Monday, January 2, 2012

PARKENSTEIN! Part the Second

Monkton, MD, 22 October 20__

My Dearest Sister,

Parkenstein had been the most powerful critic in his field, feared as a man fears his God, his every proclamation a Judgment Day on a 100 Point Scale, his commandments followed assiduously if not asininely. Thou shalt not filter, nor fine, nor covet thy neighbor’s bunghole. Thou shalt not worship false Gods, Tanzers and BurgHounds of Hell, for their palates are the spawn of Satan, and that spawn is slightly salty, with a creamy texture, and tastes of asparagus and hedonistic DNA. Thou shalt not question my scores, for they are the Word and are Blessed, and are not subject to your mortal and weaker tastes. Parkenstein, now washed up on the shores of Monkton, found his commandments no longer relevant or obeyed, his power vanished, his name, once spoken in reverent whispers, now spoken with contempt and the insertion of noises that emulate the flatulence of a Shanken, which is Almighty Flatulence. But I shall let Parkenstein tell his own story.

My Creation, my monster, if you will [Parkenstein said to me], for he was at once beautiful and horrible to behold, like Nancy Grace only less manly, lay on the table awaiting life. He was a blob, a meaningless mound of fat and muscle and more fat, and he would be worthless until I bestowed upon him life and power. And when I gave him life, everyone would have to concede my infinite power and infallibility. Even blobbers, who are scum, the living excrement of Poodles.

I gave him life as a mother gives life. I suckled him at my own breast. My man-tits were fully developed, often admired and jealously envied, and when I placed one on the monster’s lips, he awoke! He had tasted the milk of my genius and it had given him life. It had been wise to give him a Suckling brain, for he took to it instantly. The monster arose, stared at me with the mouth-breathing gaze of an imbecile I would come to know well, and said his first words, “What’s it worth to you?”

Yet most of the monster’s speech was made up of grunts and snorts and slurping sounds. I had succeeded beyond my wildest dreams—he already spoke like a critic. Now my job would be to give the monster the tools it would take for him to function as my surrogate so that I could transfer my power unto him. One day I would unleash him on the world and his bequeathed power would make him a man, make him a god, and I would be the god-maker! I was crazy with lust, with a lust for omnipotence and power. I felt indomitable, I felt indestructible, I felt immortal. Parkenstein! I destroyed and created at will. My words, my numbers, were as if written in stone and carried down from the mountaintop by brave knights and their blithering idiot Squires (and his bulletin board). I was at the pinnacle of my profession, and yet I needed more. I needed immortality, and I knew it was not just one, but a procession of monsters I needed to create, a roving band of nonhuman Parkenstein robots who would not be me, but would carry my authority, would be my army of ventriloquist dummies, their opinions voiced as if they were their own. My first monster was just the beginning, I understood in that instant of creation, and one day I would have a retinue of monsters with borrowed brains who were mere impersonations of real humans, and the better for it. Real humans would never follow me.

Parkenstein Losing Face
I see now that my hubris blinded me, and was my downfall. I thought I could pass along my own success and power to creatures of my own making, as one might pass along goobers at a baseball game and in return pass back the money for them, for my monsters were clearly nuts and I certainly ended up with all the money. It was a horrible blunder, and one that has left me in the pathetic state you see me in now. I had created this monster and one day he would destroy me, just as modern man has declared God is dead and destroyed Him. But that was in the future then, as were the other horrible monsters I would create, and that moment I gave birth to the monster and decided to ship him to Spain I remember as a glorious and wondrous achievement. I wonder now how I could have been so stupid.

Could I have foreseen that my own creation, my monster, would want to ruin me? It was the ancient story of Oedipus, only I was both Mother and Father to the monster. He wanted to sleep with me and kill me both, which is how I felt about Alice Feiring. I’d created the script for my own snuff film where I was the star and the victim. Yet I believed I was doing good unleashing the monster on Spain, allowing him to roam the Spanish countryside dispensing my wisdom and my authority and my points. Perhaps my first clue to his hatred of me should have been how profligate he was with my points, how he handed them out like pedophiles hand out promises of puppies. Everything was a 96 to this Sucklingized zombie, the stupidest Mencia and the most insipid Albarino. At first I found it cute, as gods find the behavior of mere mortals entertaining, but then my points, my scale that I had spent decades perfecting, became a laughingstock in the monster’s hands. People saw the monster’s byline, his byline validated by my power and authority, and they began to laugh! To laugh! At me. At Parkenstein! Those meaningless numbers had actually become meaningless in the monster’s hands—something so many had tried to achieve with their own overblown scores and hollow, pathetic defenses of them, yet somehow only my loathsome Spanish dummy had succeeded in making an actual mockery of what had always been mockery. The monster had exposed my scale for what it was--yet another joke God has played on Man. I confess, now I find that joke mordantly funny.

And yet I loved my monster, his jowls reminded me of my beloved bulldog, so I didn’t do anything to stop him. He was my Creation, his existence without me as worthless as Republican rhetoric, and I was blind to the damage he was doing to me. And so I headed recklessly toward my downfall.

To be continued…


Samantha Dugan said...

The brilliance of a great writer is their ability to paint a powerful and real image. I am now going to go dunk my eyeballs in acid to try and rid myself of the gag-inducing image of Parker "suckling" Miller. Thanks for that...

Thomas said...

I'm a 95 on this series.

Still, I have to say, since I graduated at the top of my law class with Summer Come Soon honors, I know a law suit when I see one and if this unauthorized biography continues, and continues under that ridiculous Italian-German pseudonym, I shall have to pack my Philadelphia lawyer handbook and cheat-sheet and make my way to...where does this blog come from anyway?

Marcia Macomber said...

What a wonderful start to the New Year!

There are so many wonderful phrases I can't possibly pick a favorite. Although your jab at Republican rhetoric certainly is at the top of the list!

I can hear Mel Brooks wonderful violin music in the background soundtrack (although methinks it doesn't really calm the monster!)

Can't wait for more....

Pamela Heiligenthal said...

The HoseMaster is baaacckkk!!! Woot!

Ron Washam, HMW said...


Try to think of it as a metaphor, not reality. Everyone always knew Miller sucked, I just brought it to life. I'm sort of twisted.


This blog comes from the lower levels of Hell. That is, wine country.


Only one more chapter of Parkenstein! It has a happy ending.


Woot! back at ya. Even if Woot is a Lot18 competitor, thank you. I think.

Huff and Puff Daddy said...

I always thought that grade inflation was going to kill off Parkerstein, but it turned out to be waist inflation, plus the effort involved in blowing up that inflatable doll he called Millerstein.

Have you ever considered that Millerstein is just Steimanstein reincarnated?

Thomas said...

I wish I knew who all these people are. Does Martin Feldstein have anything to do with this? Wasn't he the guy with the movable humpback?

Oh no, that was Marty Feldman. What's he got to do with this story?

david in dundee said...

I feel dirty and unclean having read your Parkenstein posts... having said that- dirty, unclean, delighted, and full of wicked wonder at what I've read, is
better than just dirty and unclean!

Ron Washam, HMW said...

Huff and Puff,

Harvey is a self-created monster, the horrific Parkenstein Monster would never exist but for the life-giving Suckling of Parkenstein. Therein lies the tale. Steiman is just the Hindenberg reincarnated.


Marty Feldman was wall-eyed. Parkenstein's monster eyes wallets. Subtle difference.

David in Dundee,

Dirty and unclean is redundant. Like blogger and dull.

Don't be a stranger.

PaulG said...

There is hope for the wine world, as we enter the new year, the global economy in decline, TCA again on the rise, global chilling turning Napa into Lake Chelan. But the Hosemeister is back, and we give thanks. Just for the line "He wanted to sleep with me and kill me both, which is how I felt about Alice Feiring" we are happy happy happy happy happy!!!!

Ron Washam, HMW said...


Thanks for chiming in. I'm not sure my return is cause for anyone's celebration, but thanks for noticing. Now let's have some fun at the expense of all the blowhards.

Unknown said...

I don't get it.

-- Terence

Ron Washam, HMW said...

Hey Terence,

Yeah, I know. Me neither.

Lousy Grapes said...

I'm at a total lose for words. Parkenstein is horrific and though I wish only to destroy the foul beast there is also an inner feeling of great sorrow. For his creation is not his fault and though eventually his destruction is imminent it will not be without some sorrow. For he knows not the beast that he is.

Uk Spanish WIne Dude said...

Highly amusing and rather Gothic! My one beef would be that you pick on Mencia and Albarino, two of Spain's more elegant and less Parkerstein grapes, rather than disgustingly overblown Monatrells or Garnachas of Jumilla or Campo de Borja or even horribly oaky modern Riojas so beloved of Big Jay. Keep it up though...

Ron Washam, HMW said...

Lousy Grapes,

Thanks for the Cliff's Notes version of Parkenstein! The more I thought about the Parker/Miller thing, the more the Shelley classic started to ring true. And thus my crappy little parable was born.

You Kay Guy,

Point taken. I should have chosen the grapes with greater attention to detail--though what makes you think this piece is about Miller? Or anything?

Gerry Dawes said...

I agree with UK Spanish Wine Dude about the Galician grapes, Mencia and Albariño. Thank God Miller stayed out of Galicia, though he did slap 90 pts. on a Valdeorras coop Godello wine that the Spaniards claimed was a 1.5 Euro cooking wine (it turned out to be a switch and bait; the importer switched the wine, keep the same label and baited the Spanish market).

Dave (no, the other one) said...

@ Uk SWD

"My one beef would be that you pick on Mencia and Albarino ..."

I've really got to pay closer attention, could have sworn he was referring to Carlos getting kinky with an albino.

Miguel said...

First time I'm here and I'm very glad of it, thanks to be here with us Ron.

Ron Washam, HMW said...


Not sure I make any more sense in Spanish than in English, but thanks for dropping by.