Not in Any Store…

Originally published February 5, 1993, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1003

“We’d like to know if you’d be interested in going on a Star Trek special on QVC.”

The phone call was from a collectibles company in New Jersey. Among the various paraphernalia they offer for the consumption of consumers everywhere is a host of Trek merchandise: autographed plaques, sweatshirts, jackets, etc., ad infinitum and, for some, ad nauseam.

For those whose lives are devoid of cable (the TV bonanza, not the steroid-pumped cyborg), QVC is a home shopping network–although not to be confused with the Home Shopping Network. A series of products is paraded before your wondering eyes, all of which can be yours with a simple phone call and an accommodating charge card.

Of the two major shopping channels, QVC is the more low-key. Items are trotted out, discussed, demonstrated, lauded for periods of time. Then they’re put aside, only to be returned to at a later time.

If it were a Disney ride, it would be the Peter Pan ride. Home Shopping, by contrast, is Space Mountain–items hurl on and off screen, sometimes with breakneck pace. And, if an item isn’t moving, they start slashing the price. If you’re a daring consumer, you might hold off, hoping that the price gets whacked down to something that you’ll chortle over to your grandchildren. Of course, you could wait too long and then the product’s sold out. But if you buy too early, you kick yourself if the price drops five minutes later. It’s the closest television comes to simulating bungee jumping for viewers.

Still and all, whatever the cosmetic differences, there’s a basic philosophy–hawk stuff to the viewers.

My job, if I decided to accept it, would be the equivalent of the color commentator. A QVC spokesman would handle the actual merchandise peddling. I, the Star Trek “expert” of the moment, would take about Trek in general and, when appropriate, place the items in something resembling a historical context.

Although I was surprised to “get the call,” as it were, I was not wholly unprepared. They’d used other authors before. They had also used a series of Trek actors parading across the screen.

Frankly, I’d considered the entire display insipid. In many cases, actually embarrassing–watching the Trek actors smiling fixedly, responding to vapid questions, and trying to feign interest in a variety of chachkas. I thought it rather silly, even undignified.

And I knew that I would never, ever, lower myself to participate in such a display of naked commercialism.

So when the guy called from New Jersey and said, “Would you be interested in going on a Star Trek special on QVC?” I was prepared with my very arch, dignified, “I can’t be bought” reply.

Which, for some odd reason, came out, “Yeah, sure. Sounds cool.”

Mr. Dignity. Mr. Self-Control.

Now, in self-defense, it wasn’t quite that abrupt. And I also went through a lengthy self-rationalization process, making the following points to myself:

• The Star Wars collector’s special with Mark Hamill QVC had done a couple months back had been rather worthwhile. Hamill acquitted himself well; the interviewer really knew his stuff; and some of the products really were worthwhile. During that special, I myself had purchased a hardbound signed edition of the Archie Goodwin/Al Williamson Star Wars comic strips. So it was possible to do one of these things and not feel like a schmuck.

• If I were on the program, they’d offer my hardcover Trek book, Imzadi, as one of their items. So I would have something personal I could discuss.

• I had plenty of sales experience. I was sales manager at Marvel for five years, remember. Selling came naturally to me; hëll, if I could sell Obnoxio vs. the X-Men, I could sell anything. (As a digression, I will never forget the time back when Marvel had monthly fan press conferences which I ran, and then-assistant-editor James Owsley described Obnoxio vs. the X-Men in the following manner for the fan reporters: “Written, penciled, inked and lettered by Alan Kupperberg. Yes, it’s untouched by human hands.”

• It was going to be on from 1 to 3 a.m. Eastern Time. The reason was that it was really directed at people on the West Coast, where it would be on from 10 to 12 at night. It meant that I could get some experience conducting myself on a live TV broadcast in relative privacy. It was very short notice. (I presumed that their efforts to get someone else had fallen through–and as it turned out, I was right. Originally, they wanted Chris Claremont.) It meant that there wouldn’t be any advertising of my appearance because there wasn’t time. So if I didn’t open my mouth about it (aside from telling a few friends and co-workers), the odds were that hardly anyone I knew would see the dámņëd thing.  If I screwed up in some manner, no one would know or care.

• I was not required to sit there and tell people that this stuff was going to have some sort of collectible investment value. This was fortunate because I didn’t think they ever would, frankly, and there’s no way I would have told people that. As it turned out, QVC has a strong policy against billing things as potentially increasing in value. Apparently (they claimed) one has to have a collectible license or some such in order to make such statements, and QVC doesn’t have one. They can say that something is cool looking or a “must have” item, but they can’t and won’t say, “If you buy this now, it’ll go up and up in value.” So that made me more comfortable with the whole notion.

• The money they were paying for the appearance wasn’t a fortune, but it wasn’t anything to sneeze at, either.

• Isaac Asimov had done tire commercials. Hëll, if it was good enough for Asimov…

• I figured I could get a column out of it.

So there I was a few days later, having been picked up from my hotel (where I had checked in merely a few hours earlier and made a futile attempt to get some sleep) and was now being whisked to the QVC broadcast facility in West Chester, PA.

They had told me I should wear a jacket and tie. I told them to buzz off and wore jeans and a sweater. At 1 in the morning, they’re lucky I didn’t show up in pajamas and bathrobe.

My driver was the fellow from the collectibles outfit who had contacted me in the first place. I expressed to him my concern that I might say or do something inappropriate, but he didn’t seem particularly disturbed by the notion. Maybe the lateness of the hour was of comfort to him, as well. Also, it seemed unlikely to them that I could be a bigger disaster than William Shatner had been when he had done a QVC appearance for them.

As the salesman had described the items in detail, Shatner had said–on the air–“Wow, this stuff is really overpriced.”

Now there was a ringing endorsement. On the one hand you can admire his candor; on the other, that wasn’t exactly in the spirit of the agreement he’d made with his sponsors. The collectibles guy, who had presumably paid big money for Shatner’s time, said dryly, “Yeah, we sure got a lot of bang for our buck out of that appearance.”

The QVC studio bore something of a resemblance to Mission Control. More than half of the auditorium-sized room was taken up with operators (you know–the kind who are always “standing by now”) at computer screens, taking orders from customers. This was only one bank of operators, it turned out, with other groups scattered through the East Coast. This, combined with the automated service wherein you don’t even have to talk to a human being to buy things (the ultimate dream for agora- and xenophobes), makes QVC an organization designed for sucking away money second only to the IRS.

The other half was filled with the actual broadcast mechanism. Now in the days before my appearance I’d been watching a lot of QVC to prepare myself.

(Indeed, it was during that time that I really began to understand QVC’s allure. Nothing bad ever happens there. It’s not like CNN, with its parade of worldwide disasters. Or like the networks:  There’s no obnoxious sitcom kids. There’s no talk show hosts discussing bisexual bigamist husband/wife beaters. There are no Amy Fishers or Buttafuccos.

There’re just… folks selling stuff. And there’s no pressure, particularly if you’re one of those people who gets cold sweats when a salesman comes over in a store and says, “May I help you?” It’s all soft-sell, and you can always walk away from it. It’s peaceful… almost hypnotic. As opposed to the depressing world depicted on most other stations (Nickelodeon and Disney excepted), the absolute worst thing that ever happens on QVC is that they sell out of something. And I seriously doubt that any viewer out there has ever been watching QVC and screamed something like, “Edna! They’re out of the salad shooter!” and subsequently blown their brains out because they couldn’t cope. I mean, if there were people like that, we’d be hearing about it on CNN.)

During my several days worth of viewing, I had counted four different sets. What amazed me, upon my arrival at the studio, was the economy of space and ingenuity involved. The sets were not scattered throughout, which would have required multiple camera and lighting set-ups. Instead all four sets were together, mounted on a giant turntable, quartered by walls. When it was time for a set change (usually when embarking on a new sales program–an hour of jewelry, for example, followed by an hour of cameras) they just rotated the turntable. Presto. Cameras and lighting remained the same.

The fellow who was going to be my “host” was named Dan Wheeler. As opposed to the fellow who interviewed Hamill, Dan was not any sort of long-time SF or Trek aficionado. Rather, his bosses had simply said to him, “We’ve decided we’re going to have you run the late-night Trek programs.”

Not being a fan is hardly a criminal offense. But when you’re supposed to be selling the stuff, it is something of an inconvenience. So Wheeler had been gamely immersing himself in 25 years worth of Trek history.

In person, Dan Wheeler comes across as a guy who’s genuinely trying to do his job, and honestly trying to have on-air conversations that will, with luck, educate both himself and the viewership.

That’s in person. However–as I subsequently saw when I watched not only myself on tape, but author Mike Friedman in a later appearance–on the airwaves Dan appears condescending, even patronizing. His ignorance of his subject matter seems magnified (although having him read off cue cards with catastrophic typos such as “the Kingdom Empire” instead of “the Klingon Empire” certainly doesn’t help).

All I can say is that, working with him both backstage and on camera, he sure didn’t seem that way at the time. He didn’t seem patronizing to me–a bit perplexed and overwhelmed, maybe, but not patronizing. I can only guess that it’s something he has to work on.

The upside of Dan’s relative ignorance was that it made me look better. My knowledge of Trek is somewhat modest compared to more avid fans; next to Dan, I looked like a walking encyclopedia.

Moments before I went on I kept muttering to myself, like a mantra, “Don’t screw up, don’t screw up.” (Actually, I used a stronger word than that, but this is a family publication.) But, as with most things in life that you’re apprehensive about, most of the concern is in the anticipation. Once I was out there, and discussing things that I was comfortable with, I felt a bit more at ease.

Still, it was difficult to get any real sort of dialogue going, because the bottom line is that this two-hour stint wasn’t really a talk show. Wheeler could never ask a follow-up question, because the format called for one question, one answer, followed by five minutes of selling stuff. That’s what QVC exists for, after all–to move product, not chat with the guest. It’s an uneasy mix at times.

We took calls from viewers. Some of them were genuinely fans of mine, and familiar with my work. Others–quite understandably–had never heard of me before that night. They were the ones who were politely befuddled when Dan asked, “Do you have any questions for Peter David?” because, of course, they didn’t. Those were the moments during which I felt the most uncomfortable.

But it didn’t last long, because as the night (or morning, I suppose) wore on, I started to get punchy. You think drinking and driving is a dangerous combination? Try live television and sleep deprivation.

At one point they were hawking sets of uncut trading cards. I personally see no use for them, but by that time I was on autopilot and my old sales reflexes started to kick in. I actually heard my own voice saying, “Why yes, in fact, you should buy two sets of these, so you can frame one side with the pictures out and the other side with the text on display!”

I got stranger. Later a woman who had ordered those self-same trading cards got on the air and asked, “Do these come with the hologram cards, as well?”

I waited for Dan to reply. He was the authority on the products, not me. I was just the color commentator.

Wheeler’s smile was still in place, but he turned to me and I could see in his eyes that he simply had no clue.  Dead silence. I hadn’t spotted any in the sheets, and then I thought of the old adage–“If you can’t dazzle them with your intellect, baffle them with your bull.”

“No, and here’s why,” I said, speaking with authority. “The hologram cards are printed with a completely different process, on their own separate sheets and in much smaller quantities. They’re not intermixed on the sheets.”

It seemed reasonable. Maybe it was even right.

“Oh,” said the woman over the phone, sounding a bit disappointed.

And, having no idea where to go from there–to Wheeler’s utter shock–I burst into tears.

“I’m sorry!” I sobbed. “Oh… Goddddd. I’m sooo sooorrryyy!” I doubled over and wailed into my hands.

I held it for a couple of seconds and then immediately snapped back to normal, thereby erasing any thought that I had sincerely broken down but doubtlessly confirming the opinion of the people at QVC that I was out of my mind.

We moved over three hundred copies of Imzadi. I admit to being disappointed with that number, although I like to think that if they’d been autographed we’d have sold more (because of the short notice, there hadn’t been time for me to sign them, although I had offered to do so).

So they were offering unsigned copies at list price, and anyone who was interested knew perfectly well he or she could go down to a local bookstore and buy it for less. Still, at least people now have a face and a demented persona to put with the name, and perhaps they’ll check it out at their local bookstore.

Overall it was a bizarre experience.

And I’d never do it again.

Unless… y’know… they asked…

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to c/o To Be Continued, PO Box 239, Bayport, New York 11705. Write before midnight tonight and get a set of Ginsu knives.)

UPDATE: They never asked me back. Big shock.