I Have Returned... Barely

My word, where to begin?

I feel war-weary. I feel as though someone has brandished a particularly rabid plague in a syringe, and injected it into the artery left of my handsome and manly Adam's apple. But I will try to convey the treachery that has come via excreta incarnate, Loki...

First, I must know that you are still there my beloved Anthemites. I shant cast my woes into the blogging void and weep bitter tears of loneliness over my dilapidated keyboard. I shant. I mustn’t.

Urgent Telegram from Her Herbert

The following telegram was sent to blogger and we have posted it at the Bloggers request.
Sincerely,
Blogspot tech support.

"Dear Bloggers. Stop. I am in exile somewhere in Tibet. Stop. Will relay adventure as soon as I can coerce a group of Sherpa to bear me down mountain. Stop. Cannot risk a mob from village at foot of mountain. Stop. It seems my fame has grown too much for their feeble souls. Stop. I may be torn from limb to limb in the fury. Stop. The monks have been kind. Stop. Minister's ploy thwarted. Stop. Vengeance will be swift. Stop. Have become a bit of a deity to monks as well. Stop. Temptations have been horrendous. Stop. Must stay pure. Stop. Very hard when being bathed thrice daily by local maidens. Stop. I am not dead. Stop. Hope your are the same. Stop."

From Heaven's Heart I Stab at Thee;

Call me Herbert. Weeks ago I harpooned and usurped the wild and terrifying beast “The Music Minister Who Succumbs To the Worldly Pleasures of Praise and Worship Music” (It is a long name, so I gave him that nickname “Loki.”)

With a few intercepted emails I have flung my faithful spear into the heart of the wild and fiery beastly Loki Dick. He now flounders in the waves of incompetence and Herbert servitude. From the bloody waves a gurgly cry emerged from his lips: “Nay valiant Herbert, you shant take my trip for two to Jamaica! Unsheathe thy piercing dagger and let me bask on the beaches of the Dark Men with my Mims.”

“Avast” said I. “I will not. Besides Loki Dick, though you may be a lower life form, you are supposed to mate for life, and your wife, though a strange oversized fishly beast herself, should be the only one worthy of your wandering eye!”

Part II

Loki entered the stage where Blonde Bimbo was limping. “What the hell is going on in here Herbert? What did you do?”

I remained silent.

“He’s blackmailing me with some email he stole.” Blurted Bimbo.

“What do you mean by, emails he stole.”

“I mean he’s got a copy covered in plastic or something of one of my private email!”

Loki looked pale. The fear was sitting in nicely.

“Herbert… do you mean you got into our email accounts?”

“I did no such thing. As I was telling Blondie here, these emails simply turned up on the floor one day and I saved them from further viewing. Not to worry though, they are safe and sound, copied and in three locations, Mims… I mean, Maestro.”

When I said the name “Mims,” Loki looked as though he would faint. He was speechless with fear and rage.

The whale had reared his blubbery smooth scalp and I had thrust my weapon, striking true and clean.

The Lord of The Emails

The story of my Jamaican vacation must be told in three parts, for it is a fun tale, and fun tales are simply meant to be in a trilogy.

It all started when the young baboon pianist decided to accuse your H. C. of being the previous Sunday’s saboteur...

As I strode to my place of high honor, the wooden throne of Elizabeth, I heard these words come from the shadows:

“Hey, Herb, I know that was you who tore out that page. I just know it. And let me tell you, if you screw this gig up for me, I am gonna take your fat butt down in a big way.”

It was Loki's Blonde Bimbo Pianist. I replied swiftly, being well prepared for such an occasion, “Dearest imbecile. I don’t know what hair supply has polluted your reasoning capacity, but any attempt at physical or vocational harm on your part will be met with swift and terrible retribution. In fact, I have a copy of something that you might be interested in reading. I sort of floated out of the sky into my lap today and I decided to keep it handy for such a time as this. I can read it for you if you are not do intoxicated by the smell of your styling products to discern a preposition.” At this comment I swiftly pulled out a few laminated pages that just happened to be in the format of his email. He silently read his document, sealing the fate of his future in Herbert servitude.

“Dudes! I have a sweeeeet gig. I get a whopping 400 bucks a week to show up and dazzle the ladies and soccer moms with my piano stylings. This job will totally due until I get my big CCM break. The music minister thinks I am going to move into something more permanent but I got news. Nah uh. I’m out and on the road as soon as I get picked up, which should be any day. My new album “Get Spirit Baby” is gonna be HUGE.

The organist is a total goober. He has been calling me names lately and it is really starting to piss me off. He reminds me of the kind of kid that everyone crapped on in the locker room, except fatter.

I feel a throw-down coming soon. Plus I got this feeling that he did something to screw the service up last week on my first day. I’m gonna start keeping an eye on him. He is NOT going to ruin this SWEET gig.”

I am afraid that my possession of this email was too much for the young mongoloid to handle. He then made the made the fateful mistake those others before have made making a mad dash for the stage and then for my groin with his foot.

“OOOOOOOWWWWWE. Are you wearing a cup???!!! He said, the little vulgar puke.

“Either that or you are like a big Fat Jumbo Ken doll.” He said now limping. I then took a leather-driving glove out of my pocket that I keep for such occasions and I smacked him right across his rosy cheek. “Take that vermin!”

He cried out again.

He then said other curse words and tried to stumble pathetically towards me. I prepared for another strike. Loki, hearing the racket, came rushing into the sanctuary. I concealed my intercepted email and my glove of self defense to listen to the Blonde bimbo describe what had just happened...

(To be continued...)

I Live! JA MAN!

Greetings dear Anthemites from the great World Capital of "the art of rolling doobies and being unemployed yet deliciously happy." A.K.A. Jamaica. I finally made it to a computer located under the shade of a certain "laid-back" Native in this beach resort who happens to own a computer that is as old and large as my mother who has accompanied me here. Each typed letter takes a grand total of 4 seconds to appear after typed. I've seen gas pumps process more expeditiously. Torture! But any trial is worth it for my dear readers. (Especially when the torture is accompanied by the sound of gentle waves and the savage tinklings of faint steel drums.)

We move to our second resort location shortly and I am sure there will be a computer there that isn't overloaded with obscene pictures of native women and lewd videos taxing the already fatigued peewee hard drive. No pun intended. HA! Oh dear me the delight of these dark and exotic natives has gone and made Herbert quite jovial. HA! Wonderful! I do believe in another life I would be a missionary here in this sunny land of delightful unemployment. I can only imagine what it must have been like to live in the medieval era here. Superstition must have been as rampant and wild as a Voodoo orgy under a blazing comet.

I fear my greed would have got the best of me and I might have made a killing on selling trinkets and relics. My riches would then set me up as a local monarch, feared as a god. The history books would have then been filled with stories of the powerful ruler of the province of "Jamacbert,” the great conqueror of the new world! Down lustful pride! Down I say! Whatever is wrong with me?

Oh dear me, it looks like I've been down wind of the bartender here who has been smoking something NOT of the tobacco family. I do believe everything looks a little more interesting. Look there! A crab! What a delightful creature! It is casting a small crab shadow on the sand! The shadow faintly resembles my dear old mother... I must investigate closer.

In a few days, you will here the story of how I managed to get a free vacation for my mother and I via the generosity of Loki, but until then, sit tight dear Anthemites and know that your dear Herbert is in good hands! ""JA WHOL MAN!"

Operation: Enigma Intercept

Dear Anthemites,

I have ascertained an email. I cannot disclose how or who privies me this valuable information and I will not kick a gift horse in the mouth. Here is the email that was sent by Loki to a certain Married woman "Mims" who used to sing in the Choir.

Minister Loki: "The service was a disaster today Mims. I don’t know what happened in “Trading My Sorrows” but one of the pages was totally missing. Dammit! I looked like a complete fool. And that Herbert… that filthy, fat, bloated, self-absorbed, CROTCH. To make matters worse he pulled out all the stops on that stupid organ and drowned-out the entire band. I have no clue what in the HELL he was playing but it wasn’t the Praise song. He then totally ignored my cut off attempts, which made me look even more stupid. I could have kicked his fat ass right then and there. If it weren’t for his mother’s LARGE gifts to the music program in the past 20 years, he’d bee a gonner already. I knew when I accepted those recent gifts I might has well have tattooed she and Herbert's name on my chest with a header that read "Property of: Herbert and Momma Crotch"

"After the set, the pastor came to the podium and gave me a very dirty look. Well, he can go ta’ Hell! I am tired of tiptoeing around him. It was an honest mistake. Although my secretary is totally convinced she put every page in its place. Austin seems to think Herbert did it. I wouldn't doubt it one bit. Time to keep an eye on that fat preening turd."

I will keep you updated on what will be done with this information. Until then, know that the upper hand has been seized!

Chapter 3: El Comandante Has Asked for a Song!

This morning I began my counter offense. As I walked passed Loki’s music stand before service after the “band” had left to consume selfishly all the remaining sausage kolaches, I gently opened his folder for service and swiftly removed a pertinent page of music. I wadded the accursed page of Praise and Worship, tossed it into the covered timpanis collecting dust and make-up residue from the Praise Hussies, and made my way to rescue a handful of Kolaches from hair gel and “dude” mafia.

This first test of saboteur proved a fruitful, one-time, water-testing event. I have dipped my cloak and dagger toe in the waters and the waters are warm!

The service began with the "4-on-the-floor" tribal thumps and asinine repitition of our churhes favorite 2 words to squawk. "Yes Lord." (I tell you, sometimes I feel as though the congregation thinks of God as a cheap one night stand.) I maintained my composure and waited. It came. It came in all its glory. When we arrived at the point of the missing page, the minister simply stopped singing and stared bewilderingly at the congregants while the band and I blazed on. He was then forced to do nothing but waive his arms for the remainder of the Song, spouting, pathetically wrong words into the microphone. As an extra bonus, the words jumbled became a tad blasphemous.

The “pianist” tried in vain to cue him with an overemphasis on the Melody that could have been heard by Helen Keller but nothing worked. To this baboonery I made my Grande entrance riding my trusty steed Elizabeth. I opened Elizabeth’s pipes full throttle to draw attention away from the bumbling Loki with the melody of a Bach Choral ingeniously juxtaposed over the goofy P & W song. I finished the last Chord of the chorus and held it an extra 4 seconds, all the while noticing in my peripheral the minister trying in vain to cut me off with a snake-like cue. For a moment he looked like he was putting on a dramatic hand-puppet show.

The bell rang and Herbert returned to his corner invigorated and without a scratch.

And So it Begins

The Ku has begun. I paid a visit to Loki today and he has notified me that they will be needing me in only one of the two services. This means that my already anemic and ungrateful salary will be cut in HALF. It is official; I am now probably the lowest paid organ virtuoso in the country and Loki is pure slime. He has also notified me rather curtly and with a serpentine smirk that the small and insufficient room that I was given to keep my organ supplies and Papier-mâché sculptures is needed by puffy-lip surfer-boy. I guess surfer-boy is now his full-time bitch-in-P & W-heat.

Oh dear Anthemites, the hot but brilliant, violent thoughts that began to run through my unfairly endowed brain at that moment. For the first time I felt the burning fire of the puritans, bloodthirsty for a Witch to roast. I felt the anger of Sampson surging in my bones and suddenly wanted to rise up and topple the entire building on his balding and chaffed scalp whilst roaring like Aslan of old. But, I kept quiet. I said only two profound words: “I see.”

Now that might seem like very little but much is said with very little from the greatest of minds. E= mc2 changed science forever. So when I say, “I see,” I DO, in fact SEE ALL. I see what is going on here. And I SEE into Loki’s confused and culturally disfigured, limping cortex. They are slowly trying to prod me out of my post by choking my supplies. Well, I have news. I have been storing up plenty of dormant energy for such a time and could probably go without food for a solid year and still have energy around my lusty and powerful torso to burn.

HA! Avast ye you musical pimps. I have not yet begun to fight. I am beginning to see that the only alternative is a counter-offensive. It will need to be extra-cunning because believe it or not, true imbeciles are hard to usurp. They can make terrible scenes destroying all of the subtleties of the cunning assailant. Just try to capture a wild and deranged kitten after it has clawed your Qashqa'i Persian rug from the 16th century to shreds. It is nearly suicide I can tell you. Like my deranged and berserk kitty, the late Princess Lilykins, if they act rashly they must be then be taken down messily and violently. I will keep council and begin my offensive soon. Stay tuned. Dark times await us Anthemites, dark times.

Young Herbert Part 2: "Retribution" (Essential Interlude)

Gym class was first on the roster and I arrived early to “undress” for battle. I waited in the shadows of the bathroom stall until I heard the oafish laughs of my enemies asking where “Rotten Crotch” was. It was time. I flung the door open and proudly sauntered, as if without a care, through the locker room with draped towel over my rolling, muscular, grizzly bear torso. The towel, perfectly concealing my fiery cup nestled above my strutting, mighty oaks.

They vermin noticed me and stopped mid-dirty joke. The sight of me strolling unprotected was too good to be true for my enemies. It was if a harmless lamb was thrown into a den of starving, crazed wolves. The first wolf leapt to his feet and struck with a lusty laugh crying “CROTCH WHACK!” He almost salivated as he flung his knuckle with abandon towards my incubators-for-future-kings.

His knuckle was doomed. For his strike was greeted with the hard-shelled wall of my concealed battle cup instead of my tender groin. To my absolute delight, he let out a high-pitched squall and lifted his hand in front of his face to display a badly disfigured and broken finger. My eyes filled with the wild zeal of battle. With a loud savage cry I flung off my enormous towel exposing my new fiery shield held in place by handsome purple jock strap. My raucous buttocks proudly unleashed in all their manly glory. I felt as if Atlas had been released of his huge load, mother earth, and free to assail his foes without fear. Showing NO mercy, I whipped the whimpering boy in his own crotch with my giant, damp towel and yelled CRRRROTCH WHACK YOU FOUL DOG!

This was the second and final blow of that battle. The rest of the wolves stood in awe with jaws a-dangle at the scene. It must have been a sight that they would wake in cold sweat to see for the remainder of their days. -Me, in my gladiator attire, hovering like a giant fleshy mountain over the sniveling moronic master of the acne gang. Ah, if only Da Vinci could have seen such a scene, what a famed mural it would have made.

I ferociously burst through the scattering boys with a vicious war cry, snapping everything that moved. It wasn’t long until the room was cleared and Herbert the valiant was all that remained.

Triumph!

Young Herbert Part 1: "Reckoning" (Essential Interlude)

More has occurred in this Saga but to continue, you will need to grasp my hand and let me lead you on a brief journey into Hebert past...

When I was a young lad, plagued with the prison sentence of Public Schools, I was ordered to enroll in at least 1 year of gym class. I cannot or won’t go into the full details of what it was like to have both a superior mind as well as a generous frame in a public school, but I will say, it came packaged with consequences. Others can, painfully scorn genius by itself. To be endowed with Genius and dashing looks… well, only one of noble blood could withstand the onslaught of teenage-male jealous hatred that taunts this two in one curse.

The onslaught that I was forced to bear in the locker-room was a particularly vicious and splintered cross. The game my tormentors invented in my honor was called “Crotch Whack,” which I would liken unto a kind of testicular gorilla warfare. Yes, many a young acne'd vermin lost giant chunks of hair in their attacks on young gentle Herbert's fruit and vine, but alas, the pain I endured was wretched…

Dante never imagined such a level of hell that was as loathsome. My hand hovers even now as I recall the stinging, throbbing trauma.

After months of enduring torture with no end in sight, I decided that my genius must aid my brawn to win this daily battle and cease this torture. So one Saturday, I walked 4 miles to a sporting store, my first and last visit since, and bought a large Athletic cup. That night, by candle light and accompanied by the tribal music of Zimbabwe on vinyl, I painted a fiery sword upon the cup’s ventilated face. It looked fearful indeed. I then dyed the Jock strap a royal purple and hung it on my grandfather’s Globe to dry for the impending battle the following morning. I read excerpts of Beowulf and Tolkien aloud by roaring fire to strengthen my spirit for the next day’s duel.

The next morning I awoke and prepared myself for battle and was off to the bus.

Immediately, as I strode past snickering students on the bus, I knew they sensed my enlarged “confidence.” I knew at that moment, victory would be mine...

(To be continued...)

Is it the East?... (A Bittersweet Interlude)

Dear readers, I will postpone my quest for one day to tell you some magical news. I, Herbert Sebastian Crotch, do believe I am IN LOVE. She arrived tonight in choir. Her brilliant green eyes could pierce miles of masculine flesh to puncture the noblest and guarded hearts. Oh sweet Esmeralda!

But soft! I must keep my distance. I mustn’t break her heart. I am a tempestuous soul. One who cannot be tamed or resisted. A Byron on the mast of a great ship called fate. A lion, too proud for a Pride. My Pirates heart would only taunt her and she deserves more than this Don Quixote can give. I am a bitter, winter wind and she a window flower.

You dear reader will not know, from the limited posts, how rare this actually is… To prove the anomaly of mon amour, I will venture one more confession to authenticate… For a brief moment, while passing a bar filled with those that succumb to every vice known to man, I found myself almost enjoying what Stravinsky called “the musical equivalent of masturbation”… Jazz. I blush at the confession and crude choice of words but nothing else but love could explain my delight in a sound that would normally have made me walk faster and hum Bach inventions loudly to drown out the aural and moral assault.

I also missed my cue four times tonight at choir practice. To which the “Minister” began to grit his teeth and say my name amid angry glare. But what would HE know of love but for his Toupee collection and polyester? I grow more and more weary of he that shall be henceforth named “Loki.” (The irony being “low-key”) Yes, I thought it cute as well.

Oh heart, let us go to the living room organ and improvise choral fantasies while reading passages aloud from my beloved Augustine Confessions. But first I think, an emergency trip to Dunkin Donuts...

H. S. C.
Appolo

Chapter 2: Savage Drums in The East

It pains my heart to bring you the events of Yester-eve. Sunday, as I walked into rehearsal after finishing a double scoop of this delightful apple dish our pastor’s wife had prepared for visitors, I thrust both sanctuary doors open in usual fashion. Near the piano, a young, barley-male, blonde weirdo was standing with the music minister-incompétent. They seemed to be waiting, as subjects do, for the King to enter court. I approached with stealthy caution still eating my dish.

Blonde-boy said “Yo” then tossed his hair back. “Love the beard dude.” Soon followed.

I half expected him to grunt and bang around on rocks for his next attempt at broadcasting thoughts. I returned his cave-talk with a deadly silent and barbed glare, mid-chew. His cologne was nearly gagging me from 4 feet. It was my ruining palate and cobbler experience. Two strikes in 9 seconds. A new record.

The music minister seemed to be stunted by my Regal and disapproving silence but I allowed the awkward silence to ensue and continued to chew. The young hippie made another worthless attempt at proving his existence by saying “dude, you should lay off that bread pudding and pancakes. Your zipper looks like it’s beeeeggin’ for mercy.” With this, the vermin stepped over the line. I unsheathed my verbal sword, “Duuude, you may keep your simpleton compliments in your vacant skull if you please. Your brain just might turn vacuum and implode with a pop if another thought escapes the desperate grasp of the 4 remaining, bewildered cells twiddling around the limping tissue between your homoerotic ear-peircings.” To that rather brilliant slice to the jugular, the “Music” minister nervously interrupted.

“Herbert, this is Austin, he is replacing Linda as our church pianist.” My mouth was agape.

“You must be joking. From his attire and attention to perfume dosage, I doubt he is able to fasten his diaper without injuring himself, let alone manage chopsticks on the Organ’s younger and weaker brother, the piano…” To which the simpleton chuckled as if he was choking and I was joking. I was not. I continued,

“And what was wrong with Linda? There was that instance of missing the key-change last Sunday but she can’t be blamed for that when the new “Praise team” hussies are on the prowl and invading her space. I might have fainted myself out of horrid surprise if one those mic-bearing, desperate housewives would have ventured into the holy ground surrounding Elizabeth. (The name of my Organ) As a matter of fact, they can consider themselves warned! If any one of those middle-aged floozies so much as saunters near MY Elizabeth area I shall be forced to respond swiftly and harshly. They might find my silver plated spit-cup emptied onto their over-highlighted, fake curls”

The music Minster interrupted my fair-warning with a typical, but surprising rudeness, “Will you shut up you fat sonofa…” He calmed himself and continued “And I told you to quit spitting in that cup and leavin’ it there.” To which I replied

“And I told you that I cannot help it if I salivate excessively before my offertory. Some people have gas or bloat, like yourself, I salivate. I am sure that excessive salivating is a trait that many a monarch must have been haunted with. That is why many dipped snuff in the middle ages you know…” I said now beginning to feel like I needed to flatulate from too much visitor’s coffee. And well I should have! It would have leveled the playing field as far as the intelligent conversation went.

Maestro Incompétent continued to speak in his high, nasally, tenor voice. “Well the janitors say they ain’t cleanin that cup out anymore. They’ve been thinkin’ it was water all this time till they saw some chunks of a donut or somthin’ in there last week. One of em’ threw up right on the spot.”

I retorted, “I can’t be blamed if the custodial wonder-team are incapable of controlling their urges while doing their job. If our janitors can’t take the heat, maybe they should stop raiding the kitchen reserves or taking naps on the 3rd floor youth-room divans and find employment at Wendy’s. I hear there is an opening for someone who barely mutter Spanglish at the blown-out drive-through speaker.”

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” He interrupted. “Now Austin is playing and that is that. And you’re gonna start cleanin’ your slobber out of the cup or you’re gonna drink it. You hear me? We can’t loose another janitor this week on the count of your stupid slobber problem.”

I stared off as if I hadn’t heard a word. He continued,

“Now, from now on, we need to meet a half an hour earlier than regular time to go over the Choral song with the band.”

“You mean, the Anthem?” Said I.

“No, we ain’t callin’ it that anymore. The pastor thinks it is too stuffy.”

“What!!! Does the pastor want to change the name of the Bible to ‘that big heavy black thingy?’ Maybe he would like to change the name of Jesus to “that really cool robed bearded peace-out duuude.” Said I, vaguely mocking his new piano slut. The minister was now frantically unwrapping some Rolaids and stuffing them into his mouth. I seized the chance and finished with this verbal punishment:

“Well you may call it what ever you like sir, but a diamond is a diamond no matter how hard an ape bangs around on it with a stone. And if you ask me, the pastor and this whole program is starting to resemble a de-volution of sorts. Pretty soon we’ll all just be grunting naked in the pews, waving our freshly knawed cow-bones fearfully at the sun and dragging our women folk around by the hair while pissing out in the open air like a bunch of wild chimps ala 2001.”

He looked strangely interested at this last comment with the word “pastor” and paused his rabid antacid consumption. “Would you like for me to tell Pastor Babbs what you just said about the program?” Said he.

“You may relate my feelings to Pastor “Baboon’s Ass” if you like.”

“Oh I will then,” said he. Then he and the “pianist” seemed to suddenly relax and exchanged a strange, suspicious smirk and walked to their posts to begin rehearsal.

That last “glance” is what is disturbing me dear Anthemites. I had to make an emergency trip to Dunkin Donuts after rehearsal to sooth my ulcer from the worry. (For some reason the Boston Crème is the only medicine that will sooth its flaming embers these days. A delightful turn of fate I might add!) However, I fear I said too much for the cause. I may hear the drums of war in the east. A Musical Ku is on the horizon. I must make up for it in my volcanic Offertory. That should silence the natives or leave them in awe-stricken stupor.

Prepare for my mounting my trusty steed Elizabeth!

Stay tuned dear readers...

Herbert of Arc

Crotch: The Noble Name (Interlude)

I will only post on the following topic one time and one time only. My last name seems to be cause for much discussion. I admit, it has a certain conversational allure, but it is indeed a “real” last name and I would entreat you to honor it as such. I cannot abide nor will I continue my chronicles if I am to be taunted by such infantile emails. One reader wrote: “So, Herb, what is your favorite part of Sunday, playing with your ORGAN or scratching your CROTCH? Hahahahahaha… More cowbell lardass!!!”

To which I replied: “Dear child of this vile and insolent culture. Your attempt at humor is astoundingly oafish and common. I will spare you the verbal lashing you deserve because you were probably born out of wedlock and spawned by wormy and defiled “ORGANS” yourself. You therefore cannot be blamed for you hopeless and nauseating ignorance. No, you cannot be blamed for the primordial gene pool from whence you crawled out of on all fours, licking the air with your forked tongue searching for your mama. OR from the possible reptilian anus from which you were dropped and hatched.

I will however take the time to educate you, knowing good and well it will all be in vain. So, put down your twinkie-crusted Nintendo controller, or take a break from playing with your inherited, underdeveloped testicle and be taught! The name Crotch happens to be English and I happen to be the great, great, great, great, nephew of the famed and tragically underrated Baroque composer, ORGANIST, and painter William Crotch. It is a noble and proud family name. I guess you didn’t read about the investigation I am doing on a possible link to the English monarchy… I cannot blame your literary deficiency when the largest sentences you probably read during the week are “Peel here.” Or “Shake well.” Or “You must be 18 to enter this site.” In any case…

Your attempt at humor has been noted by the committee for the verbally retarded and your scores are quite low. Consider yourself warned. Now, you may return to your video games or the Clearasil applications to the swollen pimples on your own unwashed CROTCH.”

H. S. C.
Spartan

The Organ Chronicles of Herbert Sebastian Crotch. Chapter 1

Hello fellow music lover and keepers of truth and sanity. I have decided, after much sweating in the garden, (my bathroom) and for the sake of my growing ulcer, to chronicle the demise of the music program at our Church. I have been...(pronounced b-ea-n as in "wean the infant from your teat") the church organist for going on 15 years. Recently our Music "Pastor" (oh how I wish he had the gentle hand of a shepherd in such a time) has succumbed to the worldly pleasure of the tragic pounding of the crude and primal kick drum, the wretched and shameful screeching of the electronic guitar and the asinine jumbo projector-screen as if we have all gone blind and our arms too limp and wimpy to hold the hymnal. To hold the hymnal now might as well be considered to be synonymous with elderly-erectile dysfunction and/or pure "spiritual" depravity. The Holy "Spirit" can now only be communicated via Jumbo Letters. I digress.

Alas our "Music" "Minister," out of sheer pity and fear of the rich-and-elderly, (and not to mention a healthy fear of my own wrath, no doubt due in part to my impressive and robust size) has decided to keep me at my noble and righteous post as organist, (Oh endangered muse of beauty!,) for the time being. I have decided to chronicle the deterioration of art in our church for the noble purpose of saving further generations from such a fate as mine. You will be glad to know that I will be going down with my burning ship, my beloved organ, and will hopefully be remembered as the patron saints of large organs and their virtuosi. I hesitate to fantasize, for fear of an assault by pride, of the various saintly statues that could be erected in my honor someday. Only the finest of marble and sculpture should be dedicated to such a task. There I go! Down you shameful pride! Leave sweet David his place of honor!

So "Here I Stand" my fellow "Anthemites" as you shall be henceforth called. I will be posting regularly, Mondays and Wednesday evenings describing the musical debauchery that is taking place at my own Sanctuary. I would post Sundays but I fear that I may be exhausted from the battle and in desperate need of the Luby's Lou Anne platter, followed by a war-wearied rest. (It is also the day that I catch up on those detestable reality shows and chronicle, by means of a tape recorder, my hatred for their profane displays of putrid debauchery.) This blog shall be my Wittenberg door.

Be forewarned! I fear this story will not be for the frail of heart. For in the name of St. Augustine I come baring the mightiest of arms: my skillful and cunning pen. Come and read, knowing that the verbal lashing will not be pretty. For my ball-point cat-of-nine-tails can be merciless. But I must tell the tale, for God, for my fellow Anthemites and my beloved organ. That great, magnificent wooden beast I so lovingly ride like a skillful medieval knight on his trusty steed, and stroke with all ten fingers like an Egyptian seamstress to her rug, as much as I can, every week until I drown in the deadly myre of P & W music. The very penning of that foul abbreviation cramps my noble hand and causes my upper-lip to break sweat. But take heart lion-tamer paw!

So here and now Anthemites, I entreat you. Come with me, the last true Spartan, on this journey. If you dare...

To quote a long-passed colleague and father of all endangered muses, J.S. Bach, "Soli Deo Gloria."

Stay tuned my beloved new freinds...

Your Herbert S. C.

P.S. Unfortunately, we live in a world where “looks” matter. As many of you will wonder about my appearance, I shall offer you only this: A picture of a man that I have been told by my X-fiancé that I resemble. Even though it came from my X-fiancé, (that wretched she-cat, that scarlet-harlot of the Harpsichord and viola da gamba) I take pride in this resemblance and I have been investigating a possible link in the lineage. However, climbing the Crotch family tree is mysterious, and at times, scandalous business indeed. Until then, speculations of this kind are welcome.