cant imagine it was all that different from bleach. I left a half dozen white splotches on the carpet in my bedroom and on several pairs of pants hanging in my closet before I tossed it in the garbage.