History of the World-Xerxes the Swell

      As some of you know, I’m in the middle of writing a book.  Sure to be as big a commercial success as my others, I need to get Tony the Pony finished in time to be ignored by the Christmas Shopping public.

     After all, who do you think I am?  Robyn Engel?  Now there’s a talent.

     What all this means (thanks for asking) is that I don’t have a huge amount of time right now to devote to my blog.  After all, I may make a couple bucks in royalties from the book.  Whereas, Blogger doesn’t give me bumpkis.

     What this all really means is that I’m going to put forward what may seem familiar to some of you.  On the other hand, it may not.  Which begs the question, do you just come here for the pictures?  That’s actually okay.  It’s what I would do if I were you.

     So, without further adieu (French for “screwing around”) I present the following story about who is arguably one of ancient Persia’s greatest leaders, Xerxes the Swell. 

********

  

Historical Xerxes

  

Sexy Xerxes in Chains

    Sure to be a future Easter classic, I just watched 300 on TNT.  It's the true (although, I doubt there were mutant rhinos there) story of 300 (that's where they get the title...duh) Spartans lead by King Leonidas against the evil Persians of...uh...Persia.

    You know, those crazy cats better known as Iranians.

    For almost two hours, the brave Spartans used sword, spear, and washboard abs against the best the Persians could fling at them.  It’s only after the treachery of some guy who would make Rob Reiner look attractive that the Greeks are defeated.

Mostly abs

    After I got over my initial disappointment that there was no nudity in this “Modified For TV” feature, I grew curious about Leonidas’ opponent, Xerxes.

     NOTE:  The theatrical, or HBO version (is it on HBO?  Don’t know) has plenty of nudity.  Including several shots of Lena Heady.  You may know her as “Cersei” from Game of Thrones.  She ain’t banging her brother here, though.

"Eff."

"Hey, don't sweat it. 
Have you seen Gerard Butler? 
Woof."

"Much obliged."

    Was he the most powerful individual in antiquity?  Did he hold sway over all the world, except for China, the Mafia, South America, the Eskimos, New Jersey, the Super Friends, George Soros, Batman, and your mom?  

Or did he show an inordinate interest in Leonidas' loincloth?

 

"Not that there's anything wrong with that."

    Since I’d been disappointed in Hollywood before (I really thought a man-and monkeys-could fly), I decided to do some digging.  Figuring a source which gave us dogs saying “I love you” and dancing babies couldn’t steer me wrong, I consulted the Internet.

    Xerxes the Great was born in 519 BC to Atossa and Darius the Great.  Both of his parents were descended from Achaemenes, but of different Achaemenid lines.  The source documents were pretty clear on that as they wanted to leave no doubt there was no incest hanky-panky going on (despite Lena Heady’s appearance). 

After all, they weren’t Egyptians.  If those people wanted kids with feet growing out of their foreheads, that was their business.  But, the Persians played it on the up and up.

"Nothing to see here. 
Move along. 
Smart-ass Persian."

    Anyway, Darius knew marrying a daughter of Cyrus the Great would certainly help his plan for kingship.  Plus, it would grease his application to the Nineveh Country Club.

    NOTE:  Apparently, the suffix “the Great” was a pretty big thing in ancient Persia.  Which was why Darius’ brother, Herschel the So-So, was never taken seriously.

Not Herschel
For entertainment purposes only.

    Anyway, Darius was all pissed at off at everyone, from Babylon to that guy who sold him those Kinoki foot pads.  But, he was most hacked off at the Greeks.  Who, besides having grass and a recipe for some kick-ass souvlaki, had some of the sweetest nude beaches in the Mediterranean. 

So, he made intense preparations to invade...Egypt.

Hey, I didn’t write this stuff.

However, Persian law (wasn’t he the boss?) dictated he name a successor.  I guess this was just in case he got whacked.  Or never wanted to leave Greek beaches.

Before doing so, he contracted with Gambino and Sons building contractors to build him a tomb.  After permits were finally approved once the Zoning Officer found the head of a camel in his bed, construction began at Naqsh-e Rostam (yeah, I’m not going to look it up, either).  

"Hey, nice tomb ya got here. 
Would be a shame if something was ta happen to it."

    

Freed from the stress of planning his final resting spot and picking out window treatments, Darius then named his son, Xerxes, as his successor.

  ********

     Oops, will you look at the time?  I’d better get cracking on writing my book, don’tcha know?  We’ll have to continue our tale of Xerxes another time.

     Until then, go ahead and pre-order Tony the Pony.  Especially for someone you don’t like.

 

Funerals By George

Our stepfather would have been 81 today.  But, to me, he'll always be that young man who nervously confronted his girlfriend's five kids for the first time.  I miss you, Ray, and can't wait to play a forever game of Wiffleball in the Great Beyond.

  

    The following is a repost from...somewhere.  If nothing else, it was printed in I'll Make Christmas.

Available on Amazon, where only the very finest in the written word can be found. 
Also this.

    I’d spent a considerable amount of time deciding whether to even write this.  On first blush, it seems disrespectful.  I mean, how could telling a funny story about my stepfather’s funeral be anything BUT in poor taste?

    The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized that our final respects to “Poppy” weren’t contrived or phony.  Rather, they were a sincere goodbye to one of the family and the way I’d wanna go when I…uh…gotta go.

    Ray, or “Poppy” (as he came to be known), came into our lives when we were children.  Our mother, having grown tired of living with a man who resembled Ralph Kramden, acted like Archie Bunker, and possessed the social skills of Fred Flintstone, secured a divorce and somehow managed to convince this relatively young man that living with five kids really wasn’t much worse than a prostate exam from Edward Scissorhands.

    So it went through thick, thin, and adolescence until,  after the untimely death of our mother, it was Ray to whom we turned as head of the family.

    Even though he remarried a few years later, he was still the glue which held us together.

    He took us to ballgames, gave us advice, provided an anchor through tough times, and was a father to five kids when he didn’t have to be.  He may have thought onion dip with chips was high cuisine and Howard Stern was Masterpiece Theater, but he was our model for manhood.

    When he succumbed to cancer several years ago, we were overwhelmed with grief at the loss of someone who had guided us into adulthood and sadness that our own children wouldn’t get to know him as we had.

    As funeral preparations went into high gear, we didn’t have a lot of time to dwell on the person we had lost.  Concerned with the how and where (we definitely knew “why”), we began to lose our grip on the “who.”

    During the two-day viewing, my brothers, sister, and I took our proper places in the front row (the only place where being in the “front row” is not a good thing) and paid our respects to all who came to...uh...pay their respects.

    For two hours, we sat quiet as mummies, while mourners shuffled by the open casket.  As they finished, they turned to us, murmuring “I’m sorry,” “He looks so natural,” (one of the stupidest sayings known to man), or some other such platitude before rushing home to watch “Jake and the Fat Man.”

    Needless to say, it was kinda rough.  Enduring the parade of mourners while solemnly staring at someone who looked nowhere near “natural” took its toll.

    The second night was a little different.  Although prepared to be good soldiers throughout the duration, our solemn façades began to break down after the arrival of one of my brother’s old girlfriends.

    I’ve always admired her for showing up.  She didn’t come to see my brother; she came to say goodbye.  This, of course, didn’t stop the smirks from me and my other brothers and sister.  Nor disapproving looks and hushed “tsk tsks” from some of the other, more distant, relatives.

    Through it all, though, we maintained our composure.

    Until another brother’s old girlfriend showed up.  More smirks.  Then, when one of MY old girlfriends arrived, smirks became giggles.

    Giggles became whispered jokes.  And whispered jokes became throwing our voices at the casket when elderly relatives showed up.  This (to us, anyway) was the very best in funeral home comedy.

    As bad as our performances at the “home”, they were nothing compared to the actual funeral.

    Starting off with a service at the Episcopalian Church (what we refer to as “Catholic Light”) we ended up at the biggest cemetery in town.

    A military funeral (because he was in the Marines), the service was very dignified and steeped in an appropriate level of sadness.

    At its conclusion, everyone but the immediate family withdrew to a cold cuts, beer, and coffee fest at the Elks Lodge (something about a funeral makes me crave boiled ham on a little roll).

    My brothers, my sister, our spouses, and I stared quietly at the casket as it sat suspended over the open vault.  Festooned with an untold number of floral garlands, its mute presence reminded us of our loss.

    It was then I felt a little guilty over our hijinks from the night before.

    As we began to move toward our cars, we heard an almost imperceptible “psst!”  Quickly scanning the cemetery, I didn’t see anything or anyone.  Still looking, we heard it again and spotted a head peering around the side of a tree.

    What the-?

    Suddenly, we spotted one of the people we went to high school with, George, as he stepped from behind the tree, a 30-pack of Budweiser in his hand.  “Everybody gone?”  he called.

    When we told him we were the only ones left, he came over to the site and placed the case of beer on the ground.  “Well, here you are.”

    Sensing we had no clue what he was talking about it, he said, “When Ray knew he was going to die, he told me to get a case of beer and go to his gravesite and hide.  Then,” he went on, “when everybody but the kids left, he told me to come on out and let you have a beer on him.”

    Stunned, we stared at George, the beer, and the grave.   

    Nobody said a word for a few minutes.  Then one of us-I don’t remember who-grabbed a can.  The rest of us immediately followed.

    Popping our tops, we raised our cans to Poppy in toast.

    Before we drank, though, my brother said, “Wait!”  Opening  a can, he set it on top of the casket and said, “Well, here you go, cheaper than you can get at Yankee Stadium.”

    With that, we all had a beer to the memory of our father.

    Needless to say, we finished that case and, despite the “These people are nuts” looks from the cemetery workers, stayed until the casket was finally lowered into the ground.

    It may have been a strange way to act at a funeral, but we knew that was the way Poppy would have preferred it.  Why else would he have had the presence of mind to contract the services of “Funerals By George”?

    Epilogue:  At the post-service "Deviled Eggs and Macaroni Salad Fest", we were discussing how we’d like to be remembered when it was our turn to shuffle off this mortal coil.  We all agreed that nobody should be sad; while “have fun with it” sounds morbid, it pretty much sums up our philosophies.

    Then, we “handicapped” who would go next.  After focusing on who had the most hazardous profession, the discussions finally centered on our most serious health problems.  While none of us have any medical issues to speak of, my brother and I DO have high blood pressure.  Since we couldn’t decide who was more likely to die next, we flipped a coin.

    I lost. 

    Wonder if George is in the phone book? 

Closing thoughts:  This happened over thirty years ago.  Since then, my brothers, sister, and I have become what our kids call "The Olds."  Yes, such is life.  I only wonder, and strangely hope, that when it comes time for us to shuffle off this mortal coil, they'll give us a similar send-off.  Although, since George is our age, they'll have to find someone else to bring the beer.