By Steve Provizer

Unfortunately, I recently had to spend a lot of time at a rehab facility, visiting my mom. Caretakers came and went, but the TV set was ever faithful. I had the chance to re-acquaint myself with one of the fundamental American religious rituals: “The Price Is Right.” Five days a week, soaring audio, screaming graphics, and dizzying camera shots herald this fervent ministry. The names of the chosen few are called out in demographic perfection-perky coeds, a black or two, Latins, Marine sergeants, and Sun Belt retirees. Exhorted to “Come on Down!” they spring from their seats like human Pop-Tarts and race to their places at the bidding pews. Released from purgatory, they have taken the first step on the path to ultimate redemption—the Showcase Showdown.

Then, the name of the All-Powerful One is intoned; the stage doors part, the congregation rises as one and The People’s Priest of High Consumption, Drew Carey, strides on stage. With close-cropped hair, frumpy looks and horn-rimmed glasses, Carey succeeds Bob Barker, who started on TV as a cynical, satanic persona on Truth or Consequences and mutated into the white-haired Pope of the Temple of Conspicuous Consumption. As with Reagan, Nixon and Bush, this transformation marked a triumphant iteration of perhaps America’s greatest invention: The Reinvention.

Ravishing models emerge to serve as Guardian Angels of the Sacred Treasure. Their semi-erotic enthusiasm for the first item—a trash compactor—is so compelling that it seems to lead the first group of bidders astray. Finally, a devout Latina shopper triumphs and ascends to the altar. To prove she’s worthy of the Church’s redemption, the Heavenly Host demands she recite her catechism: how much is this sunscreen hotsauce-miraclegrow-snugglefabric softener? She displays a woeful ignorance of the sacred pricing structures, but propitiates the gods by making a long putt and is rewarded with a red Subaru.

Two more bidding rituals ensue and now it’s time for a major sacrament: the spinning of the Prayer Wheel; manipulation of a giant wheel inscribed with numbers which the Gods of Fate use to determine which penitent will proceed to the Showcase Showdown. A hyperventilating Black Priestess, stoic thirtyish male Initiate, and pert Vestal Virgin all spin. The Vestal Virgin spins for our sins and wins, and the people’s high priest beckons us all back: “Write for tickets! Join me in Southern California-dream capital! Spiritual-Consumerist locus!”

Our next devotee arrives wearing a sexy halter-top, and a concupiscent gleam flashes across the brow of People’s Priest Carey but is quickly suppressed. The Angels roll out a stove for the audience’s adoration, along with some sacramental Rice-a-Roni (the Saint Francisco treat). Doris the grandmother bids and wins. Alas, she loses at “Squeeze Play” and the general morale plummets, but cameras pan the crowd, “Applause” signs flash, and spirits soar once again. No place for depression in The Temple!

George ascends next, sporting a natty white moustache, white polyester and long, roguish sideburns—the “Swinging Rector” look. His quest is to acquire giant Eucharistic tablets by correct bidding and then skillfully drop them into a giant maze. Unfortunately, the Devil seems to have his hairy paws on the huge wafers, for they all fall with a thud into worthless slots. With no contests left, the cameras pan the losers, who assume courageous smiles while their consolation prizes come up on the screen: Dessert-of-the-Month-Club, multivitamins, and Fig-Bars with semi-discredited oat bran. Then, one more go-around at the Giant Prayer Wheel and this time Doris triumphs. The Matriarch confronts the Vestal Virgin in the culminating ceremony.

People’s Priest Carey now presides over the final ritual—the Showcase Showdown. The first showcase is wondrous—Lakers tickets, a speedy computer, and a car. Will a bid of $22,500 get Doris into the Sanctum Sanctorum? The second showcase features the disconnected legs of a model emerging from a huge black bathtub, a bedroom set, and a houseboat. By the grace of the Television Gods, the more photogenic Vestal Virgin is the winner. The music swells and, with the bounty of the Church treasury as backdrop, we close out the service with Everyman Carey gazing out over his flock and joking contentedly with the nubile Temple Angels. We must now brace ourselves for a jarring descent from the sacred to the mundane—the midday news. Our only solace lies in knowing that approximately seven hours later we will be able to re-consecrate ourselves by observing the austere rituals involving another Sacred Wheel—this one presided over by the great Goddess of Vowel-Buying: Vanna White.