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.