The tag line of Budget Living is "spend smart and live rich." I don't buy it. The magazine doesn't make me feel rich. Maybe it's just that I like aspirational magazines that make me feel poor. I prefer to translate high-living styles and ideas into a real-world budget than to have a magazine tell me how to do it.

Needing to burn some calories after a weekend spent inhaling sour cream and quaffing exclusively from the ale family of beverages, I resolved to choose the heaviest magazine possible for today's fine column. As luck would have it, I was greeted at the Barnes & Noble magazine rack by a veritable offensive line's worth of fall style/fashion colossi: Vogue (7,273 pages), Elle (12,262 pages), and the granddaddy of 'em all: InStyle, as fat and fecund as the celebrities it depicts are emaciated.

The cover shot of the fall fashion issue of New York magazine inspires everything I can't stand about fashion. There is a model in a black and white 1960s mod dress with a black S&M claw-like glove on her left hand holding a copy of "Valley of the Dolls." The angle of the photograph diminishes the model's head to the size of a large pea, and blows up her hips and legs to the size of large tree stumps wrapped in black leather. Of course, the ubiquitous Marc Jacobs, the king of infantilizing women into cute, waiflike teenage boys, is …

I've reached an age where I'm only passingly familiar with the bands featured on the cover of Spin. As a fan of singer/songwriters who don't sing all that well - I'd sooner check out a garbled bootlegged cassette of Bruce Springsteen's bathtub farts than anything in the Coldplay oeuvre - I don't have the time to check out the sensation-of-the-month types that have traditionally populated Spin's pages. And anyway, I'm not sure that I'd want to, what with the tattoos and the loud drums and the hair and the fast cars. Kids today, don't get me started.

I think Bust, the iconic post-feminist zine of the 90s, has crossed into the new millennium with a bad case of penis envy, or least overzealous teen girl giddiness over boys. (Note: the editors are in there 30s.) The August issue is devoted to the Esquire rip-off "Men We Love" theme, and we soon learn in the editors note that it is the third such issue they've done this year. We also learn that one staffer has actually started stalking one of the guys she profiled, and that "he's sooooooo cute" is the new feminist intellectual speak. The editors …

The Advocate hasn't blipped on my super-stealth magazine sonar/radar since last year's Marcia Cross is-she-or-is-she-ain't? hubbub. I remember thinking that the mag had played its hand rather transparently and without much class, amplifying the question of the actress' sexuality into the type of mass-media boondoggle (she's gay! no, she's not! maybe she is - gosh darn, you better buy three copies!) that it purported to find distasteful. By the time the issue finally hit the street, branded with the precious and misleading "Anatomy of a Rumor" headline, The Advocate had succeeded only in aping the tabloid mentality of lower-aiming celebrity …

Surf Life for Women is not a terrible surfing magazine, but it's young and reads like a zine. The magazine captures the spirit of girl surf culture, but it's in need of some serious lessons on the basics of editing. The editor-in-chief is a California surfer girl named Sunshine Makarow and she clearly has a true hippie spirit, which is reflected in articles about environmentally correct surf gear and wear, and whimsical interviews. My favorite is called "10 Totally Random Questions," which an editor poses to a random surfer girl. For instance: "Who are you jealous of?" and "Do …

Over the years, Architectural Digest has provoked a single sensation deep in my gut: envy. Unless I scam my way into some heiress' boudoir, I ain't ever going to live in anything remotely approaching the chichi palaces the publication celebrates. So heading into this review, I figured that I'd throw the Mag-Rack equivalent of a hissy fit, sniping at the publication's precious, precious veneer and suggesting that planners' marketing dollars would be better spent on Milk Duds.

Ah, fall shopping. There is nothing I like more than the thump of the mega-fat September fashion books chock full of couture fantasy and the season's crisp, beautiful new designs. Thank God, according to the September W, that the 1950s all-too-flowery "Desperate Housewives" look is over. Sophisticated black with a touch of vamp, mod, and glamour is back. Now, I just wish the book's articles were more interesting to read and I could tell the difference between an ad and editorial. With celebrities gracing covers, fashion, and feature pages, all alongside ads for Perry Ellis's 25th anniversary, it's pretty hard …

My first thought upon encountering Vitals Woman at the local newsstand-doohicky place was "already?" Let's face it: Vitals Man hasn't exactly set the publishing world aflame, resonating though it may with my immaculately moussed and/or cardigan-wearing peers. I figured Vitals Woman would be a similarly vacuous consumption orgy, perfect for gals lacking the style and self-confidence to make purchasing decisions on their own.