THE LATEST ISSUE of O magazine is a sort of feminine response to male fantasy staples like Esquire’s “Women We Love” issue. Part romantic advisory, part tribute to the male sex, the issue is complete with obligatory spreads of celebrity guys who are likable but either just a bit edgy (George Clooney, Chris Rock) or profoundly inoffensive (Tom Hanks, Bruce Springsteen) or exceedingly respectable (Quincy Jones, Sidney Poitier, Paul Newman). Under their photos, the gooey adjectives grow upon each other like moss, indistinguishable and moist: “tender,” “charming” (twice), “savage” (twice), “poetic,” “a little bit bad,” “contemplative.” Except when the Big O herself gushes skyward with affection–although not spontaneously. The editors must keep a file of old O-quotes just for such occasions. Like the one used as a caption for Quincy Jones, which I’ve seen before: “Because he oozes love–he was the first person I loved unconditionally.” Maybe the staff couldn’t get their boss on the phone for a fresh comment on her oh-so-beloved buddy. Anyway, the sentiment strikes me (not for the first time) as a deeply weird thing to say about someone who isn’t family. The rest of the men’s features are boilerplate Oprah: preachy, condescending, loaded down with cliches, weirdly degrading to the male sex–and yet a superior version of the advice coming from women’s magazines in general. Instead of “Nine Ways to Meet the Man of Your Dreams,” O has Martha Beck telling single women to know thyself: “Next time you find yourself feeling fretfully single, try exploring your own nature. Write down your favorite foods or colors or songs or books or sports. Visit a therapist. Embark on a voyage of discovery for its own sake.” Cut the article out for one of my single female friends I will not. But it’s far less creepy than, say, “The Rules,” and a few IQ points above what you’ll find in most women’s magazines (for comparison, I am relying here on the library in my downstairs bathroom.)