The birth of a would-be fad

Above all, says Wolfe, each duck is a work of art.

They are primarily the design of his daughter, Rebecca, who works with Wolfe in his sun-drenched home in San Rafael, Calif. Rebecca's sketches are e-mailed to China, where a team of master craftsmen construct a mold.

The Cheryl Swoops duck, as per the WNBA star's request, has French-manicured fingernails. The Allen Iverson duck is adorned with Iverson's trademark cornrows hairstyle and arm tattoos. The attention to detail has redefined rubber duckmaking. "Who's ever done tattoos on a duck?" asks Wolfe.

During a frenzied day recently, exchanging e-mails of sketches with clients, Wolfe showed the strain of trying to complete JCPenney's order by the fall. His most challenging task, however, is not to turn out ducks, but to fuel demand.

During the morning, Wolfe receives word that a company that manufactures Bobbleheads – a collectible doll concept dating back to the early 20th century – is attempting to create a Celebriduck knock-off. They plan to undercut his price, he says. (Celebriducks cost about $12 online.)

But Wolfe has a plan to build customer loyalty. In the Beanie Babies tradition, he is rapidly broadening his roster of ducks. He says it's vital to accumulate a critical mass of celebrities that represent a range of ethnicities, cultures, and trades. "Even if you had ducks of Mick Jagger and Marilyn Monroe, you still couldn't make a statement unless you had a breadth of ducks," says Wolfe.

Even more important: preventing a duck glut by limiting production runs.

From his first models – Betty Boop and Charlie Chaplin – Wolfe has normally limited the number of ducks he makes to about 5,000 per run.

There is a market for more, he says. But Wolfe believes he can better pump up demand by signaling to consumers that his product does not sit on store shelves for long.

"People want what they can't have," says Wolfe. "Everyone wanted Beanie Babies when they started retiring them. Then all of the sudden it became a thing. And when it became a thing, it really became a thing."

Limited editions are but one of several tools collectiblemakers use to light a spark.

"When you're playing with a fad, you want to do artificial things to make it feel more unique than it is," says Watts Wacker, coauthor of "The Deviant's Advantage: How Fringe Ideas Create Mass Markets." "One is to make a finite amount. Second is to have it in only a certain venue of distribution."

Part of the task of building the Celebriducks' mythology is keeping tight control of where they are sold. One consequence: Consumers will not likely find Wal-Mart selling the ducks anytime soon. Wolfe has sworn off discounters, partly to keep distribution of the ducks low, but also in an effort to polish their image.

"Collectibles that sell in Wal-Mart are downbranding by equating themselves with mass merchandize," says Karen Feil, executive director of the Chicago-based Collectors Information Bureau, which tracks the resale value of limited-edition products.

Wolfe has been careful about placement, first selling the ducks in cozy specialty boutiques where they are often displayed next to objects made of glass and stoneware.

Most consumers are now introduced to them amid the welter of a sports stadium before a game. Customer service, in this case, is at a minimum.

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