ARIES MAR 21 — APR 19
It is an odd thing to run into old friends who you haven't seen, nor spoken to, in six years. Odder still is when the expected gulf of time and experience fails to materialize and, indeed, it's like you saw them just yesterday. It is my belief, Aries, that each friendship has its own unique timescale, an inherent setting outside the regular flow of minutes and hours. You can't hate what isn't there.

TAURUS APR 20 — MAY 20
This kingdom of light is bounded on four sides by a mean, inhospitable country, a brackish place so choked with malcontented dust-huffers and weed-tangled ankle-twisters, that I see no reason why we should ever leave. Are you not happy here, Taurus? Why not? We have what we need: food, shelter... Is there much more beyond that? Happiness is a skill, it needs practice.

GEMINI MAY 21 — JUNE 20
A broad, bright horizon, seen through a rain-dappled windshield, is a glorious prospect. Shall we stop for a break and eat some bread and cheese by the river? This is a nice question to hear. The freedom to stop when you want to is a rare and precious thing... I know I've said this a lot in my time as an astrologer, Gemini, but engaging with the journey itself will always make you a hell of a lot happier.

CANCER JUNE 21 — JULY 22
Have you seen those ads for individual "swimming pools"? Seriously, they're little resistance chambers filled with water that allow you to "swim" right there in your apartment; because you are obviously too fancy and important (and agoraphobic?) to venture to the outside world. Cancer, I know this kind of thing appeals to you, but you must resist. Time to go out, not stay in.

LEO JULY 23 — AUG 22
To hell with it... I'm pretty sure technology is the answer to all life's problems. I used to resist this idea in favor of some backward-looking paradigm based in mechanical causality and the innate efficiency of natural systems — until I came across the FutureStar 3000, a hand-held astrological aid that gets instant results, e.g.: "Leo, trouble at work leads to unexpected happiness." See!

VIRGO AUG 23 — SEP 22
I spilled scalding hot soup on my lap about 10 seconds ago, and in the bright searing heat of the pain, a vision came to me: Everyone was dressed in white, carrying white umbrellas on a street bedecked in white garlands and white bunting; it was very white. I don't know what this means, Virgo, but I think I scalded my inner thigh, which is just awkward and unpleasant.

LIBRA SEP 23 — OCT 22
Snakes are not evil. Ice cream is not universally beloved. Puppies can sometimes lie to you. Buddhist monks are actually pretty selfish. Listen to me Libra, THE WORLD IS NOT AS IT SEEMS. But look, that doesn't give you license to walk around playing the provocative contrarian in each and every situation you encounter. Stop playing Devil's Advocate for once, and just advocate.

SCORPIO OCT 23 — NOV 21
I got a fast car and a slick guitar and I'm ready to take this party pretty far." This is the first line of a country song that I've been trying to write for about five years now. I keep getting tangled up in this line about a woman I once knew who had really great taste in outdoor hiking gear. But you know, Scorpio, there ain't no science to poetry, so we just gotta keep struggling till we get it.

SAGITTARIUS NOV 22 — DEC 21
Hey now look, I've admitted before that I'm not very religious (by which I mean I don't really believe in an active, interventionist God). But that doesn't mean I'm closed off to the wonder of the unknowable world, I just have a different way of describing it and understanding it. And part of that ongoing description is telling your future, Sagittarius, which is... effin great (this week, anyway).

CAPRICORN DEC 22 — JAN 19
I was pretty sure the Rock of Gibraltar was a professional wrestler until I was 11 years old. I thought alimony was a kind of delicious sandwich meat until I was 14. I still think the Blarney Stone is a strain of high-grade B.C. marijuana. The time has come for me, Capricorn, to face the fact that I am really just pretty stupid. And I'm ok with that. Are you ok with the way you are?

AQUARIUS JAN 20 — FEB 18
A houseboat, huh? You really have your heart set on living on one of those, don't you? And you think you'll just be able to drift across the great network of French canals, stopping on the riverbank for a lunch of fresh baguette, goat cheese and red, red wine? Well, maybe you can, maybe you can't, but you have to try, don't you, Aquarius? You heard me, START TRYING.

PISCES FEB 19 — MAR 20
I have an office colleague who's a really difficult dude. Even worse, he sits right in front of me just cold rockin' this bitchy attitude all day, sighing and clenching his fists and throwing beer caps into exposed fan blades (dangerous!). I think he's sad that the local outdoor bar just closed down, and so there's no place nearby for a cold beer on a sunny day. I'm sad about that, too, Pisces.

ARIES  MAR 21 — APR 19
Do you miss high school even a bit? I know the horrid mix of hormones, cruelty and french fry grease made for some awful, humiliating moments, but wasn't there kind of a wonderful freedom to youth? A quicksilver torrent of hope and possibility? Or maybe my memories are off. Maybe I'm the one with the problem, Aries. Maybe you're right to just bury all the bad nostalgia. Maybe.

TAURUS  APR 20 — MAY 20
Did you know that Alan Alda almost wasn't famous? It's true. On his way to audition for the role of George Plimpton in Paper Lion, he ran into an old high school flame. The two chatted for a bit, rapt with reminiscence, and Alda suggested coffee. It wasn't until the old flame noticed she was late for an appointment with her florist that Alda recalled his audition. Fate is everywhere, Taurus.

GEMINI  MAY 21 — JUNE 20
I was driving around upstate New York last week, and the frequency of road kill was a real bummer: deer, raccoons, cats, ground hogs, a possum, a real estate agent, two Jehovah's Witnesses and the entire line-up of the 1986 Washington Generals. All of them had just wandered out into the road, and now they're dead. It reminded me, Gemini, that life is precious, so we must live it.

CANCER  JUNE 21 — JULY 22
Castles in Scotland are way overrated. Sure, they might appear glamorous and romantic, all those kilts and knotted brows, the mighty stags and mist-shrouded highlands, the sabers and the whiskey, but those places are cold and damp. Not sexy. It's like trying to get busy inside a giant stone fish. You can do better than that, Cancer. Spanish-style L.A. bungalow is the new hotness.

LEO JULY 23 — AUG 22
The image of Virginia Woolf's suicide is particularly haunting, among all the sad lady writer suicides (Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton). One can very easily see her, proper and quiet in her London overcoat filled with stones: a quick indrawn breath as she steps into the cold River Ouse, walks slowly against the current, head held up, eyes straight ahead. And then, gone. Now I am sad, Leo.

VIRGO AUG 23 — SEP 22
The big question, Virgo, is whether or not you should cut your hair. I, for one, think you should. Further to that, you should consider yourself lucky that that's the most pressing thing you have to worry about at the moment. What if you had to decide whether or not you'd fly into space to save the Earth from an asteroid? That would be tough. Bruce Willis tough. Are you that tough?

LIBRA SEP 23 — OCT 22
"Stone Temple Pilots, they're elegant bachelors/They're foxy to me, are they foxy to you..." Steve Malkmus had a whole treasure-trove of free-associated lyrics plucked from the corn-syrupy soup of his subconscious, but that one has to be my favorite. Because, Libra, though I always hated their music, I did find STP pretty foxy. Sometimes we need artists to tell our truths for us.

SCORPIO OCT 23 — NOV 21
Greater men have given in to less temptation than you now face, Scorpio. I admire your resolve, your flinty ability to ignore your corporal desires, your tenacious dedication to prudence and propriety. But are you having enough fun in your life? Fun is not something you can plan for; occasionally you have to be available to its partner, spontaneity. OR YOU WILL DRY UP AND DIE.

SAGITTARIUS NOV 22 — DEC 21
We've all dreamed at one time of owning a flying bicycle. Some of you have thought to use your imaginary flying bikes for good (saving kittens, delivering ice cream to people in highrises), while others obviously lean toward mischief (putting kittens in trees, stealing ice cream from highrises). What will you do, Sagittarius? With great power (or a flying bike) comes great responsibility.

CAPRICORN DEC 22 — JAN 19
The Solstice is nigh! King Arthur shall awake and smite the enemies of the British Kingdom! Faeries and fauns shall flounce o'er the Manhattan avenues! Mead! Thou shalt drink mead! And the flowers will rise up and march across the Manhattan Bridge in row upon row of bouquet! This is my favorite time of year, Capricorn. The sun never sets and crazy shit happens. Woot.

AQUARIUS JAN 20 — FEB 18
Crazy ups and downs are what you're all about, Aquarius — that pretty much goes with your sign. The key to surviving that roller coaster ride, though, is remembering this duality at all times. So when you're flying high, you're always aware that things could crash; and, more importantly, when things look grim, they'll eventually turn around. If you can really internalize this, you'll be fine.

PISCES FEB 19 — MAR 20
Step on a crack, break your mother's back. I had a brief week-long run in the fall of my seventh year when I pretty firmly believed this to be a true fact about the world. So each day, as I walked to and from school, I danced along the sidewalk avoiding all the cracks. Until Jason Richie knocked me into Pam Dawber (no relation). My mother was fine when I got home. Stay rational, Pisces.