The Double Exposure Radio Blog

The Dixie Chicks had a well-known comedy song a few years back called “Earl Must Die” and I’ll bet for a lot of the people who gave Earl Jones their life savings only to see all their money disappear, that song might be playing over and over in their heads today. It seems the era of handing your nest egg over to some sweet-talking shyster who calls him or herself a “Financial Advisor” is coming to an end, as it should. This is spoken by someone who has done just that in the past with some disastrous results, although, luckily, I didn’t lose everything I had. And, the problem was and still is, most of us think we don’t know how best to save our money, so we give it to someone who can babble on for hours about  “No-front-load mutual funds”, “Asset-backed securities” or  the “Constant yield method” which I thought had something to do with always letting other drivers cut in front of you. As if being able to say “Bracket creep” makes you a financial genius.

Yes, I’ve had the financial advisor from hell. If you’ve got a few hours I could tell you about the gold mine investment where we struck gravel. Even after the mine caved in and water filled all the crevices, I briefly considered hanging on to my shares because I pictured a day when gravel would come back as a currency just like it was in Neanderthal times (and people maybe opened a chain of stores called “Everything for a Stone”), but, eventually I let it go and lost…I dunno, some thousands of dollars. I could tell you about the feature film that we were persuaded to invest in. When we met with the creative team, the producer said, “The script is kind of rough but that’s all we’ve wrotten(sic) so far”. I put that (sic) thing in there because the producer was supposed to have said “written” but didn’t actually know anything about grammar, and, not surprisingly, didn’t know anything about producing a movie either. By the way, the film, all about how extras on a movie set get drugged up and die instead of walking on as background people in a street scene…if you think you’ve seen it, you’re wrong. It didn’t get a theatrical release. It didn’t get a TV or DVD release. I think it might be shown in prison film classes on how not to make a movie. I lost…ohhh, maybe the cost of an expensive sedan. I could go on, but I’m already starting to hyperventilate so I’ll stop.

The moral of the Earl Jones or Bernie Madoff story is pretty simple. You’ve earned all this money, or maybe your wealthy industrialist husband died and willed you all this money. Who are you going to give it to for safe keeping? When you walk into a doctor’s office, you always look on the wall right? Just to check out the diploma. Do the same if you’re in your financial advisor’s office. If the diploma says, “Shoppers Drug Mart Do it Yourself Finance Course”, try somebody else, or better yet, find a spot under your mattress. These days, it’ll give you a pretty good return on your dollar.

   By the way, speaking of Earl Jones, we put together a song that sums up most people’s feelings on our July 24^th Double Exposure Radio podcast called “One Night in Point-Claire”. Try it out at http://doublexposureradio.com/podcast.html

The 2009 G8 summit has wrapped up in Italy and, as usual, Canada was there. God knows why. Not that I don’t think this is an excellent country, indeed, it’s the best place in the world to live, but one of the world’s most powerful countries? Who are we kidding? Anyway, one of the most-looked-forward-to moments of every G8 summit, other than the final statement announcing no agreement on anything, is the leader’s photograph where they all stand shoulder to shoulder and pretend to like each other. However, once again, for the second year in a row, Canada’s Prime Minister Stephen Harper was missing when they tried to round the leaders up. You might ask, “What’s that all about?” Well, I believe Stephen Harper has an enlarged prostate. Isn’t it the first sign? Whenever people are looking for you, you’re in the toilet. Where else would he be; doing a secret deal with Russia to deport all of Canada’s gays and lesbians to the Gulag in return for letting the Russians take Nortel off our hands? No, go for the prostate problem. Isn’t it obvious, when they took the G8 leaders’ photo, Stephen was in the loo having a pee. Now, an enlarged prostate can also effect your sex life, although, putting the words “sex life” and “Stephen Harper” together in the same sentence is not technically possible. Honestly? I think both the Harper kids were from virgin births. I suspect that an angel came to Stephen and Laureen’s bedside one night and said, “Steve? Let me show you how it’s done.” So, my message to Stephen Harper; you’re a man over 40. Get your prostate checked once a year and maybe we can start seeing you in those highly-sought-after G8 group shots.

   Which reminds me that Double Exposure has all that sort of thing covered in this week’s comedy podcast which you can find at; http://doublexposureradio.com/podcast.html.

Besides Stephen Harper at the G8, there also that tricky little matter of Harper pocketing a communion wafer at the LeBlanc funeral. Sam Spade goes on the case we call “The Missing Wafer Caper”. You’ll also hear our own version of “A Prairie Home Companion” with Garrison introducing a new singing group made up of Bill Clinton, Marc Sanford and Eliot Spitzer who call themselves “The Horny Bottom Boys” singing their big hit “I am a Man in Constant Trouble”. You’ll hear Barack Obama talking to Dmitry Medvedev of Russia about the nuclear stockpiles. That and a new feature of our podcast each week, the start of 65 episodes of “Smoking Loins of Desire”; a soap opera about wieners. All this week on Double Exposure Radio where you can now order T-shirts, hats, mugs, and other handy items, all emblazoned with the flashy “Double Exposure Radio” logo. Easy to order. Just go here;

http://doublexposureradio.com/shop.html

Let the world see you know how to LOL. Oh, and by the way, we’ve looked at that footage over and over where Stephen Harper, allegedly, pockets the communion wafer and have come to the final conclusion that he was simply saving it for the dip at the post-funeral party.

I love summer in Canada. One of the perks of being a speaker/entertainer is that I get to participate in a lot of special events, many of which happen in the summer.

   I remember a warm June night in Ottawa, after entertaining Prime Minister Mulroney and an arena full of Conservatives; I was invited to a party under a tent at 24 Sussex Drive. I thought, “Well, most Canadians don’t get to do this!” I saw plates of hors d’oeuvres going around, I saw wine glasses clinked in toasts, I saw a small German man with envelopes stuffed with cash running in and out…no, I’m kidding. I kid for a living.

  Once, on a hot July 1^st, I entertained at a conference in Whitehorse and, because it was nearby, I decided to drive to the marge at Lake LaBarge to see where Robert Service cremated Sam McGee. Standing beside that legendary lake, I realized that the flames may not have killed Sam McGee, but, if he’d been standing next to me, the mosquitoes certainly would have done him in. Ah, mosquitoes; in Manitoba they call them the provincial bird.

   I’ve had Ralph Klein serve me a soggy pancake at the Calgary Stampede. I’ve raced a conference of financial advisors up Signal Hill to watch the icebergs and I’ve bellowed “Farewell to Nova Scotia” as tears streamed down my lobster-stained face. All under a summer sun.

   This summer, while you enjoy time at the cottage, or on the island, or just in your backyard, remember you can take Double Exposure Radio with you anywhere to make sure you get lots of laughs. So, go to http://doublexposureradio.com/podcast, load up your iPod and make this the summer of fun.

   A frosty, cold beer; $4.75. Being a Canadian in the summer; priceless!

This is the Father’s Day weekend, and it’s a time when we all like to take a moment to thank our dads for, well, being our dads. And, if your father has passed on to the great Lazy Boy in the sky, as mine has, it’s also a time to reflect on just who your dad was. Well, my father was a character. And when I say ‘character’, I mean character in giant CAPITAL letters, in BOLD font, and underlined several times. Oh yes, if you looked up character in the dictionary, you know who’s picture you’d see. Now, he was a caring person, loved animals, and at times, had a pretty devastating sense of humour. But one of the features of his personality that fell squarely under the ‘character’ column, was that he was very fond of the ‘5 Finger Discount’. In other words, he liked to pinch, pilfer, filch, pocket, or just plain shoplift. If anyone ever made a comment about some item mysteriously showing up at our house, like, “Say, Dad, where did that piano come from?”

His standard answer was, “Oh, that. It fell off the back of a truck.”

Some of his targets were pretty minor, although they always made for extremely nerve wracking moments for me. For example, whenever he and my Mom and I went shopping, there was usually a stop in a department store cafeteria for coffee. My Dad always liked to have more than just one cup of coffee, but he didn’t want to pay for that extra cup, so he would slide his tray along to where the teapots were, grab one, and then go and fill it up with coffee, and that gave him just the right amount extra that he needed, gratis. But every time he did this, it was always at top speed, as if any second a coffee siren might go off and all hell would break loose…

“Somebody stop that man! He just put coffee in a TEA POT. He’s stealing a second cup of coffee!! POLICE!! POLICE!!”

So I always dreaded the tea pot moment, and for those few lightening speed seconds that he executed his mission, I would wander over looking at the desserts, pretending that I didn’t know him, just in case the alarm was sounded. I believe my Mom was doing the same in the salad section.

I’ll admit to you today, and this is the first time ever, that throughout the entire span of my formative years, not once was toilet paper purchased. This is not because we had found some magical way of never going to the bathroom, or had purchased a used NASA toilet that just vacuumed everything away. No, it’s because on a regular basis, Dad brought home rolls of toilet paper from work, which, you guessed it, fell off the back of the toilet paper truck. I can’t tell you where he worked, because I don’t know what the statute of limitations is on Purex pilfering, but let’s just say, he had access to a lot of Charmin.

Then there was his cache of miscellaneous items. Every once in a while I’d uncover his secret stash that was stuck in a corner of one of his dresser drawers. It was filled with many coveted items like crystal decanter stoppers…no crystal decanter, just the stopper. Same with the teapot lids. These things he would have found on an odds and ends sale table, and probably felt that the store had a lot of nerve to put a price on a crystal decanter stopper when there was no decanter, in the first place and so it was his duty to shove it in his pocket. And then I’m sure my Dad was just waiting for that moment when my Mother would announce, “Oh for goodness sakes! I accidentally flushed the crystal decanter stopper down the toilet. Now how are we going to keep fruit flies out of the wine?”

“Don’t worry dear, I’ve got a spare one right here!”

“Well, where did that come from?”

“It’s the craziest thing. It fell off the back of this decanter delivery truck!”

Of course, this all happened long before everything had magnetic security stickers and tags put on them and I suppose in one way, my Dad can feel proud that he contributed to changing the retail industry.

Thankfully, it wasn’t something that was passed from father to daughter. Let me just state for the record; I pay for my toilet paper…I pay a LOT for my toilet paper.

Nevertheless, Happy Father’s Day Dad, wherever you are. And my guess is that he’s up with the angels, because, you know, he did like the little animals. But if that is truly where he is, then St. Peter better not take his eyes of his harp.

My agent called recently to ask whether I was available to entertain some folks after a dinner in St. Catherines. I said I was ready to go. She called a few days later to say that, unfortunately, they had chosen someone else; a local member of parliament, and the reason they chose him over me was that he gave them a better price. He was doing it pro bono. For those of you without Latin training, pro bono means “I’m doing it because the prime minister ordered me.”

Why, if politicians are now the second-most reviled profession in the world, beating out lawyers for the first time in centuries and closing in on the Sham Wow TV pitch man, who still retains top spot. Why would we want to see and hear more from politicians than we already do?

This was reinforced today when I read that Vladimir Putin had written his first column for a Russian newspaper. The column was titled “Why it’s Hard to Fire People”. I only read bits of the column, like where he said “I usually call people into my office, look them in the eye and say ‘there are concrete complaints’”. I’m guessing this is from his weekend job running a cement factory. Anyway, the point here is why would newspapers think that we are interested in what politicians have to say? Yesterday, I read a column written by Michael Ignatieff about the Liberal’s proposed EI changes. A laugh-a-minute gabfest it was not. My daily broadsheet has been, of late, jammed up with columns from politicians like Bob Rae or Diane Finley, all pro bono. This pro bono thing got so bad, as you know, that even Sonny Bono, Cher’s old sidekick, became a politician. He also probably wrote newspaper columns pro bono, or pro sonny, maybe. Sadly, he was killed by a tree that jumped out at him on a ski run.

When I was a boy, and there were wolves in Wales and Canadian hockey teams that won the Stanley Cup, after-dinner speeches were delivered by people who actually needed no introduction and newspaper columns were written by writers, real writers who got paid to write great columns.  No wonder newspapers are in trouble. When the entire editorial page is being clogged up with politicians flogging their many dead horses, all I can say is thank goodness George Bush never learned to write.

I lead an incredibly busy life. My days are jam packed. For example, every other day, I have to scour newspapers and magazines in order to keep a running tally on Brad and Angelina’s offspring. I believe at last count it was three thousand two hundred and eight. I also have to put in at least 3 or 4 hours daily trying to solve that age old problem; If train ‘A’ leaves the west coast at 4 o’clock traveling a hundred miles an hour, and train ‘B’ leaves the east coast at 5 o’clock traveling 110 miles an hour, at what time will ‘Happy Hour’ start on train ‘A’, and more importantly, why am I cut off after only 7 Cosmopolitans? On top of all of that, I have to fit in at least 3 high-quality, intensive beauty naps. So, you can see, there is very little time left for anything else.

However, at this time of year, I take on the heavy burden of trying to keep all of the Animal Kingdom alive…well, okay, not ALL of it, but a big portion of it, if you consider a big portion of the Animal Kingdom a dozen or so baby ducks. You see, I live in a townhouse complex that has as one of its desirable features, ponds and streams running behind most of our places. And so, over the years a number of ducks have made these waterways their home. And for most of the year they go about their duck business, you know, rooting for Anaheim in the play-offs, that kind of thing. But every spring, because Mother Nature seems to demand it, we have babies. And of course, when you first see the little puff balls, it’s as if you are discovering these rare elusive creatures for the very first time. “Ah, what an interesting puffball. I think I’ll name this species Daffydoopidus Cullengoofitus!” Oh, yes, there’s a lot of squeeling, and clucking…and these are the human beings I’m talking about. “Ohhhhhhh!! Loooook at the widdle baby wabies!! Oh my god, they’re soooo cuuuuute!!”

And that day arrived yesterday. We have our first batch of puff balls. Ten of them. And they are just so cuuuute! But now, I have to stand guard for hours on end, trying to make sure that, first of all, the crows don’t get at them. I’m not quite sure how the crows do it, except that I know they’re smart, and they work well in teams. I think what happens is, they get a couple of them to go to the front door and ring the bell, and then when I go to answer that, another bunch of crow thugs hold down my husband, so he can’t protect the babies, and then they snatch a few. Plus we have hawks, and a hawk is just your basic deadly duck hunting machine. Not to mention cats, raccoons, and who knows what other creatures are lurking out there in the dead of night, I’m too afraid to look.

It just about drove me cuckoo last year, because when they have these big families, there’s always one knucklehead in the group that doesn’t pay attention when mom turns left, ‘cause he’s busy playing pocket Nintendo or something, and BAM! The whole family is gone, and he starts squeaking incessantly, like a rusty water pump, or a Jessica Simpson song. So I had to wade into the water, and start doing a fairly decent, if I do say so myself, impression of mom, in order to get him to swim toward me, and off in the right direction…which he DID! Yeh, I don’t think they’re very smart.

And it’s the same this year. I was out this morning yelling at one of the Mallard males, because when it comes to being a parent, they suck. I’m tellin’ ya, like that Oscar winning rap song said a few years ago, “You know it’s hard out here for a duck.” Or something like that.

I’m so worried about them I can’t sleep, I can’t eat (who’s kidding who, I could do with about 20 pounds of worry) because I just want to keep the babies alive, so that when they’re adults, and they fly over my place, in their happy quacky duck way, I can wave at them and say “Hey duckies, if you drop one more of your stinking payloads on my patio furniture I’ll KILL you!!!”

 
Monday, May 11, 2009

I was really bad at math in high school. I was, obviously, very good at fooling around which has provided me with a nice career and a decent source of income, but math! No, if you looked at my report cards you’d see marks for math that looked like the speed limit signs in Vancouver - ‘50 maximum’. Even though I couldn’t understand how I would use it in my life, in the early days, I actually enjoyed figuring out how far a frigate would travel in a fortnight, although I, otherwise, never used the words ‘frigate’ and fortnight’ in any daily conversations. For example, this would never be heard; “Hey Bob! Are you going to the dance tonight? No, Eric, I’ll be on the frigate again. Probably back in a fortnight.”

I was way in over my head with geometry and algebra, but when we hit algorithms, I was snookered (which is where I spent most of my time instead of attending math class).

Now, the reason I bring this up is because here in British Columbia, we are having a provincial election tomorrow. As well as electing a government, there is a ballot question that asks us if we want to switch voting systems from the First Past the Post System to one called the Single Transferable Vote System. In the STV system, you vote for more than one candidate and after the ballots are counted, your vote could be sent to another less-deserving candidate, sort of electoral philanthropy. The proponents of STV say these decisions will be made using an algorithm formula. Why did I feel like heading to the pool hall when I heard that? Look, I have enough trouble right now picking just one candidate. With the STV system I’d have to study up on just about everybody who’s running and, really, when would I have time for cocktail hour? So, I’m saying no to STV, mostly because I don’t want my democratic rights guarded by an ‘algorithm formula’. Weren’t the Hanging Chads of Florida enough to make you worry about computers in an election? Speaking of Hanging Chads, Al Gore may have invented the internet but don’t believe him if he says he invented algorithms and named them after himself. He’s been sniffing way too much greenhouse gas.

Listen to Bob Robertson every week at http://doublexposureradio.com/podcast.html

Dear Mom/Linda/Supplier of all my needs,

After years of observing the habits and patterns of you and your kind, I have come to notice that on this particular day each year, you cram yourselves into cars with your mothers, and head en masse to all the restaurants in the area, where you cram yourselves into a table, because this is their busiest day of the year, and then proceed to cram as much food into said mothers as possible, in order to say “Thank you Mom, for pushing me out through the vaginal canal.” As much as I appreciate the sentimentality of this tradition, being a cat, I’m afraid I don’t own a car. Come to think of it, I never did get my license, not to mention I’m not very good with big crowds, or traffic, and finally, and I believe most importantly, I have absolutely no money. So, dinner on me is a no go. However, I feel compelled to take a moment on this special day, to let you know how I feel.

So, thanks Mom, for coming to the shelter 9 years ago and choosing me, out of all the others. Even though I know you were looking for a kitten, and I was the only kitten there, I still like to think you saw something special in me. Thanks for not taking me back to the shelter a few days later when I decided to jump up and attach myself with all of my needle like claws to your butt when you were standing at the sink. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Your screams told me something very different. Thanks for bringing your Dad’s cat Mitzie to live with us after he died. I really loved Mitzie. She was like a second Mom to me, and I especially liked it when she would grab hold of me with both her paws and start licking my head. And remember how she would blast out of the litter box every time she did some major work, and she’d tear around the house like a rocket ship. Man, we would laugh and laugh. She’s keeping your Dad company now, but I’m glad I knew her. I’m not so crazy about the bonehead you brought home to replace her. He likes to spend hours licking me too, and as much as I enjoy it, don’t you think that’s a little creepy? Not that there’s anything wrong with it…I’m just saying. Plus he’s really noisy, and he’s always cleaning up my food dish. Oh well, at least he’s not a dog!

I also want to thank you Mom, for not getting mad at me when I poop outside the box. You see, I’m a lot like that guy that was on the Ally McBeal show, remember? When he went to the bathroom, he always wanted a fresh bowl. I’m very much the same, and I’d prefer it if you could get upstairs to clean the boxes every hour or so, but, I know, you’ve got a life. So, I leave my deposit on that nice mat you put in front of the box. From where I sit, it seems to be a win/win situation. And thank you Mom, for not ridiculing me because I’ve chewed most of the hair off of my underside, well except for the bits covering my dangling participles…which I believe you had stolen from me, not that I’m bitter…but I leave that bit because otherwise I think I’d be a little chilly. I know I used to be a handsome devil, and now I’m a bit of a freak, but you still seem to love me, so I’m good with that. And a real BIG thank you for getting me to the vets last January right quick, when my penis was blocked. WHEW!! Enough said.
So, Mom, you’ve told me many times that you didn’t have real children because you were allergic, and that having me and the bonehead has made your life complete. Well, I couldn’t be happier. And in order to show my love and appreciation for all you do Mom, I’ve hacked up something pretty impressive on the hallway carpet. HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!

Listen to Linda’s comedy podcast every week at
http://doublexposureradio.com/podcast.html

It’s terribly disturbing and embarrassing to come to the realization, at the age of 49…okay, 50…yes, yes, alright, 50 and a HALF, that I am a terribly needy person. I suppose if I paused for a few quiet moments of navel gazing, I would conclude that a) this started a long time ago, and b) I should really clean out my navel more often, there appears to be some kind of trailing foliage growing in there, but…oh sorry, you don’t want to hear about that right now. Yes, I remember one time, as a young child, going to some girl’s birthday party, and making a real obnoxious point of asking the birthday girl which gift she thought was the best, assuming, of course, that she would say mine. I was stunned, dismayed, shocked…wait, let me get my thesaurus…bewildered, startled and astounded, that she replied, “Oh, I don’t know, everybody’s present was the best.” Yeh, right. What kind of lame cop out is THAT? I mean, come ON!! I got her a Super Whamo Spinmaster Thingy Do Dah…in all 3 colours! That had to come in wayyy ahead of the stupid kid that got her a ball of string and a bag of Cheese Doodles. She probably works for the U.N. now- “Oh, yes, I believe we are all created equal, and all humans are good.” I mean, really, who believes that kind of…ah, you see, I thought I had that stuff under control. Now, I blame my neediness on my mother weaning me at 3 months, and then feeding me Pablum, which I immediately returned to her in a fun Linda Blair kind of way. At any rate, for almost a year now I have been somewhat casually working on my Facebook page. At first I didn’t think a whole lot about it. I’d write a few things, throw on a picture or two, and get on with my life. But over the last few months, something changed. It’s begun to bug me that I keep getting bumped down when I write my little What’s On My Mind comment, i.e. Linda Cullen just noticed that when she breathes in, her throat gets cool! Crucial things like that. And it really bugs me that no one comments on it, or even just gives me an ‘I like this’, thumbs up. Are my status comments not stimulating enough? But then, I noticed the Highlights column at the side. Fantastic, I thought. That’s where I want to be, in that highlights column. But no matter what I do, no matter how many pictures I load onto my page, no matter how many important announcements I make, I can’t get myself into the highlights. But I’ll look down it, and there’ll be some schmuck who’s RSVP’d to the Fruit Fly Protection Society’s Annual BBQ & Banana Rotting Gala…and they get into it!! So now I start asking myself, “Who’ve ya gotta fu…pardon me…poke…to get on the highlights column!!!???” Well, I have come to the only logical conclusion a needy 50 something like me can come to…Facebook is JUDGING me!! Oh, did I mention I might also be paranoid?

It’s been twelve years, almost to the week, since we went into Studio 25 on CBC Vancouver’s T Floor to record our final Double Exposure program for CBC Radio. Sadly, that historic little studio, well, historic because we used it exclusively for ten and a half years, is gone. Actually, they may also have done audio mix-downs of documentaries in there, things like “How Balls Work” and “Vivaldi; Did He Ever Stay at A Four Seasons Hotel?” Award-winning stuff!

Studio 25 was directly across the hall from Vicki Gabereau’s studio and thirty feet down the hall from Jurgen Gothe’s Disc Drive studio. There was a lot of high-priced talent continually bumping into each other in that hallway for many years. But those wishing to make the pilgrimage to CBC Vancouver to touch the microphones and switches that sent Double Exposure out over the airwaves will be heartbroken to learn that Studio 25 was a victim of the massive renovations that have been taking place over the last two or three years. Our old studio is now a “Weeping Room”, a place with comfy couches where employees can go and sob after being handed their pink slips. It’s been so busy lately that people are now being asked to bring their own Kleenex.

In the years since we last recorded our final CBC radio show, many shocking developments have happened in the world; George Bush became a president, Bob Rae became a capitalist, Michael Jackson became a white man…okay, maybe ‘man’ is stretching it a bit.

So, now what happens as Double Exposure Radio goes to the World Wide Web? As that great philosopher Buzz Lightyear once said, “To infinity and beyond!” Would it shock me to know, for example, that Osama bin Laden could download it onto his iPod? Not at all! However, I imagine he has different playlists on his iPod than I do. He probably has one called “Intifada Bluegrass” and another called “Urban Infidel Hits”, and I’ll bet you dollars to Donairs that he has downloaded every episode of “Little Mosque on the Prairie”.  Who could resist such giddy hilarity? So, now he can download Double Exposure Radio and when he registers, we’ll get his email address and then be forced to turn him over to the authorities in Pakistan. Oh, wait! Osama is the authority in Pakistan.