Whither Deep?

I was sitting at my riding desk one summer morning when a letter from Filbert arrived by courier.  Filbert was always an extravagant bastard but this took the cake.  The courier had ridden his motorcycle all the way from Filbert's estate in the Luckywood Hills.  It had to have cost him his late uncle's fortune.

The letter was filled with Filbert's usual fol-de-rol, blather, & insults (he referred to me twice as "a skeezy little bitch") but he intrigued me in that way he often did - tangentially, accidentally - when he spoke of being accused by the Wilsons as "too deep."

Too deep!  Our Filbert?  The man who couldn't describe anyone past hair color & make & model of speedboat?  Outrageous!  Intolerable!  I quickly asked my manservant Josephine to get the car & make haste to Filbert's ranch.

Filbert's ranch was a tastelessly decorated modern split-level acreage with fins.  I understood that that was not a very good description of it, but it was the best I could do for something almost indescribable.  Usually there was a police car parked out front, just in case.  On Halloween, the children wouldn't so much as avoid it as try to set fire to it.  Filbert was awful proud.

"Dorian, my friend," he said to me, mispronouncing my name (it's pronounce "Charles"), "I'm so glad you came!  I was about to slice open a watermelon & collect the seeds to put in a little jar I found buried in the back of my paper closet."

"Enough of your tomfoolery, you knave!" I shrieked, upstarting.  Actually, I did nothing of the sort, but I had been listening to Rutger Hauer's stirring audiobook of him reading "The Raven" over & over & over, & that's the last line I heard.  I thought it might fit; it did not.

I continued, "Why have you summoned me?  Your letter hinted at events best described as apocalyptic, or worse described as...  Well, you do it."

"Carefree & la-de-da," he said.

"Well?  What is it?"  I was close to shrieking, but nowhere near to upstarting.

"Old bean, you're too wound up.  You need something to enrage you further.  Come on inside," he said, leading me in, "let me introduce you to someone."

It was a radio.  Not just any radio.  A radio dressed as a man dressed as radio.

"What's all this balderdash!" I said.

"Look at what it says," Filbert said patiently - frankly, he was higher than the International Space Station at apogee.

But I read:

Listen (it said) to Self Help Radio this afternoon from 4 to 6 pm on the radio at 88.1 fm in Lexington & online at wrfl dot fm.  The show today is "the deep show."  It promises shallow treasures.

"You want me to listen to the radio with you?" I sputtered.

"Heavens, no!" he said.  "That's a man dressed as a radio dressed as a man dressed as a radio."

"We could listen on the computer," I suggested.

Filbert shrugged.  "Whatever," he said.  He then handed me a seedless watermelon.