Like the imaginary love child of Tim Russert and Bonnie Fuller, Vanity Fair is an unholy blending of thoughtful journalism with headline-seeking celebrity and society fluff. Nothing else on the newsstand equals its high-low mix -- akin to a movie studio whose vulgar blockbusters are meant to offset the cost of prestigious indie-type projects.

First things first: To head off the inevitable responses in the blog, "Herb" is not shorthand for marijuana. This is actually a magazine about culinary and healing herbs. Not that we've got that out of the way, let me say that even if you aren't about those kind of herbs -- the non-recreational variety that you can grow without fear of arrest -- you might still find some value in this magazine.

I was prepared to say nice things about Beyond Race before I happened upon the George Carlin obituary on the magazine's Web site. Now, damn it, I need to be effusive. Let me explain. If you're anything like me (mid-'30s, balding, kinda sleepy), you were saddened enough when you heard Carlin had passed away. But what really stung was how every obit writer in the country somehow managed to reduce his entire career to those "seven dirty words." So when I read the opening line to Beyond Race's obituary, it felt like a redemption: "Comedian George Carlin, a devout atheist …

To paraphrase a Supreme Court justice on pornography, I know art when I see it. Specifically, when I see it in museums or the pages of trendy art magazines. Who doesn't like Edward Hopper or Michelangelo? But I met John Chamberlain, who makes sculptures from crushed cars, and Joan Mitchell's abstracts in the pages of Art + Auction, an oversized monthly that marries "Page Six" to features on, as Sondheim wrote in "Sunday in the Park With George," "the art of making art."

Ivanka Trump looks like an ancient Egyptian cat on the cover of this month's Town & Country: almond-eyed, long-necked, and a bit superior. She is, after all, the rising star of an American dynasty, and as such, she's a great cover subject, particularly fitting for the kind of old-school, upscale magazine that might as well substitute a dollar sign for the ampersand in its logo.

Give the folks behind the revived American Heritage credit: They haven't dumbed it down. Maybe they deemed the mildly jaunty attitude of the previous incarnation of the history magazine, which had suspended publication in May 2007, inappropriate. But after reading the two issues published since AH mounted its comeback in late winter, I got this squirrelly feeling afterward that an old white guy was intoning, "There will be a test."

Few status symbols have undergone such a change in status over the past 15 years as the tattoo. What was once a mark of the rebel has morphed into a symbol of, well, you name it. Middle-aged moms have pictures of their kids inked on their shoulder, marketing executives have Zen symbols etched into their back, and seemingly any woman who went to college in the early 1990s has a Yin Yang or dancing bear lingering somewhere. Thank God there are still fans of Insane Clown Posse to keep covering themselves with bleeding skulls and exploding snakes and stuff.

Billed as "the magazine for those who love the coast" -- and who doesn't? -- Coastal Living targets subscribers who lust after water views and beach-house makeovers. Now, I'm no expert on home repairs, but last time I checked, it takes Discovery's CEO salary to underwrite a Sausilito, Calif., re-do. Like new, only better.

I've always wanted to tap-dance with the light-hearted verve of Gene Kelly and Donald O'Connor in "Singing In The Rain." But few can match those step masters -- especially if, like me, you begin classes at, um, an advanced age. During a short-lived attempt at formal tap training, I shared my enthusiasm for great movie dance scenes with the teacher's assistant. It was empowering to talk shop with a professional dancer -- as if I were actually part of the larger community. I found that pleasure again when reading Dance Magazine. I also found -- against my perhaps stereotypical expectations …

When the choices are slim, I sometimes end up looking at parenting magazines in waiting rooms. I usually end up feeling like I'm reading something in a foreign language and conclude that maybe I'd just have to have young kids myself to "get" those articles. Enter Wondertime. I remember reading the magazine and thinking, wow, this is actually interesting. The tone is decidedly upbeat, but it's hip, too.