Ursa Major
Why shouldn’t I estivate? (Here’s where Wikipedia confuses: One article says bears estivate; another claims they do not. So which is true?) It’s winter. I’m a bear. I have more in common with the ursine beasts lumbering in the nearby Appalachians than with my reveling hominid peers. I could easily den right here, fall asleep on this sofa at the close of Saturnalia and awaken in time for the Moveable Feast. I’ll give up Christmas for Lent. (Yawn.)
I don’t mind being a bear. At least I’m not a creation of the plastic surgeon’s art, one of a new species of humans with cat’s eyes and lacertilian lips. If the practitioners of plastic arts (in concert with cosmetics corporations) have their way, eventually all humans inside the Green Zones of economic safety will look identical, while those of us still roaming the hills will be considered cousins of Tod Browning’s Freaks. Not entirely a bad fate, if you ask me. At least there will finally be a sense of community among those of us who are not perfect. “One of us! One of us! One of us!”
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