Audio By Carbonatix
As a child of the Jetson Generation, I thought I’d seen it all. I’d braved the blinding flash bulbs of the amazing Polaroid Swinger, sat at the dock of the bay with the Popeil Pocket Fisherman, thrilled to the thermodynamic miracle of Jiffy Pop.
Little wonder, then, that I’d grown a mite techno-jaded in my dotage. That’s what comes of growing up in the shadow of Telstar.
Still, nothing had prepared me for the Wheel of Fortune TV Play-Along, Mattel Toys’ wondrous whiz-bang. One of the toy industry’s first efforts to wed interactive TV technology to broadcast television, the battery-operated device actually allows home viewers to compete with studio contestants on the syndicated nighttime version of the show.
Okay, so you can’t really win a car (as I had done during an appearance on the show six years ago). For the time being, it seemed reward enough to see letters called out by TV contestants mysteriously pop up on the screen of the hand-held TV Play-Along console. Little did I dream that I was opening a Pandora’s box that would trigger a citywide wild-goose chase fueled by greed, deceit and possible scandal.
It all started one evening a few weeks ago, when I examined the Play-Along console while waiting for that night’s episode of Wheel of Fortune to air.
The gadget, a blue plastic box the size of a videocassette, looks innocent enough. The face of the console houses a keyboard, “spin” and “solve” buttons and a small screen similar to those found on digital watches. On the back is an electric eye that’s the crux of the operation.
According to the directions on the box, this eye “receives invisible signals from the TV show, telling your game each secret puzzle.” Jiffy Pop, be damned–this I had to see. When the 6:30 Wheel of Fortune broadcast came on TV, the console emitted a robotic version of the show’s theme song and the words “AIM AT TV” appeared on the Play-Along screen. I evidently scored a direct hit–within seconds of pointing the machine at the TV, the music grew louder and the word “READY” appeared on my game screen.
Several seconds later, after Pat Sajak had introduced the studio contestants, the TV came in for a close-up of the puzzle for that round. Simultaneously, the same blanks appeared on my Play-Along screen. I pushed the “spin” button, a dollar figured appeared, and I chose a letter.
I watched in disbelief as two tiny R’s appeared on my puzzle screen. On TV, a contestant called for an F. There was an electronic beep and that letter also materialized on my screen. Frankly flabbergasted, I gasped, “What the F?” Finally recognizing the answer as “GO FOR BROKE,” I pushed the solve button and was awarded with an audio fanfare. By the end of the show, I fell back on the sofa in awe. Convinced that I’d just discovered the most spectacular invention in the history of man, this former Wheel of Fortune winner realized he had a job to do. The world must be told!
ALTHOUGH THIS ASTOUNDING gadget first hit the American scene a year and a half ago, it didn’t find its way into many homes (including my own) until this past Christmas. By that time, Mattel had stopped manufacturing the TV Play-Along and the game had been relegated to toy store clearance tables, selling for a fraction of its original $80 price tag. (See related story on page 25.)
Still, who cared what it cost? How do you put a price tag on a miracle? Never one to hide my invisible light beam under a basket, I began hyping my new toy so relentlessly that I briefly entertained the notion of billing Mattel for promotional services rendered. Have TV? Will travel! For the next few evenings, my life degenerated into a mad whirl of computer coming-out parties as I desperately roamed the city in search of any available family room where I could introduce my electronic pal. Never mind that Wheel of Fortune didn’t happen to be on TV when I made my unannounced arrival at the homes of unsuspecting friends.
Yes, La-Z-Boys and girls, astounding as it seems, this wondrous device even works with videotaped episodes of the show!
Park your carcass on an ottoman and prepare to be amazed! I faced tough audiences. More than a few eyeballs rolled during my introductory spiel about invisible rays. But seeing was believing, and my Wheels-on-wheels mini-tour was ultimately a smashing success. Jaws dropped. Eyebrows arched. And, more significant, well-ordered senses of the universe crumbled. Not surprisingly, more than a few observers cowered in the face of this revolutionary weird science. One friend feared that the unseen “game-show waves” might send a relative’s pacemaker out of whack. (On a more frivolous note, another woman wondered whether she could use the mystery rays to roast weenies in front of the TV.) My father, meanwhile, talked of erecting a Plexiglas barrier in front of the television set to protect himself from the insidious signals. I hoped he was joking.
Discounting the invisible-ray explanation as hopelessly sci-fi, one mechanical-minded acquaintance actually grabbed a pair of pliers and disconnected the stereo speakers from his TV in order to “prove” that the gizmo was actually activated by an ultrahigh-frequency audio signal embedded in the soundtrack. When the gizmo continued to work sans sound, he was crushed.
In home after home, the gadget was regarded as some form of modern-day witchcraft. Twenty years ago, America put a man on the moon and today no one gives it a second thought. But a high-tech game of hangman in your very own living room? Ooga-booga! Obviously, Mattel had a direct pipeline to the devil’s workshop. “This is weird!” This from an amateur conspiracy-theorist who, after watching my demonstration, immediately began speculating on the legality of beaming “secret rays” into the homes of unsuspecting TV viewers. (Never mind that American citizens are routinely bombarded with hundreds of unseen radio and TV signals every day.) “Think about it,” he whispered as he suspiciously eyed my blue plastic passport to paranoia. “If they can do this with a toy, what are they doing with these rays that they’re not telling us about?” ALTHOUGH I SERIOUSLY doubted that a $20 toy was the key to some hush-hush government surveillance project, I soon discovered that the game offered one nefarious benefit unintended by its manufacturer.
This shocking revelation dawned on me as I sat in front of the television one evening, playing along with a TV broadcast of the show.
Because the game enables players to guess letters faster than the studio contestants can spin the wheel, I was routinely solving puzzles in fifteen or twenty seconds–and often before my TV counterparts had placed even one letter in the puzzle.
A hollow victory? Under most circumstances, yes. But this is Phoenix, home of Channel 10’s “Wheel Deal 10,” a local promotion that allows home viewers to compete for a $250 gift certificate by phoning in the answer to a specially identified puzzle each night. Pitted against the Wheel of Fortune TV Play-Along game, John Q. Have-not didn’t stand a chance.
And, as it turns out, neither did I. Aided by an accomplice armed with a speed-dial phone, I spent the next several evenings trying to beat the system. And even though I was able to divine answers to incredibly arcane puzzles like “CLINT EASTWOOD AS DIRTY HARRY CALLAHAN” in a matter of seconds, we were never able to get past Channel 10’s busy signal. Why? Well, it didn’t take a genius to envision a small army of avaricious viewers huddled around their TV sets doing exactly what I was doing. To prove my theory, I simply needed to get my hands on a list of winners. This was easier said than done. “Station policy” prevented Channel 10 from giving me the list. The Arizona Attorney General’s Office (where winners’ names and addresses are filed in accordance with state gaming laws) wasn’t much more eager to part with that information, either. But with the scent of scandal searing my nostrils, I persevered.
Reels of red tape later, I finally scored a copy of the elusive document. Pay dirt! Confirming exactly what I’d expected to find, the list was liberally studded with repeat winners. At least four families had scored two wins apiece and, against all odds, one enterprising couple managed to rack up a rather astounding total of four victories. Crosschecking addresses provided more fuel for the fire. Two separate winners just happened to live in the same West Phoenix apartment complex, while across town, another pair of winners shared space in the same North Phoenix mobile home park. Mere coincidence? I didn’t think so–particularly after I discovered (while checking addresses in a phone book) that one multiple winner had since moved into a home belonging to another multiple winner. Were these folks really using the Wheel of Fortune TV Play-Along? And if they were, would they admit to it? I had my doubts (after all, why rock the gravy boat?) but decided to make some calls, anyway. As it turns out, I didn’t have much more luck contacting winners than I did getting through on Channel 10’s phone-in line. Winners had moved, were never home, had unpublished numbers or, incredibly, didn’t seem to have a phone at all. (How had they called Channel 10?!) When I finally did connect with a two-winner household, the woman who answered the phone sheepishly admitted that her family had chalked up its second win thanks to a stall tactic: Breaking through Channel 10’s phone-jam before he’d actually solved the puzzle, her son hollered, “We know the answer! We know the answer!” until another family member came up with the correct solution several seconds later.
Okay, so one multiple-winner family got lucky. But what about the tenacious champs upon whom fate had smiled on four different occasions? Clearly, these folks knew something the rest of us didn’t. Undaunted by the fact that they had an unlisted phone number, I decided to drive out to the North Phoenix business address they’d given Channel 10. Aha! The “suite number” in their address actually corresponded to a post office box in a strip mall mail drop. I was forced to admit I was spinning my wheels. I knew someone had to be using the device–but how to prove it? I poured my tale of electronic skullduggery into the nearest sympathetic ear. As luck would have it, that lobe just happened to be attached to someone who had once toiled in the TV vineyards. “Well, for starters, you can forget about that thing,” he said, smiling smugly as he pointed to my play-at-home contraption. “Do any of these people have satellite dish antennas?”
He explained that because syndicated programs like Wheel of Fortune are distributed to stations around the country via satellite, any satellite dish owner could, should he be so inclined, watch the program hours–perhaps even days–before it was ever broadcast locally. “If any of these people have a dish in their backyard, that’s probably exactly what they’re doing.” I cringed. Renting a helicopter so I could buzz winners’ homes was out of the question. Nor was I especially eager to go prowling through strangers’ lawns. (I could see the headline: “WHEEL” WACKO SLAIN IN BACKYARD DISH PEEP.) Still, I had come this far. And what possible harm could come from nonchalantly cruising down an alley and casting a casual glance in the general vicinity of a winner’s lawn? Unfortunately, I didn’t find many alleys. I did, however, find many high fences. I also encountered at least one highly suspicious oldster who probably wondered why I kept jumping up and craning my neck every time I walked by her neighbor’s fence. Flashing a lame smile, I jumped into a waiting getaway car and fled the scene. That evening, as I sat in front of the TV waiting for Wheel of Fortune to come on, I realized that my days as a game-show Guardian Angel were over. But I had to admit I’d come away from my obsessional sleuthing with at least one valuable lesson: It’s not how you play the game–it’s whether you win or lose.
I watched in disbelief as two tiny R’s appeared in on my puzzle screen.
I desperately roamed the city in search of any available family room where I could introduce my electronic pal.
One friend feared that the unseen “game show waves” might send a relative’s pacemaker out of whack.
A high-tech game of hangman in your very own living room? Ooga-booga!
I could see the headline: “WHEEL” WACKO SLAIN IN BACKYARD DISH PEEP.
