Tune in, Dial Up and Buy

By ALEX KUCZYNSKI

FOR almost two decades the television shopping network QVC - the letters stand for quality, value, convenience - has entranced buyers of toaster ovens, hair pieces and cubic zirconia jewelry. In 2004, 192 million phone calls resulted in orders shipped to 137 million homes. Total sales were $5.7 billion.

Until a few weeks ago I had never really watched QVC with any kind of intensity. No reason. I have always been fascinated by QVC's cousin, the infomercial, and can watch Ron Popeil demonstrate his rotisserie cooker for hours at a stretch. (Mr. Popeil also appears on QVC from time to time.)

For several days I kept the television trained on QVC for at least two hours in the afternoon. I was curious: why are shopping networks, many of them cruising into their third decade, so successful? In an era when advertising is sophisticated and Internet shopping is thriving, it seems counterintuitive that shopping networks can still flourish.

But they do, with astonishing vigor. That's because a significant percentage of Americans do not live anywhere near a major store, but many do have cable or a satellite dish attached to their house. And to judge from my watch-a-thon, a lot of the QVC viewers live alone, are elderly or just need someone to talk to.

QVC works like this: An energetic host or hostess welcomes the viewer onto a homey-looking set, demonstrates products and engages callers in friendly discussions. Occasionally a small studio audience is called upon to offer ooh's and aah's. Quantities of items sold and the number that remain flicker at the bottom of the screen, which creates a tantalizing anxiety: supplies are limited and going fast, so you had better jump on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. In distinctly American fashion, the accrual of debt is encouraged. Even inexpensive items can be bought on an installment plan.

Voices of callers - mostly women - crackling over the telephone lines punctuate each presentation. (Only people who have purchased products can go on the air. If you have not, you don't get your 15 seconds of fame.) One day last week Margaret from Muncie called in to praise a Denim & Company flower-print stretch fleece pullover. Jill Bauer, one of the most popular QVC hosts, informed Margaret that a lot of her very own family is from Indiana and, boy, she knows how cold those Indiana winters can get, so she's sure the pullover will come in handy.

Another caller ended her conversation by saying that her grandson Trent was born the same day as Jill's son Trevor, and she'll always think of Jill with fondness on her grandson's birthday.

"It was a good day for the T's, wasn't it?" Jill replied with a 10,000-watt smile.

A good day for the T's, indeed, but what an eerie exchange. The caller's life is so informed by television that, on the occasion of her grandson's birthday, she will think of a woman she has never met and is not likely to meet.

This is what makes QVC so thrillingly dark. It manufactures a sense of community - the friendly chatter, the "hi, honey" and "goodbye, dear" - while at the same time separating the caller from his or her actual community. After all, if you're inside watching television, you are not out interacting with the real, non-QVC neighborhood.

Home shopping originated in the late 19th century, when the first Sears, Roebuck catalogs were sent to farmers who had to travel long distances for basic goods. Somehow I doubt that Messrs. Sears and Roebuck ever imagined a catalog that forced the customer to wait while someone else turned the pages. This is what happens on QVC: it may take days or months of watching to find something you actually need.

For days I watched the parade of products, awaiting a presentation for a king-size mattress or a set of Torx screwdrivers. Instead I watched a hairdresser named Nick Chavez demonstrate how to make hair fluffy. His "prescription for sexy hair" kit costs $39.93 (with shipping and handling of $6.22). A woman with a slight quaver in her voice called in to talk to him.

"Are you a sexy girl, my dear?" he asked when she got on the line. "Did you pick this up today? What would you like to tell these ladies about how sexy hair makes you feel?"

"Well, I love these products," the caller said. She did not sound sexy or girlish, to be frank. "They don't flake. You can brush your hair and just keep going."

There were hoop earrings that come packaged in a painted Christmas tree ornament. ("When we get to November or December, I don't know if we're going to be having them again," the hostess Jane said. "Fast-forward four weeks, and we probably wouldn't be able to take your order.") There was the microsuede water-resistant topper, the talking Bible, the interactive children's books, the nail-thickening serum and ridge filler, the Diamonique ring that looks like three rings but is actually just one.

After three days I chanced upon a presentation for a mattress called the Sleep Number. On the face of it the mattress seemed kind of practical: each side can be adjusted to a different level of firmness. On reflection though, I was put off by the gimmick. The Sleep Number is not just a mattress; it's a mattress with adjustable levels of firmness. (And it cost $2,328, which seems like a lot.)

Because QVC can never really predict what its viewers need, it must create an illusion of need, and there is no better way to do that than by adding a gimmick. This item is not just a miniature generator but a generator that is also an AM-FM radio-flashlight. This is not just a key chain; it's a key chain with a lip gloss attached to it. You can't get these things in any store.

By Day 5 I buckled and ordered a George Foreman grill. Not just a grill, mind you, but a grill with a bun warmer.

Part of the charm of home shopping networks is that they are a safe haven for the fading celebrity or socialite, sports hero or onetime wunderkind, a place where refugees of fame can take a breather between flops and hits. Pete Rose, George Foreman, John Tesh, Diane von Furstenberg, Ivana Trump, Blaine Trump, Victoria Principal, Kathy Hilton, Kenneth Jay Lane, Vanna White, Joan Rivers: all have had gigs - and some still do - on shopping networks. Television audiences will always embrace a celebrity and will willingly share in any fantasy that implicates them in a celebrity tableau.

For that reason the hostess on a QVC cosmetics show explains that buyers can wear the Lorac Licked Kissed and Bitten lip polish to a number of different events: "I don't care if you're walking the red carpet or taking the kids to soccer," she said. "Lip polish makes your lips look better than ever."

That sentence, a haiku of contemporary consumer culture, is what QVC is about. Your lips will look better than ever as you walk the red carpet from your living room chair.