Isn’t it time to try something new? Loretta Lynn wants us to “put the Christ back in Christmas.” I say let’s give Jesus a break.

December 25 offers plenty of other reasons to celebrate. Book a flight, get out of town and forget about the presents. This year, have a happy alternative Christmas by celebrating some of the other famous people who share the same birthday as Christ.

Humphrey Bogartmas
Brood and chain-smoke all day in your matching trench coat and fedora. Grimace as you mutter machine-gun-fire bons mots. And don’t say, “Play it again, Sam,” because he never did.

Sir Isaac Newtonmas
Prove and reprove the theory that gravity does exist by dropping things on people all day. This is especially fun to do while wearing a big powdered wig and pantaloons.

A Patriotic Christmas
It was on December 25, 1896, that John Philip Sousa finally committed to paper a melody that had been haunting him for several days. That catchy little ditty was none other than the patriodelic “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” In order to celebrate Sousa’s Stars and Stripesmas properly, search bargain bins and garage sales for months or even years in advance to make one single tape of every version of “The Stars and Stripes Forever” that’s ever been recorded. We’re talking Zamfir’s Pan Flute version, the Moog Synthesizer version, the U.S. Navy Marching Band, Nirvana, the Hollywood Strings. Every version. Ideally, Sousa’s Stars and Stripesmas should be celebrated in a patriotic setting: Philadelphia, Arlington Cemetery or in front of the Alamo. One should wear turn-of-the-century garments and ride around on one of those bicycles with the really big front wheel. (Cycling was America’s predominant pastime in 1896.) But if you can’t pull that off, just wear red, white and blue, drink lots of hearty ale and make up your own words to the song you would love to forget.

Larry Csonkamas
Sports enthusiasts already know that December 25 is Larry Csonkamas. Miami, Fla., is the place to celebrate his birthday by playing football the whole day. And it’s Csonkamas, so everyone gets to be No. 39. At the end of the day, throw a big banquet where everyone takes turns giving short Hall of Fame acceptance speeches and recounting fond memories from Super Bowls VI, VII and VIII.

Jimmy Buffettmas
The birth of Jimmy Buffett can be properly celebrated in any suburb that has a Margaritaville restaurant. Declare yourself a “parrothead” (akin to the Grateful Dead’s “deadheads”), don a Hawaiian shirt, imbibe hundreds of margaritas and run around screaming for your “lost shaker of salt.” Warning: After too many margaritas it becomes easy to confuse Jimmy Buffett and Eddie Money. So whatever you do, under no circumstances sing “Two Tickets to Paradise” (that’s Eddie Money).

Cab Callowaymas
On December 25, 1907, Mr. Minnie the Moocher, the original crossover artist (one of the first black band leaders to become popular with white audiences) was born. Celebrate by donning a white tuxedo with tails and taking the A train into Harlem. Tap-dance a lot and wish everyone a hearty “Hi di, hi di, hi di, ho, ho, ho.” Plop the kiddies in front of the TV and pop that old Betty Boop cartoon into the VCR. (Cab provided the music, vocals and inspiration for the dancing skeletons in the haunted “St. James Infirmary” sequence.) Shake your head and remember the good ol’ days.

Twilight Zonemas
On this day in 1924, “Twilight Zone’s” deadpan host and creator, Rod Serling, was born. This holiday allows for some free-form adaptation. Choose your favorite “Twilight Zone” episode and spend the day reenacting pivotal moments from it in the public setting of your choice. Some personal favorites include:

Talking Tinamas: Carry around a baby doll that says “Mommy. Daddy. I’m going to kill you.”

Eye of the Beholdermas: You and your friends wear pig-face masks and walk around shrieking in horror when you encounter “conventionally attractive” people.

Queen of the Nilemas: Adopting the doomed glamour of a fading movie star, try to place a magic scarab on a youthful victim’s chests (so you can suck out the life that’s left in them in order to retain your ageless beauty).

Clara Bartonmas
‘Tis the season to act out all your nurse fantasies.

Barbara Mandrellmas
This Nashville darling deserves some celebrating. A marathon of her 1980s family variety show would be a lovely way to spend some quality time with someone dear, don’t you think?

Dean Martin Death Day
This is the High Holy Day for the swing set. It also falls conveniently close to Frank Sinatramas (December 12). To celebrate properly, don a sharkskin suit or a beaded satin cocktail dress for your “gay apparel” and head to the holy land for high rollers: Las Vegas. (It’s a travesty that the Sands no longer exists, making it impossible to visit the sacred spot in front of the marquee where the Rat Pack was photographed and immortalized into a top-selling postcard.) Dean Martin Death Day celebrants should, upon waking, immediately commence the obligatory 21-martini salute. Around martini No. 10, begin spontaneously bursting into strains of “That’s Amore.” By martini No. 21 everyone will be singing “Volare.” End the night with some drunken off-color slurs, alleged spousal abuse and a retreat into obscurity.

As you can see, the possibilities for a truly enjoyable December 25 are virtually limitless. It’s just not fair that Jesus gets all the glory. Martha Stewart may tell you to deep-fry your turkey this year for something different. I say trash the whole Christmas concept and start from scratch. Celebrate some of the others who have been lost in the shadow of His glory.

After all, it’s Christmas!

1929? 1949? Nope: Aug. 24, 1999. The Hemingway in
question? Jack Hemingway, first son of Ernest and Hadley, father to Margaux
and Mariel. The occasion? An exclusive party to celebrate the 55th
anniversary of Ernest Hemingway’s “liberation” of the Ritz.

For those of you who don’t know this particular footnote in Hemingway lore,
just after the Allied troops declared victory on Aug. 24, 1944, Hemingway,
with a band of irregulars just outside the Paris periphery, sped straight to
the Place Vendtme.

Their self-appointed mission was to relieve the Nazi
officials of their occupation headquarters: the Hotel Ritz. That night, as
word spread that the war was over, Papa and crew played host to one of the
most jubilant parties the Ritz had ever seen. Fifty-five years later,
people were still celebrating, and still remembering.

I was just happy I wasn’t paying for the $20 martinis.

Jack Hemingway, now 75, looked strikingly like his father. The Hemingways are big men, with broad shoulders and strong arms. Jack was even sporting a
neatly trimmed white beard, reminiscent of Ernest in his Cuba days.

But more than anything, he sounded exactly like his father.
When Jack told a story, right after the punch line, his head would fall back and a roar would burst out of his throat. And just as with his father, it was much more high-pitched than you would imagine a Hemingway to have.

How annoying it must be to be the son of Ernest Hemingway. How could anyone live up to a man who wrestled with bears, lions and bulls, won the Pulitzer and Nobel prizes
and boasted of sleeping with every woman that he had ever cared to?

Still, Jack has held his own.

While his father was liberating the Ritz, Jack — an OSS officer — had just escaped
from behind enemy lines. Over the years he has accumulated stories of his
own to tell — and then he told them. Like Ernest’s brother and various ex-wives, Jack
wrote his side of life with Papa, “The Misadventures of a Fly Fisherman: My Life With and Without Papa.” This biography of an absentee, alcoholic father is surprisingly well-written.

After shadowing him for a nervous half-hour, I finally got someone I had just
met to introduce me.

“Jack, I’d like you to meet Gentry Lane. She’s writing a book on Paris in
the 1920s.”

“Oh good! No one’s ever written anything like that before,” he laughed.

Normally I’d smack anyone who laughed at my aspirations. But seeing as
Gertrude Stein was his babysitter, I let it slide.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Bumby,” I said. With gin-fueled courage I
addressed him by his childhood nickname — the one by which Ernest refers to him
in “A Moveable Feast.”

“I’ve grown a bit since anyone’s called me that,” he laughed and patted his
girth.

We talked about San Francisco, my hometown and his too for a while. He worked
at the City of Paris department store and remembered when Playland was still
open. I’m only 30, and know about these places only from a video I
got for becoming a member of the local PBS affiliate, but I was thrilled to have a common connection to a real live Hemingway.

What impressed me most about Jack was that he wasn’t wearing shoes.
Instead he was wearing slippers, little velvet ones with the Hemingway
family crest embroidered in gold. They looked comfy. And they went with his
suit. That made him the cooler Hemingway, I thought. Ernest, a man who
favored a belt he pulled off a dead German, would never have the guts to wear
little velvet slippers.

Switching easily from English to French, Jack flowed from conversation to conversation
with guests anxious to talk about his father or his father’s
works. Some of them were not as well-versed as they should have been.

“Ernest would be proud,” said someone during a lull in the speechifying.

“I don’t think he would’ve liked all this,” Jack whispered to me,
motioning to the room full of Parisian society people, dainty hors d’oeuvres and
a sleepy background band sporting berets and playing “La Vie en Rose.”

“He would have liked that we’re drinking,” I said.

“Yes, he would have liked that.”

But Jack Hemingway liked this party. The crowd was animated and the setting
was pure Ritz, classy in every way. Ambassadors, journalists and Ritz
regulars all vied for a bit of Hemingway’s attention. And, in true
Hemingway fashion, he seemed to be most pleased when talking to a pretty girl.

I am at a stage in my life where I’m looking seriously and
systematically for
someone I can share my life with. You seem like a nice person, and I don’t
mean this as badly as it might sound, but I don’t have time for twenty
questions by e-mail. I met five girls Saturday night, have already booked a
first coffee with three of them, and meet more every time I go dancing … and I go dancing at least three times a week. I immediately rule out women who put up too many barriers. I don’t do this because I think there’s anything wrong with them, nor do I do it because I’m arrogant. I do this
simply to economize on time.

I know that dating in this city is difficult and scary for women. But keep
in mind it’s that way for the guys, too. Most of all, remember that you’re competing with thousands of other women who don’t insist that the man do all
of the work of establishing a connection. And they live closer.

Now, maybe you’ll find someone who’s so taken by a single dance with you that he’s willing to negotiate by e-mail for a chance to trek to your suburban hideout to plead his case. But you might not. And if such a person does exist, and you do happen to cross paths with him — what do you imagine a guy that desperate would have to offer?

– Bryan Winter

The nerve! She decides to teach ol’ Bryan Winter a lesson. So she cuts and
copies the text of his e-mail and sends it to a handful of friends with a tag line:

“In the hopes that this e-mail might get back to him after being seen by countless thousands of young women along the way … please send this on to a friend!”

She tells her friends. And they tell more friends. And so on, and so on …

The woman who went looking for love and found a jerk got her electronic
revenge and then some. Within a few days, an estimated 10,000 people — based on an algorithm of the 50 responses I received to my informal e-mail survey — read Bryan Winter’s arrogant reply. The e-mail has surfaced on desktops across the globe. It has zipped up and down the East Coast, zigzagged all over California, Ohio, Michigan and Alabama, and even made the transatlantic crossing to Paris.

Many recipients took the liberty of adding a few comments of their own before
forwarding to an average of eight more people.
“He’s sick.” “What a loser!” “Mr. Wonderful.” “This guy should be shot.”
The subject line changed but his text — so far as I have been able to determine — remained faithfully unaltered.

The case of Bryan Winter seems to have struck a sensitive spot. Thousands of people who have never met this guy (or the woman to whom his e-mail was addressed) jumped at the chance to inflict judgment and more humiliation on a
perfect stranger by forwarding his personal correspondence. All of this with
minimal prompting and on behalf of someone they’ve never met. His three
insolent paragraphs have created an international e-mail uproar.

What a perfect artifact of male arrogance! Perhaps women have finally had enough of the “I’m doing you a favor by letting you get to know me” mentality rampant among today’s datables. With his condescending tone and his immediate assumption of his own desirability, Bryan Winter represents the archetypical pompous male. His emotionally detached methodology for finding a mate robotically and systematically rules out anyone who does not fit his arbitrary criteria. And his forthrightness is just plain impolite.

Yet, perhaps ubiquitous electronic communication will usher in a new
romantic justice system, where such personal acts of insensitivity are
tried on a larger stage. After all, we live in a society where reputation means
more and more. “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all”
is not just a nicety mom constantly repeated, it’s a maxim that can make
or break a burgeoning career. With increasing frequency, who you know is more important that what you know. Could such an e-mail really damage Bryan
Winter’s career and love life?

- – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - -
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Round 2 of the Bryan Winter Saga gets even uglier. Several people get the
bright idea of running Washington-area identity checks, so Bryan Winter’s home
address and phone number are circulated as widely as his original e-mail. The
phone number for Bryan Winter in D.C. is mysteriously “no longer in service.”
But the search for Bryan Winter’s e-mail address continues. Suddenly every
Bryan Winter in the country is suspect. Bryan Winter, Internet manager at
Malcolm Marketing Communications in Madison, Wis., issues this plea via e-mail:

My name, unfortunately, is Bryan Winter. I have gotten these e-mails for
days now — and they are really getting annoying. I don’t know who this joker
is/was, but it is not me. So please take me off of your lists … I’m asking
that you please forward this e-mail with the same vigor you posted the initial one.

Judging from the forwarded e-mail addresses, the Bryan Winter message has made its way among a disproportionately high level of lawyers, communication industry professionals and Washington government workers. It is interesting to see that among upper echelons of the white-collar hierarchy, no one sought to verify the source. The context and content of Bryan Winter’s e-mail were taken at face value. How do we know that Bryan Winter wasn’t responding to an equally arrogant retort? Aren’t we making a judgment before we’ve heard the whole story? He is cybercrucified with frightening zeal before he gets a chance to explain himself.

If, that is, Bryan Winter really exists. He may be as real as the Kentucky
Fried Rat or the Bubble Yum spider eggs. Wait a second, Bryan Winter,
wasn’t he the one who got his kidney abducted after a stripper slipped him a
mickey at a bachelor party? All the world loves a good urban myth, the more
believable the better. This text of the e-mail is subtle enough to be
believable and agitating enough to incite reactions ranging from amusement to
outrage. In short, it’s perfect material for a carefully crafted hoax.

If he is indeed real, Bryan Winter was naive to assume that e-mail is
a private exchange. It is doubtful that he would have sent the same message
had he known everybody and her uncle was going to read it. Clearly it
doesn’t matter if Bryan Winter exists or not. What is shockingly obvious
is an end-user susceptibility to information from unverified sources. Not
to mention the agitation from men and women alike toward unjustifiable arrogance.

What remains to be seen is how successful the revenge will be in the long run.
Will Bryan Winter’s reputation suffer or be enhanced in by the cyberpublicity he is unwittingly receiving? In a society where a man commonly
known to have a re-attached penis goes on to become a porn star, convicted
prostitutes launch lingerie lines and presidential fellatio gets you a book
deal and two hours with Barbara Walters, this scandal could be a blessing in disguise for Bryan Winter. The added publicity to his forthright spousal quest might be just what this guy needs. His rationale, tone and methodology didn’t appeal to this particular woman, but who is to say that his perfect love match won’t read his words and recognize in them the man of her dreams. Spamming is certainly a lot more efficient than going dancing three times a week, Winter’s preferred method of date trolling. It’s easier on the wallet, too, and you don’t come home at 3 in the morning smelling like smoke.

Let them scoff all they want, Bryan Winter. Suddenly women across the nation know who you are, and some of them even have your home address. Now that you’ve got their attention, all this publicity might be the most efficient road to true love. And we all know how much you love efficiency, Bryan
Winter.

Because when the nights are cold and I’m home alone, cuddling up with my pride doesn’t cut it. A woman has needs. Rumor has it that women reach the apex of their sexual prime around age 35, with things picking up a few years before. This theory may be linked to a hormonal rush that women experience about the same time. It’s a primal urge and last-ditch attempt at reproduction. Hormonal sabotage, one could say. My
biological clock must be digital, because I have yet to hear the ticking. My
loins may be screaming “procreate,” but by the time the message gets to my
brain, it’s been watered down to a mere “copulate.”

I just moved to France, and in the month prior to quitting the United States, I had a
little hedonistic fun-fest. Among other atrocities I gleefully committed, I
had an affair with a 22-year-old lad (eight years my junior). Nice and discreet,
the romance was surprisingly satisfying. Plus he’s Tallulah Bankhead’s grandnephew, so at least he hails from scandalous stock. I was impressed with my
conquest and wanted to brag to my friends about his virility, stamina and
Calvin Klein underwear ad-worthy abs. But I hesitated. Why subject myself to
judgment and the potential humiliation of being labeled a cradle robber? It
was a casual fling, I told myself. Certainly not a predicament I would
repeat.

I wouldn’t date a 22-year-old, even when I was 22. There is an unwritten rule that women subconsciously memorize and strive for: Suitors are supposed to be three to five years older. What mystery advantage men gain in a three-to-five-year age difference is beyond me. The technical number of years is actually arbitrary, but the rule is set in stone: older man, younger woman.

Psychologists make note of an adolescence and early adulthood phenomenon known as the gender maturation gap. During normal development, females are theoretically five years more psychologically advanced than their male counterparts. This suggests an inclination and rationale for women to be
attracted to older men. However, everything is supposed to even up around age
30, when the gender maturation gap ceases to exist. But the tacit implication
remains that women should date slightly older men.

An air of desperation is attributed to a woman engaged in relations with a
younger man. There must be something wrong with her or she would be able to
find someone her own age. And shouldn’t said young man prefer someone fresh
and virginal, not an old lady who has already been around the block a few
times?

This stigma is as sexist as it is hypocritical. Why shouldn’t a woman be able to date down? Men have been doing it for years.

Because it’s just taboo. And I privately resolved never to date down again.
Until I met my luscious, 23-year-old, French, next-door neighbor.

He says he was initially attracted to my comportment. (Although I still
wonder if he didn’t mix up the word “comportment” with “apartment,” because
mine is much nicer.) I was attracted to his chest region, so we began our
illicit affair. I certainly wasn’t going to broadcast my new liaison to my
friends, so I was shocked to find out that he was bragging about me to his.It seems in France, the older woman-younger man arrangement is quite desirable. I was baffled.

In almost all of Europe, a woman in her 30s is considered young and well-seasoned. Teenage appearance is eschewed for sophistication, refined style
and independence. Likewise, a young man who can entertain one of these fascinating creatures gets extra points for studliness. Not to mention the
sexual compatibility, because a women in her early 30s and a man in his early 20s are both in their so-called sexual prime.

I finally confided my newfound perversion to a friend living in New York. Lo and behold, she confessed to precisely the same indulgence.

“But it’s nothing serious.” “Oh no, no. Certainly not,” we coughed. We didn’t want to admit that beyond sexual satisfaction, men of lesser
age could possibly have more to offer.

The most obvious attribute to dating men in their early 20s is their eagerness to please. They haven’t yet learned to hide their intimidation or lack of knowledge under a fagade of machismo and self-imposed superiority. They’re simply natural. And the easy way they get embarrassed is adorable, especially when they look at the ground and shuffle their feet.

Second, younger men are more open to suggestion. Rough edges are so much more pliable and easier to polish out. My friend in New York has succeeded in teaching her young buck that if she calls and he’s playing Nintendo he must immediately stop doing that and pay attention to her. When she reaches for a cigarette, his Zippo is out before the filter hits her lips.

Now that’s the kind of boyfriend I like.

Eventually the age difference rears its ugly head. In my case our first
fight was over canned food. My young Frenchie invited me to “dinner” at his
house, which consisted of a can of heated-up ravioli. When I gently suggested
we go back to my house, where I have plenty of comestibles spanning the four
basic food groups, he was mad at me.

“I cannot believe we are fighting over food,” he said in his Jacques Cousteau-esque broken English.

“I’m insulted you’d offer to feed me that,” I said, staring at the woebegone glob of canned pasta.

Tensions and words escalated. I stormed out of his flat regretting the
decision to involve myself with a younger man. We obviously had different
standards of living. Once home he called me. I hadn’t had a bite to eat,
I was still starving and still mad, but yes, I would call him later.

So I had a Valium as my appetizer and a nutritious, well-balanced meal for
dinner.

But before I could return the call, he rang again. “I eat ravioli so I can
save my money to take you to nice dinners,” he explained.

It made me think. It’s not right to hold a 22-year-old to the same standards to which I hold myself. I can’t be mad at him when his phone gets shut off because he forgot to pay his bill or when he drinks until he throws up, because I made those same mistakes too when I was his age.

I can however, hold him to the important stuff. He has to be kind,
emotionally honest and caring, which he is, and so much more. Although he’s
less accomplished career-wise than my other datables of late, he’s certainly
much nicer to be around. Sure, I had my driver’s license when he was in the
third grade, but he’s fun, spontaneous and frisky. And since I’m not
marriage-minded, I’m quite grateful to be with someone sweet who appreciates
me and is years away from developing love handles.