I love a list. You love a list. You know who really loved a good list? Lewis and Clark. They jotted down any number of lists while charting the contours of the Northwest: hardest-ragin' rivers, top ten most cordial Lakota chiefs, etc. Like me, they would have positively delighted in the premise of the June Entrepreneur, which presents the mag's 12th annual "Hot 100" list of fastest-growing new businesses. Unlike me, their good manners and lack of editorial sophistication would have prevented them from suggesting that the gimmick has long since outlived its utility.

What is the line of demarcation between kids and adults? The ability to program every new tech gadget with ease? OK. The ability to identify Zac Efron, Ashley Tinsdale and Raven? Bingo! So if Green Day and Drake Bell are a sealed book, chances are you're not among the mega-readers of Tiger Beat, the teen girl's answer to Us.

My first thought upon perusing the June Working Mother was that there is no readily evident reason for actual working mothers to read it. Judging by the time-strapped existences of my sister and married-with-child woman friends, working moms make things work because they have to, you know? They don't solicit work/mommying tips from sources other than close friends or family because they don't have the time (or patience) to gauge the credibility of those sources.

Yes, of course Out is a "gay magazine," but it emphasizes entertainment and personality, rather than furrowed-brow'd diatribes about issues affecting the gay community. For all the cheeky banter about "Hot filmmaking boyfriends" and the "Gay Factor" of Christian Bale, the magazine remains at its core a meat-and-potatoes entertainment publication, albeit one with the bitchiest letters to the editor in the history of the genre.

When I was a kid, Mad was required reading. We thought it was funny, clever and probably subversive, though none of us could use "subversive" in a sentence. Sharp and biting, Mad reigned supreme in childhood as my favorite literary escape. The June issue is proof positive that its pleasures remain.

A decidedly non-flashy, you-get-what-you-pay-for title, Backpacker is a marvel of organization, solid journalism of the meat-and-potatoes (or, for the backpacking audience, jerky-and-trail-mix) variety....

Weekend is a lovely concept. It is a lifestyle magazine geared to women with money and time, because with enough of either, you'd happily shell out $2,500 for a three-day dude ranch spree or $212 for an appliqué ultra-suede pillow. This is a world where the lighting speaks of eternal dusk, everyone shops at Williams-Sonoma, and the thread count never dips below 500.

Right upfront in her letter in W's June issue, editor Julie L. Belcove admits that some of the magazine's recent photo layouts have been called "spectacular--and spectacularly self-indulgent.'' Spectacularly self-indulgent is inadequate, but begins to describe this month's 58-page portfolio by photographer Steven Klein of Madonna, the 47-year-old Material Girl, in "an abstract dance with six stallions.''

Belying its idjit rep (at least among those who, like me, have little interest in "throw[ing] a fun, low-stress shower"), Glamour has evolved into the worthiest of commute and/or beach companions for thinking gal and daintily fingernailed dimwit alike. This column o' mine can't work if people in magazineland approach tired genres with restraint and intellect; I resent Glamour horribly for giving me so little to work with.

I don't like artsy people and they don't like me. I mock their darkly hued wardrobes, neatly trimmed fingernails and Morrissey fandom; they tut-tut my well-worn Levis, calloused remote-control thumb and predilection for fried foods.