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it during prime time when I was stopped by a close-up of a sparkly ring on a small turntable, throwing off color and dazzling brightness as the studio lights hit the facets. I’ve loved shiny things since childhood, so I watched hungrily as a blond hostess displayed a ruler for the camera and measured the diameter of a ring. Then she measured the profile. I unmuted the sound. “We’re talking nearly three carats of Diamonique. And that’s a lot of stone presence.”
    Hours passed, and new hosts appeared looking fresh and knowledgeable. Days passed, and still they offered bangle bracelets and Crock-Pots, plug-in rodent repellents, and cotton wick-crotch panties. Once, I watched for two days straight during a Joan Rivers Classic Collection marathon. But ultimately, the products—even the jewels—were not why I continued to watch it obsessively. I was hooked because it was live television. And they took calls.
    People phoned in and spoke to the hosts on air. They talked about how long they had been looking for a green plastic revolving earring tree just like that one . And how much weight they had lost using the George Foreman Lean Mean Grilling Machine. Sometimes they called instead of cutting their wrists. Once while I was watching, the cheerful host told a despondent caller, “Please stay on the line. Our producer will give you the name of an outreach program in your area.”
    I got goose bumps.
    Another time, I was watching while they were presenting a fountain pen. An attractive model was wearing a nightgown and sitting at a desk. She wore a pleasant expression, as if writing the words “forever … dreamily … longingly…” to a distant lover. But when they cut to a shot looking over the model’s shoulder, I saw that she had actually written, “By the time you read this note, I’ll be gone. Don’t come searching for me…”
    When they cut back to the host, he was repressing a smile. He’d seen the studio monitor. Those models , he might have thought. Always up to some hijinks.
    That’s what was so fascinating about home shopping channels. When a sitcom actress slipped and fell on her bony ass, she was landing on an X of masking tape that a gaffer placed on the floor of the set. But when one of the hosts dropped her newborn and the baby started to howl, I knew it was really happening .
    I got a certain rush from QVC. At that pre-Twitter moment in time, it was the purest form of distilled American culture available. It was intravenous marketing. No memorable jingles, no catchy slogans, no playful typography on the screen. Just the pharmaceutical-grade cocaine equivalent of sales, and I was stunned by its purity. Of course, like any drug, it made me do things I would not normally do.
    The night before, I hazily recalled, I had purchased $300 worth of gigantic nonskid rug pads … despite the fact that my studio apartment was minuscule and already had its own rug of filth. I had been so swept up in the drama of the presentation that I was unable to contain myself, like someone who is admiring the pretty fish swimming near the coral reef and then gets swept away in an undertow. I called the number on the screen and ordered.
    â€œWhat size?” the operator asked.
    â€œWhat size do you have?” I was almost shaking with anticipation.
    â€œWe have three sizes, sir. Five by seven, six by—”
    â€œSend me all three,” I slurred.
    *   *   *
    The next morning, I woke up and padded across the mashed-flat food container–carpeted floor to sit at my computer, where, without planning to, I opened a blank document and wrote, “You exposed your penis on national television, Max. What am I supposed to do?”
    As I wrote these words, I could see in my mind a blond shopping channel host sitting uncomfortably across from his executive producer. There was one of those golf-putting gizmos on the