Judging by the cover, this isn't a spiritual discussion of the seven deadly sins, though Envy Man's cover boy does have a touch of Hitler Youth about him. If, however, one considers envy a sin--not included in my Hebrew school curriculum--and applies it to the blond bombshell, we arrive at two conclusions. First, the envy is wholly physical. The hair! The abs! The chiseled indifference! Second, it will inspire other sins, including, if you're the target reader for Envy Man, lust.

Sunset is perfectly pleasant. Just like every other regional-lifestyle title, it boasts sunny vistas and recipes for chipotle glaze and lots of pictures of white people fondling vegetables. But that's the problem. In the quest to create a comforting, welcoming environment for readers and advertisers -- not necessarily in that order -- publishers of lifestyle mags have drained their titles of personality.

I rock. Really, I do. I've got the tattoos, the liver cirrhosis and the war stories ("this one time, at the Ramada Inn in Portsmouth...") to prove it. I regularly gnaw on bat carcasses, just for sport. Plus I can actually play a little geee-tar, which is why Guitar World has been an on-and-off companion since Guitar went under.

Bitch. It is, hands-down, the best title--ever--for a magazine. And its tagline, "feminist response to pop culture," seals the deal. A sassy quarterly with a thoughtful edge, Bitch takes issue with the issues. It has the audacity--what some in the Fourth Estate would call an obligation--to challenge the status quo.

Jason Sehorn and Angie Harmon seem an odd choice for the cover of Tango, a magazine that promises "smart talk about love." As a longtime Giants fan, I can vouch that Sehorn's football IQ doesn't ascend into double digits; Harmon doesn't seem to have much to say beyond "I love my husband" and "I love God." And yet Tango presents the pair as the epitome of modern romance -- white, heterosexual modern romance, the only kind the mag acknowledges actually exists.

My mistrust of impossibly cheery human beings notwithstanding, Every Day With Rachael Ray is an expertly constructed magazine and one with a perfectly defined central premise. Moms across the demographic spectrum will find plenty of useful food-centric tips here, on everything from school lunches to entertaining to travel.

Hungry for food and cooking mags? Shelves of them line bookstores. (Their subtext: hoo-boy, we love to julienne carrots and prove how hip we are by choosing the right cheese.) Dying to read pubs about health? Plenty of those, too. (Their subtext: here's our chance to bring up erectile dysfunction in polite company.) But the bimonthly Eating Well--the title translates to chowing down healthfully and deliciously--is apparently the only consumer pub with an in-depth focus on both nutrition and cooking.

I'm not a fan of "gambling lifestyle" magazines, few of which do much beyond relate insipid war stories and plug semi-relevant products. For these reasons and more, the summer issue of Poker Life wasn't likely to float my boat. But of the gambling-lifestyle mags that have flocked to newsstands like ants to a poorly secured picnic basket, Poker Life probably ranks among the best, and not merely by default.

Can a small trade publication take off its glasses and revamp into the relative glamour of a mainstream women's mag, competing with the big girls on the newsstand? That's the question for HealthSpring Communications, which transformed the journal of the Association of Women's Health, Obstetric and National Nurses into the quarterly consumer book Every Woman.

Admit it--if you walked by a newsstand, you'd pick it up. So would Carrie Nation. Even Lynne Cheney might give it a glance. That's what catchy titles are all about--so outrageous, you can't turn away. True, much of the pro-drinking prose results in a literary hangover, but who could resist the cover line "Inebriated in Iran"? So throw a few cubes into your highball--if it was good enough for Nick Charles, it's good enough for you--and down Modern Drunkard.