Tuesday, February 23, 2010

On ceramic ducks and sensible sweaters

I mean every single thing I'm about to say.

I love the home shopping networks. What started as a few laughs at a late-night clearance sale when I couldn't sleep has turned into, well, like, it's kind of a problem. Not for my bank account, as drawstring khaki-colored sweatpants and ceramic egg-shaped water bottle holders aren't exactly life essentials for me, but for my sleep schedule.

The thing about QVC and HSN (originally I was HSN or DIE, but I've become quite the QVC viewer as of late) is that they make every last detail of every last thing sound simply extraordinary. Oh, that shirt appears to have yet ANOTHER shirt undernealth it?! BUT IT'S ONLY ONE SHIRT? UNHEARD OF! These battery-operated candles are less likely to burn your house down?! SAY WHAT?

They are so excited about everything, almost to the point where it exceeds the barrier of excitement and start going backwards into not being excited at all (there has to be a physics equation for this phenon). They are so excited that I have actually considered calling up and buying things at 2AM that I should not want.

A wonderful moment happened a few nights ago when an interior designer was talking about his bedding, and how he likes to change it up frequently. "Every one has their vices," he said. "You know, they drink or they gamble... I do both... But I also like changing my bedspread."

It doesn't help that the late-night callers are WONDERFUL, rambling on about their purchases and their grandchildren and their slew of cats while the hosts nod and look so genuinely excited to talk to Martie B. from Boston, Mass. The hosts must go home and drink, cry and be exhausted.

There is no way that channels like this can last must longer into the future, especially with my generation. You know, the internet exists, and attention spans are short. This makes me sad, but I'm not sure that any amount of reinvention could change that. Television just isn't as efficient as these internets. HSN's death feels inevitable, like me marrying candy, but that doesn't make any less depressing. I guess that all good, distracting, sleep-preventing things must come to an end someday.

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