I never read women's magazines unless I'm in the doctor's office. And then I love them. I figured it out. You're in the doctor's waiting room, waiting to find out if the pain when you go to the bathroom is cancer, by paying the doctor to stick a needle your arm and shove his finger up your butt. It's a vulnerable time, surrounded by people, waiting for their turn with the needle and the finger. You're lookin' for anything to distract you. On the table is the May 1997 Woman's Day. You read the chocolate fudge cake recipe. You rip it outta the magazine. You don't even bake. Same thing with airplane in-flight magazines. Your comfortable, retarded friend. You're in the air, sharing 1000 cubic feet of recycled air over and over again with 240 strangers packed in a steel Thermos, you open Hemispheres or Latitudes or American Way, "Orange Play-Doh may be harder to find than the red, but it's one of the most playful colors in the Play-Doh spectrum."