It's Christmas, Dear Readers...

I've never been the type to get worked up over Christmas. My mother has loved Christmas ever since she was a kid and my sister inherited both our portions of this trait. To this day, I ask every Christmas Eve to be left alone until everyone else is up to open presents. Each and every year, I've been awakened by a soft knock on my bedroom door and excited whispers. I love my baby sister.

But this year has been different. I usually get as much out of watching my mom, sister, and, after he came along, my little brother enjoy the festivities as I do from my own participation. But finals ran late this year and my roommate, who's become like a brother to me, had to move for reasons out of his control, leaving me far more time alone than should be permitted. With the TV on for background noise while studying or resting from studying, it's easy to get misanthropic when being bombarded by unrepentant commercialism and praying to GOD Almighty that the folks on Maury are really paid actors.

Driving through the city streets to class, work and home again, it's hard to imagine anyone being justified in waking up to a new car Christmas morning when there are homeless people selling newspapers on every street corner, trying to work their way out of their situation. I often wonder what the man behind the holiday would think of what it's become.

When you're single and beyond exhausted, these things become readily apparent. The idea of suffering through one more jewelry commercial is enough to stir up thoughts of violence. X-Mas often seems (to me anyway) a much more appropriate name for the season. But then I moved home.

On my mother's side of the family, it's a tradition that the extended family will draw names out of a hat at Thanksgiving and an act of charity will be performed in whoever's name one has drawn. On Christmas Day, we gather together for a large meal and take turns reading the good that was done in everyone's honor. Skeptical though I was at first (I was a child when the tradition started. The presents were everything.), it has become a moving and often tearful experience every year. For example, two or three people will often join together to adopt an area family for Christmas, making sure there is plenty of food on the table on Christmas and the children will have something to unwrap in the morning.

Due to an inclement forecast, our Christmas dinner was bumped up o Christmas Eve this year. After a delicious turkey dinner and an hour of people telling tales of good deeds scrawled inside Christmas cards, we all parted ways to beat the coming snow and possibly for a nap. The snow began falling like it meant it as my immediate family pulled into our driveway and it hasn't stopped yet.

As a white blanket coats everything I can see, I turn out all of the light inside save those on the Christmas tree. You can almost hear the snowflakes crunch when they hit the ground. My baby brother (Note: Unlike my 18 year-old sister, he's close enough, at 9 years old, to still be considered universally my "baby" brother.) has set out cookies for Santa and is so excited for Mr. Kringle's impending arrival that he's already been to bed twice but couldn't sleep. (Another note: My "baby" sister, the one who is notorious for waking the family as early as possible each year, is also having trouble sleeping.)

Dear Readers (for I hope there are at least two of you), this is what Christmas is about. X-Mas hasn't won out yet. Seeing a young man ponder over whether Santa would prefer chocolate chip or sugar cookies, and then baking both with his older sister, just to be on the safe side brings a happiness that doesn't come around any other time during the rest of the year. I don't know exactly what the "Christmas spirit" is (though I sincerely hope they don't mean ghosts like Dickens') but I've got to believe this is what they mean.

And so, Dear Readers, I want to take the opportunity to wish you all a very Merry Christmas. I hope you can all enjoy this time with loved ones and that your every wish may be granted (if you've been good this year.) Thank you for your readership this year and I hope we can continue on this journey together far into the future! God Bless!

-Langford Milestone V

Stray Cats Go To Hell

My eyes scream open as one bottomless breath tears through my lungs. I try to exhale, but it’s frozen in my throat. I’m hurting, drowning in anguish. I smell blood. I taste blood. Between the alternating throbbing and fleeting numbness, I realize that I can’t move. The world around me is nonexistent in the blinding light overhead. A dense fog swirls and spins and churns and rolls until it settles upon my shoulders.

As the instantaneous panic of realizing that I am indeed alive fades, I grope wildly for the things hidden in the back of my brain. Who am I and what am I doing here, in this brutally well lit room? And I begin to remember things. Things jumbled together from random memories. Things that slowly sort themselves into logical sequences. Things that I haven’t thought about in a long time. Things that tell the story of how I and why I became me. And how I came to be in this hospital bed.

I was raised in a good, Christian household, taught good, Christian morals, and made to adhere to them with good, Christian discipline in my old Kentucky home. I always minded my mama and respected my father. I was a good student and (I would like to think) well liked among my peers. But that was all before I met them.

Graduation came and went and I set out to find my fame and fortune. Within a year and a half, I decided to hell with the fame. The fortune would be enough for me. Another year and I’d decided that my treasure map was broken and I just needed to find a new one. And that’s when they called. They chose a close friend of mine from high school to make the initial contact. One brief meeting for lunch changed my life forever.

The Bosnian mafia doesn’t play as I soon found out. “Delivering some packages for a friend of my dad” turned into a decade of moving nondescript cardboard boxes from one location to another, no questions asked. The compensation suffered minor variations from time to time, but it was always more than enough for me to keep my nose out of business that “didn’t concern me”. The phone would ring and a deep voice with a heavy Eastern European accent would rattle off times, addresses, and instructions before a faint click echoed in the receiver. I never asked what I was transporting. Something in the back of my mind told me that probably wouldn’t be a good idea.

Early on, the money was enough to convince me that I had a good thing going. But as I aged and gained more (near-death) experience, I began to contemplate deeper things than pizza money and utility bills. My thoughts continuously drifted back to my childhood and the good people I had known. Many hours were sacrificed to the deceptively simple question of what constituted a good person? I knew what I was doing was wrong. Thinking about it left an acrid, metallic taste in my mouth and emptiness in the pit of my stomach.

And so I got out. Not really “out”. But as close to “out” as one could. I ran. But they found me. Our reunion wasn’t a pleasant event, but my friends higher up in the ranks had arranged it so that I would be allowed to retire with the stipulation that if they called, I would answer. I readily agreed, happy to be the exception to the “body bag rule”. (e.g. “The only way out is in a body bag.”)

And so I rode off into the sunset, to live out my life in relative peace with enough financial resources to allow me to keep to myself. Until yesterday.

The phone rang around noon and a distantly familiar voice instructed me to be at the Minit Mart down the street at seven o’clock that night. A black BMW would be waiting with a man inside named Bob. This would be the last time they would ever call me, the voice assured. And then the familiar click. I was glad. That rotten feeling in my gut had returned. I felt sick.

I arrived at the Minit Mart three minutes ahead of the appointed time. The BMW was already waiting. It was immediately apparent that “Bob” was more likely a Vlad or a Piotr from the former Yugoslavia judging by his accent. I got in the car after a brief introduction and gave Bob the directions I had received over the phone as to where our shipment was waiting. Bob, apparently a rockabilly enthusiast, nodded knowingly, and turned up radio as we sped away. As “Summertime Blues” blared shamelessly, we rode in silence with intermittent breaks of Bob howling along with whichever Stray Cats or Brian Setzer tune caught his fancy. I gazed out the window as the world rolled by, stationary in my tiny universe consisting of the forward passenger seat. The feeling had not gone away and now my head was throbbing as well. I turned to ask Bob if he wouldn’t mind turning down the radio when a sudden burst of oppressive heat and a massive concussive force threw me in every direction. The last thing I remember seeing was Bob disappearing into a cloud of fire and smoke.

I wish now that I’d listened to my mother and become a minister. But I didn’t. So here I am. I don’t even know where “here” is. But I figure since all dogs go to heaven, then Stray Cats (and their listeners) must go to hell.