ARIES (March 21-April 19): I get my financial guidance from an ex-Charles Schwab broker who is now a loincloth-wearing witch doctor. He often ends his consultations with a dirty yet spiritual joke. For my political education I go to a Jesuit- trained comedy writer who has had intimate relations with three members of Congress and two federal judges. An anarchist singer for an all-woman thrash band regularly provides me with advice about etiquette and ethics. What about you, Aries? This is prime time, astrologically speaking, for you to take inventory of your stable of helpers, teachers, and counselors. If your team is too staid or uninspiring, reconfigure it so that it provides you with maximum fertility.

TAURUS (April 20-May 20): A Tibetan Buddhist sand painting can take weeks to construct. Artists work as a team, painstakingly laying out colored grains in precise designs on a large platform. Once finished, the masterpiece survives only a short time before its makers destroy it. I believe you Bulls will derive deliciously poignant rewards from pursuing this approach as you toil on your labor of love in the coming weeks. That's what the astrological oracles tell me, at least. I'm not saying you'll have to give up your beautiful creation when you're done, but I do believe the creation will be most beautiful if you nurture an appreciation for impermanence that is comparable to the sand painters'.

GEMINI (May 21-June 20): "Dear Dr. Brezsny: I dreamed you sent me an 88-page letter, pink sidewalk chalk, a glossy photo of Marat-Sade, a postcard of Machu Picchu, and a sandwich made of bologna and yellow marigolds. The sandwich was yummy. But what does it all mean? That your gifts are like flowery bologna that tastes delicious? Also, what did the letter say and what was I supposed to do with the other stuff? --Christian Crackwhore in Los Angeles."

Dear Christian Crackwhore: I suspect that you aren't really a Christian crackwhore and that you didn't really dream this dream. You made it all up, right? Hoping to mystify and delight me? Which you did. Thank you. I suggest you try similar tricks with everyone you care about, especially those who think they have you all figured out.

CANCER (June 21-July 22): It would be a good week to wear a diamond-studded baseball hat backwards to a formal party, play Twister in a museum, make condoms into water balloons and throw them at each other in a park after midnight, try to channel the spirit of Lucille Ball, dress vegetables up in doll clothes, and start your collection of Pokemon cards. In other words, Cancerian, LIGHTEN UP! (P.S. I also suggest you make liberal use of the following words: frothy, quiver, undulate, murmur, lather, effervesce, scintillate.)

LEO (July 23-Aug. 22): Planet Earth would be an icy desert if it weren't for the sun. Our day star's radiance is essential for the nourishment of every living thing. On the other hand, an excess of solar heat can be damaging -- scorching crops, drying up rivers, causing skin cancer. As the only sign ruled by the sun, Leo, you possess small scale versions of that dual power to vivify and wither -- both of which are now at their peak. In the coming weeks, I suggest you carefully monitor tendencies to shine way too brightly. But don't you dare go too far and eclipse your own resplendence.

VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22): I trust you're in the thick of finishing up old business, tying up loose ends, and politely screaming "Get the hell out of my life forever" at every influence that's unworthy of you. May I suggest that you bring it all to a roaring climax with a full-blown ritual? First thing you do is create an altar with objects that symbolize the new world you want to explore. Next, gather ten scraps of paper and write on each piece the name of someone or something you want to say goodbye or good riddance to. Finally, burn the scraps in the flame of a red candle as you intone the following words with sincere gratitude: "Thank you for what you've taught me, but I've learned all the lessons I can from you. Now scram."

LIBRA (Sept. 23-Oct. 22): "Is it bad to live without a hell?" poet Pablo Neruda asks in *The Book of Questions.* There are thousands of correct answers; I'll offer those that are most true for you in this place and time. It would be very smart and healthy for you to live without a hell if you conceive of it as fundamentalist Christians do: a fiery abyss where souls are tortured for eternity. But let's visualize a "hell" cast in a different mythic image -- as a sacred cave of rebirth presided over by the ancient Norse goddess Hel. In my opinion, it's insane to live without that kind of "hell" -- especially in the coming days, when your soul will yearn to rekindle lost dreams and refresh itself with sweet, shadowy, sublime riddles.

SCORPIO (Oct. 23-Nov. 21): Your clout has swelled in recent weeks. Your chutzpah has ripened nicely and your *cajones* have...uh...grown more impressive. Now you stand at a crossroads. Will you use your new authority to cultivate a rich consensus? Will you diplomatically curry favor so as to build your popularity, thereby making your power more useful and enduring? Or (Goddess forbid) will you throw your weight around with reckless insensitivity, like an ancient Greek hero in the thrall of raw hubris?

SAGITTARIUS (Nov. 22-Dec. 21): At the beginning of the twentieth century, two African-American leaders pushed for radically different responses to the intransigent cruelty of white culture. Booker T. Washington argued for a policy of accomodation, encouraging blacks to improve their lot gradually through education and hard work. W.E.B. Dubois, on the other hand, advocated agitation, protest, and a demand for immediate equal rights. I don't feel qualified to judge which was the wiser approach, but I do sense that you Sagittarians have come to a fork in your own life that'll require you to emulate either Washington or DuBois. What'll it be, my dear? Slow and simmering or headlong and hard-line?

CAPRICORN (Dec. 22-Jan. 19): Composers of classical music weren't shy about ripping off riffs. Mozart lifted parts of Boccherini's String Quartet in C. Brahms' Cello Sonata in E Minor has echoes of a piece by Bernhard Romberg. In his Sinfonia, Luciano Berio pilfered from Mahler's Second Symphony. Ah, but here's the rub. Music critics have on occasion declared the parasitic work to surpass the original. Hans Keller asserted, for instance, that Mozart showed more brilliance in stealing Boccherini's theme than Boccherini did in inventing it. What does this have to do with you, Capricorn? From an astrological view, it's prime time to imitate Mozart. I advise you to appropriate every good idea you come across and make it your own, only better. (Reference: www.music.indiana.edu/borrowing/browsekl.html.)

AQUARIUS (Jan. 20-Feb. 18): Federal law allows food manufacturers to leave up to seven rodent hairs and 210 insect fragments in a jar of peanut butter. Any more than that and the stuff is considered unsanitary. While this appallingly low standard may cut it for peanut butter, however, it won't work for you in your own chosen sphere, Aquarius. More than any other time this year, your dedication to purity and excellence must be impeccable. Sloppy mediocrity should be your sworn enemy.

PISCES (Feb. 19-March 20): My Piscean friend Artemis was always afraid that having enough money would wreck her career as a poet. Being a starving artist, she believed, was a crucial stimulus for her creativity. Last spring, chaos struck: She unexpectedly received a sizable inheritance, plunging her into deep depression. Seeking a cure, she began traveling in Europe, which had previously been impossible for a person of her limited means. A few weeks into her journey, she erupted in a creative frenzy. Today she called from Amsterdam to tell me she has churned out a book-length manuscript of the best stuff she's ever written. I predict that an analogous blast of unruly abundance will soon come your way, Pisces, leading to the erosion of one of your long-cherished theories of scarcity.

I LOVE TELEVISION™
What's My Line
by Wm.™ Steven Humphrey

YOU KNOW, IT'S PRACTICALLY impossible for me to guzzle down a tumbler of liquor, or snort a line of coke, without a concerned I Love Television™ reader interrupting me with an ill-timed, yet very important question: "Wm. Steven Hump-Me, why does most TV suck dead duck dick?" Well, to them I say, "What do I look like? Some kind of coke-snorting swami?" However, since I Love Television™ readers are more important to me than any line of blow, I'll pause to reflect on why I think most TV sucks dead duck dick--but after that, it's back to more toot for the snoot. Okay?

Okay.

In my goddam opinion, television has taken an abrupt and downward spiral into the crapper ever since the Year of our Lord 1990. This was the year that an integral part of television writing was declared obsolete; the year network executives put the kibosh on what's commonly known as "the catch phrase." For those unfamiliar with using your brain stem, a "catch phrase" is a short yet memorable turn-of-phrase repeated ad nauseam by a television character in order to ensure recognition by an audience. Well, sometime around 1990, every network executive suddenly got a bug up his ass that told him, "Hey, executive! I'm a bug up your ass, and catch phrases are strictly squaresville, daddio!" And suddenly, as soon as FBI agent Dale Cooper of Twin Peaks uttered the words "Damn fine pie," the catch phrase simply disappeared from the television landscape.

Since that time, TV has been cursed with a string of forgettable series and characters--because let's face it: without a catch phrase, most characters are about as interesting as watching Sam Donaldson pick dandruff off his toupee. Imagine for a moment, if YOU lived in a world populated with TV characters... who would you rather have pop by for an unannounced visit? Frasier, or Lenny & Squiggy ("Hello!")? Jimmy "J. J." Walker ("Dyn-o-mite!"), or that gay black guy from Spin City? The Fonz ("Ayyy!"), or the cast of Law & Order?

Your choice is simple; fun people have catch phrases, and conversely, boring people do not. Hey, I change catch phrases more often than I change underpants! Here's mine for the week of August 1, 1999: Whenever I see somebody with an awesome booty, I wait till they pass, then turn, shake my hand at chest level, and say, "Now that's what I'm talkin' 'bout!" True, it's not the funniest catch phrase in the world, but that's the secret of comedy: Repeat anything enough times and sooner or later, they'll be pissing their Pampers.

Without catch phrases, normally mediocre actors have practically no chance of distinguishing themselves within a role. The last one to do so was Urkel in Family Matters... but that was only because he dressed up like a goddam idiot. Remember the guy on Suddenly Susan who recently committed suicide? I don't either... because he didn't have a catch phrase! Who would remember Gary Coleman without "Wha'choo talkin' bout, Willis?" Who would remember Freddie Prinze without "Looooking Good!" and who would remember Polly Holliday without "Kiss my grits, Mel Sharples!"

But just because the networks are lazy sacks of horse cookies doesn't mean I can't help make the world of television a brighter place--by dreaming up some catch phrases for TV's more popular characters. For example, Dr. Quinn, Frontier Proctologist, when perturbed might say, "Well, stink my finger!" Whenever Moesha enters the room, she could slap herself on the ass and yell, "OWW! Check out that juicy fruit!" And whenever Ally McBeal needs a snappy retort, she could say, "I've got bulimia, so why don't you shut up?"

Catch phrases and the Hump: "Now that's what I'm talkin' 'bout!"

SAVAGE LOVE
by Dan Savage

Hey, Everybody: I'm still on vacation, so here's another one from the archives...

My girlfriend and I only see each other on weekends. To overcome the overwhelming desire to jerk off during the week, I have discovered that I get great pleasure urinating on myself. I don't know how this happened--one morning I just did it.

I lay down in the bathtub. When I can't hold it anymore, I direct a clear stream of urine all over my body. Then I pull my briefs back up and soak them. Do I need to worry about any long-term effects on my hair or skin? Is there anything wrong with me? My girlfriend knows nothing about this. I have no desire to be urinated on by anyone else.

Wet

We get a lot of letters here at Savage Love. While every letter is unique, and everyone's dumb-ass problem is compelling in its own very special way, patterns do emerge, and Wet's letter is a good example of a certain type of letter we get. The kids in the mailroom call them HTH, or "How'd That Happen?!" letters.

You see, Wet is doing this whack thing--peeing on himself in the bathtub--and like a lot of folks doing whack things, Wet has some whack concerns. He has questions about the advisability of this whack behavior--will urine damage my skin? is there something wrong with me?--so he writes a letter. Something that he thinks, no doubt, took some courage. But in composing his letter, Wet chickens out: Wet fails to take responsibility for his actions, casting himself as a passive player in this bathtub drama. He may be peeing on himself, but it wasn't really his idea--he writes: "I don't know how this happened, one morning I just did it." How'd That Happen?!

I've been taking unsupervised baths for 27 years, and in all that time I never just "happened" to pee all over myself. The times I have pissed in the tub, it was on purpose--I was too lazy to get out of the shower, or there was someone else in the shower with me and I was fulfilling a special request. But it never just happened. I did it.

So, Wet, while I'm happy to answer your questions--no, it won't hurt you; yes, there is something wrong with you, something terribly, terribly wrong--your unwillingness to take responsibility for your actions is what most disturbs me about your letter. Come on, admit it: You're into piss, you like it, for its own sake, and not just as a masturbation substitute. Repeat after me: "I like piss." This is not something that happened to you one day, like cancer or Candid Camera, this is something you did. You're a perv, Wet, cop to it, fer Christ's sake.

I was dog-sitting my friend's dog, and I fell asleep on the floor in my T-shirt (no underwear). When I awoke, the dog was licking my pussy, and to be honest, it felt so good that I didn't stop him until I came like I never have in my life. I was totally embarrassed and disgusted with myself, but the next night, it happened again. I was so embarrassed and disgusted with myself. My questions:

1. Can I get infected in any way by dog germs on my pussy?
2. Is this harmful to me in any way?
3. How sick am I to enjoy this?

I am too ashamed to ask a single soul these questions. I wouldn't even ask a doctor these questions. I'm so afraid I'm going to catch some kind of infection from his tongue. Please answer me, because I need to know. I feel sick and ashamed.

Help Me

This letter, at first reading, rings false. The setup--Help Me wakes to find the dog lapping away at her pussy--sounds like an urban myth (sans peanut butter), or some dreadful letter to some dreadful porn mag. But while Help Me's setup rings false, her anguish seems real--even touching--and that leads me to believe her letter to be genuine. This is a cry for help from a real person with a real problem.

What rings false, of course, is the responsibility-avoiding HTH setup. Help Me would have us believe that she fell asleep on the floor, wearing only a T-shirt, and "awoke" to find the dog lapping away at her pussy. Right. What happened was this: Help Me was dog-sitting, feeling horny, and Mr. Dog was doing those horny dog things horny dogs do (nosin' around her crotch, humping her leg). So similar was the dog's behavior to the behavior of males of her own species, Help Me was intrigued. Help Me was tempted. So she did this whack thing, and it felt really good, and so she did it again. And now she's freaking out.

So she writes me a letter, but Help Me wants to avoid taking responsibility for her actions. She can't bring herself to write a letter that begins, "I've been fucking dogs...." So she constructs a scenario in which dog fucking wasn't something she did, but something that happened to her. HTH! She was innocently taking a nap on the floor, with no pants or panties on, and woke to find a dog between her legs--why, that could happen to anyone! Then guess what? "It happened again." Oh, she didn't *do it again,* mind you. It just happened again. HTH?!

Anyway, Help Me, in answer to your questions:

1. Yes.
2. Yes.
3. Pretty sick.

I'm a 200% straight guy, married with children. About six months ago, I went to a masseur who finished things with a terrific blow job. If you wonder why I didn't stop him, the truth is, I couldn't, because he was massaging my asshole with his thumb while blowing me. It was so good that I've been going back to the guy just about every week, not for the massage but for the blow job. Now I'm starting to worry that this might label me as gay. I have no interest in blowing this guy, but I wonder if the guy who gets the blow job is as guilty as the one who does it.

Unsigned

This is my personal favorite: Mr. 200% Straight Guy couldn't stop the big, gay masseur from giving him a blow job because the big, gay masseur had his thumb up Mr. 200% Straight Guy's butt. What, is there a system-override switch in straight men's butts? Can't... move... thumb... in... ass... send... help. Come on! I've had my thumb in a few butts, provoking reactions ranging from delight to disgust, but my thumb has never, ever, not once, paralyzed a sex partner.

But Mr. 200% Guy can't admit that he liked it, that he didn't object because there was nothing objectionable about this blow job--you let him continue because you were diggin' it--or that he might have sought it out (just where did you find this masseur?). So he comes up with what has to be the lamest excuse in the long, sordid history of blow jobs: He had his thumb in my butt, your honor, what could I do? HTH!

Of course, this does not explain why you keep going back, Mr. 200% Straight, for more blow jobs. Did the masseur leave his thumb in your butt?

letters@savagelove.net