Celebrity book clubs are all over the place - Oprah started it; now Katie Couric, Kelly Ripa, Mike Tyson, and Paris Hilton all have them! (Okay, we'll admit we made up the last two.) Of course, here at CCJ we feel we'd be neglecting our duty if we didn't share some releases they ignored with you. The CCJ Book Club will fearlessly show you the books you may not have heard about. In that spirit, here are some excerpts from our first selection:

INTRODUCTION

It was an average day. We had to get in three shoots for the new rotisserie infomercial. I was busy spitting hams and racks of ribs, and setting up the warming trays when I heard the office door fly open.

"What were you thinking, Jack?" Ron screamed. I had worked for Mr. Popeil for years, and knew that when he was screaming, you should get out of the way. His green apron fluttered ahead of him.

"Ron Popeil doesn't want a white shirt! Ron Popeil needs a blue shirt, like it says right here!" He waved a piece of paper in Jack's face. He'd started referring to himself in the third person shortly after the first infomercial. "Consider yourself fired!" he raged, slamming the office door.

"Aren't you going to do something?" I asked Jack.

"It's no use, Jayne," he said. "I'm just another product to him. Just another Pocket Fisherman."

Looking back, we were all Pocket Fishermen, in a way. Caught in a pocket of greed and deceit called Ronco. Caught in the spiraling net of insanity that was Ron Popeil. It's a terrible story, but it's one that must be told - and must be heard.

The early days had seemed so carefree, so it was a surprise when things began to go wrong. I remember one infomercial in the late '70s.

Ron was pitching the Six Star Plus Cutlery Set - you know, precise craftsmanship, three rivets, stainless steel tang, the whole deal - in front of a live studio audience. Few people know this, but live studio audiences for infomercials are some of the dregs of the Earth. The homeless, the unemployed... we had some real scum sitting in the stands that day.

He had nearly come to the end of the grand finale. He picked up the largest knife - the one a carpenter had just cut drywall with - and walked over to the pineapple. "Oh, Ron," I said, reading off the TelePrompter, "that'll never cut a pineapple."

"Just watch, Jayne," he said. He started sawing at the pineapple just under the leaves. It was supposed to come apart like a stick of butter - but something was wrong. The knife wasn't even breaking the surface. He shook his head and started grinding the knife in harder. He grunted and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

Suddenly, someone in the audience laughed. Big mistake. Ron froze. The knife clattered to the counter. "Get him out," he hissed, his voice full of menace. "Ron Popeil can't work like this."

The man laughed again. I saw the veins in Ron's neck pop out like cables. He picked up the heavy wooden knife block and threw it into the audience. Luckily, it went far to the left and bounced off an exit door.

"Who ground down Ron Popeil's knife?" he shouted. "Sabotage! I want everyone fired! You don't try to sabotage Ron Popeil!"

He walked off the set, and by noon, he was drinking cocktails in the studio lounge. You could never predict what he'd do next.

Even with what went on during studio tapings, anything in private was worse. We had to read scripts one day for an infomercial - about the Ronco Bagel Cutter, if memory serves me. We were all around the big table at Ronco. Ron was sitting with the bagel cutter, working it up and down. This was supposed to be our first dry run - without a script.

"But that's not all. The Ronco Bagel Cutter is the safest way to cut bagels - or all your money back!" Ron recited. He looked over at Jack, who had the last line.

Jack had told Ron the day before that he had laryngitis. He could barely croak that out, and now Ron was staring him down. I remember the line perfectly: "I tell you, Ron, I love bagels, but I'm always cutting my fingers!" Jack looked down at his box of Sucrets, but Ron kept his eye focused on him.

"Say the line, Jack," Ron said flatly. There was a teasing gleam in his eye. "Say the line." Jack reached for a throat lozenge and Ron pulled the box away. "Tell you what, I'll get you started. 'I tell you, Ron,--' and then you say--"

"Can't," Jack croaked hoarsely. "Throat."

Ron closed his eyes and shook his head. "Don't tell me that. Just read the line. 'I tell you, Ron, I love bagels, but I'm always cutting my fingers!' It's simple enough. Let's hear it."

Dead silence.

"Read the line, Jack!" Ron shouted. He stood up. "Read the line, Jack! Read it! Read it!" He leaned into Jack's terrified face. "'I'm always cutting my fingers!' Simple line, Jack! 'I'm always cutting my fingers!' Need some motivation, Jack?" He snatched up the Bagel Cutter. "This isn't as safe as we say it is, Jack!"

Suddenly Ron stood up, adjusted his apron, and walked out. "Ron Popeil needs a drink," he said.

I had never seen Jack so terrified.

"Set it and forget it!" he screamed at me. "Easiest line ever! This isn't just the Inside-The-Shell Egg Scrambler here! This is the Showtime Rotisserie! You're ruining me, Jayne!"

He picked up the Solid Flavor Injector. "I don't know what to do, Jayne," he said. He stared at the injector in his hands. I still shudder when I see them. "You're ruining the infomercials. No one does that to Ron Popeil. No one!"

I knew I had to leave. "Mr. Popeil, I can't do it anymore," I said. "I quit. My resignation will be in the mail."

He threw the flavor injector. "You can't do this to Ron Popeil! You need Ron Popeil! Get back in here!" He grabbed me. "The Food Dehydrator--the Pasta Maker--the Dial-O-Matic! Ron Popeil invented all of it! You don't walk out on Ron Popeil! Get back in here! GET BACK IN HERE!"

I took one final look at that sad, pathetic man, and walked out. I never turned back, and I'm still sure it was the best decision of my life. Ronco - and Ron Popeil - were gone from my life forever. I didn't have to fear for my life after missing a line in the Drainbuster segment. I'd never see another handful of homemade jerky thrown at an innocent audience member because Ron was given the wrong color dehydrator. I was free. I was no longer a Pocket Fisherman.

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