They say love strikes when you least expect it, and so it was for me. I was on vacation in a small Vermont town with my loving boyfriend, sacked out on a couch, drinking bloody Marys, and watching bad TV. He had the remote and was clicking rapidly through the 99 cable channels. Only three of those channels were clear enough to watch. It was on his third pass of what appeared to be some sort of infomercial that I gently placed my hand on his.

"Honey," I said. "Stop here . . . let's see what this is."

What caught my eye first was the contraption for sale. It looked like a small rotisserie, like a smaller version of the ones in the prepared-foods section of the grocery store. This rotisserie was already loaded with a roasting chicken, and I was salivating within seconds. But it was not the chicken, nor even the rotisserie, that won me. It was first the voice, and then the visage, of one Ron Popeil.

You may have heard of Ron. "It slices, it dices, it julienne-fries!" The Veg-o-maticreg.. Popeil's Pocket Fishermanreg.. The Inside-the-Shell Egg Scramblerreg.. The spray-on toupee. The list goes on. Ron created things that most people didn't even know they needed until he, through his masterful use of low-end, poorly produced television commercials, created that need. But until that fateful day, I'd never seen Ron. I'd never experienced his on-camera charisma or the power he wielded over his in-studio infomercial audience . . . and, in time, over my heart.

Ron's broad shoulders, his melodic voice, his stiff-yet-confident smile, his seamless pitch line, his impossibly high cheekbones, his broad chest, his beady eyes, his balding pate, the way he wore his apron . . . all these factors conspired to captivate me. Each time my boyfriend tried to change the channel, wondering aloud what kind of moron would buy anything from an infomercial, I stopped him, knowing I was that moron. Ron's command of the chicken, and the audience, was total. The way he looked right at me convinced me he was speaking to no one else. Not only did I want the Showtime Rotisserie 3000-Treg., but I wanted Ron in my kitchen, expertly demonstrating how to plunge the rotisserie skewers deep into the chicken, attach the washable gears to the end, and slide the thing effortlessly into the waiting rotisserie, where we would then "set it, and forget it!" We would wait for the chicken to cook to juicy doneness, then feed one another while our passion built. Within minutes of flipping on the infomercial, I was prepared to climb the highest mountain with a Mr. Microphonereg. and announce our love to the world.

But first I had to get rid of Kim. She was the perky little helper who followed Ron around the studio kitchen in a pink apron, oohing and aahing over everything he did. "Oh, it's so juicy!" "Oh, that looks so easy!" "Wow, Ron, you're the best." The bitch. She had to go. But how? Then it came to me: the Inside-the-Shell Egg Scramblerreg.! If I could slip into the studio audience, get close enough to plunge the working end into her skull, and hit the ON button: instant lobotomy! No . . . I would have to find another way to be with Ron.

That's when the toll-free number flashed on the screen, announcing that for less than $100, not only would I receive the 3000-T, but the barbecue gloves, accessory package, and my money back if I was not completely satisfied. That was so like Ron: always thinking of my happiness. I wrote down the number.

Somehow I made it through the next three days of my vacation. Finally, home alone, I picked up the phone.

"Ronco," came the voice at the other end of the line. "My name is LaTonya. How can I provide you with excellent service today?"

"Yes," I said tentatively. "I'd like to speak to Ron, please."

"Who?"

"Ron. Ron Popeil. Your boss."

"Uh, ma'am, he's not here. This is the order line. We're in Wichita, Kansas. Would you like to order something?"

"No," I said, growing increasingly irate with this woman who would deny me my heart's desire. "I would like to speak to Ron."

"Well, honey, I can't do that for ya. Ron lives in Hollywood with his fourth wife, and he don't take phone calls."

Wife? My God, I thought. It can't be true.

"Ma'am? Are you there?"

"Yes . . . I . . . thank you . . . I can't . . . I . . . " I hung up, stunned into silence. How could Ron have deceived me? The way he spoke so confidently, addressing all my objections one by one, as if he knew exactly how to get me to want what he was selling. The way his eyes flashed at me, melting my heart. The bastard -- he had promised me complete satisfaction! I was crushed, duped, as empty and useless as a Smokeless Ashtrayreg. in an East Side restaurant.

My spiral into madness was interrupted by a knock on the door. It was my boyfriend, with a bag of groceries. He kissed me on the cheek and went into my kitchen, reaching into the bag and pulling out a rotisserie chicken.

"You seemed so into that rotisserie ad that I thought I'd bring this for dinner," he announced cheerfully. He reached back into the bag, raised one eyebrow, and with a low, booming, confident voice, said, "But wait! There's more!"

My heart leapt. I'd never seen this side of him before. The knowing gaze, the perfect delivery of the pitch line. His tease ignited my curiosity -- and my passion -- as I waited for him to pull the next item out of the bag. But he never got that far, for my ardor could not be bridled.

"Who's your little Pocket Fishermanreg., baby?" I whispered. And we embraced.

Kris Frieswick can be reached at krisf1@gte.net..

Issue Date: January 25 - 31, 2002