Better Living Through Television

Hi! I’m Colleen Kruse. I’m that pal of yours who is the proud owner of the Richard Caruso Molecular Hairsetter, the Miracle Blade/Ginsu Knife Garnish Set, the Euro Broom, the Magic Bullet, the Vitamix. Let’s not forget the Kitchen Plus 2000, either. These products are the fruits of hours spent watching late-night infomercials. I was so thrilled by the money-back guarantees that I bought each and every one. Better still, in most cases I called the 800 number before the program ended, so I received not one but two of each gadget; since you are my friend, you probably got one for your birthday, anniversary, housewarming, or Secret Santa surprise.

Let me explain. If you’re like most Americans between the ages of eighteen and forty-nine (and I know I am), then you must forgive me my gullibility. Come on. Who wouldn’t want to slice tomatoes so thin that their in-laws would never come back?

Advertising. Some call it art, some call it science. Some call it a way to keep English majors from moving back in with their parents. But no matter what you call it, it’s influential. It’s not just a double-edged sword, it’s a dual chopping blade that cuts both ways. On one hand, it gives people a chance to express themselves artistically within a medium where a lot of creativity is squashed into ready-fit demographics. We all saw multiethnic Coke commercials long before Denzel got his Oscar. In the space of a thirty- to ninety-second TV spot, advertising can inspire audiences to imagine.

On the other hand, it can take them to the outer limits of psychological manipulation. Case in point: Two years ago, my best friend Roxanne stumbled home after a night of clubbing, fixed herself a cheesy bedtime snack, and snapped on the telly, where she chanced to see her favorite Dallas star from days gone by, Victoria Principal. The club buzz, the piping-hot Super America burrito, Victoria Principal–it was all too much. A woozy half-hour later, she dug her credit card out of her evening bag and purchased two hundred dollars worth of waterproof makeup intended for burn victims. Under the fluorescent lights of her office, she looks very peaceful, nearly lifelike. Almost like she could get up and … HEY!

I’m even more susceptible, as evidenced by my sizable collection of “as seen on TV” objets. I actually prefer infomercials to standard commercials, because that extra twenty-eight or -nine minutes that they offer tells me they really care. Infomercials romance you, whereas commercials are too quick for my taste, too flash-in-the-pan. While watching commercials, I like to pretend that I am better than the people in them. It makes me feel smart to sit silently on the futon of judgment in my basement and refute a commercial’s claims of whiter teeth, hotter sex, and better living through cellular communication. In most cases, I feel that I am superior to them all–except Wilford Brimley.

Yep. He’s the grandfatherly guy in the old Quaker Oats commercials. He’s better than me because he knows the difference between right and wrong. No matter that his best friend in real life–I am not making this up–is acquitted felon and accused murderer Robert Blake. Wilford Brimley oozes integrity. You can hear it in the deep, resonating timbre of his voice. When old Wilford says eating oatmeal is “the right thing to do,” I feel morally obligated to munch through a bowl of fiber.

Partly this is because Wilford looks nothing like a TV spokesperson. He’s rumpled and portly and bald, with a mustache that is thick, white, glossy–and irony-free. He looks like Santa’s macho brother. His steadfast gaze and whole-grain baritone are Kryptonite to my skepticism. The rational part of my brain knows that he doesn’t really put oats in his feedbag. He weighs 250 pounds because he eats porterhouse steaks, washed down with plenty of Cutty Sark. But if Wilford Brimley told me to jump off the Washington Avenue Bridge, I just might. He is now hawking diabetes-testing devices on late night TV. I don’t need one, but I’m thinking of buying a few just in case. They could be nice to have around for guests. A fun party game, maybe.

If tobacco lobbyists were smart, they would get Wilford Brimley. Who could resist? I see him dressed in corduroy and flannel. He’s sitting in a cozy cabin, beside a roaring fire. There’s a butt in his mouth. A few rosy-cheeked child actors come clamoring inside after a snowball fight. “Grandpa!” the youngest would say. “Whatcha doing?” Wilford would turn to the camera: “Smoking. It’s the right thing to do.” He’d tousle the little boy’s hair and say, “Here y’go, Timmy. Puff on this heater. It’ll warm ya right up. While we’re at it, why don’t we check your blood sugar?”