Spare yourself the rigmarole, reap the benefits.
A few years before I was born, my parents took a trip across the United States that, at one point, took them to Salt Lake City. They loved it there. The weather was beautiful, it was the largest city they’d ever been to in which they felt completely safe, and the people were friendly without exception. But boy was it tough to get a glass of wine. One evening, they visited an Italian restaurant and, as was their habit, asked for a bottle of red to go with their pasta. At this request, the whole place turned immediately silent — as in a Western — and they were informed nervously by the waiter that, actually, they only had half-bottles available and that if they really, truly, unquestionably wanted one, they’d have to “join” the restaurant, as if it were a Victorian club.
This they did, and, having done so, they spent a merry evening running the gauntlet. The restaurant, I’m told, was shaped like a horseshoe, and both the half-bottles of wine and the paperwork that they were obliged to fill in each time they wanted one were about as far away from their table as it was possible to get. To obtain a net two bottles of wine over dinner — Does that sound like a lot? Well, my parents are my parents. Where do you think I got it from? — they had to get up and down four times, sign a little black book four times, and walk back and forth along the horseshoe four times. Evidently, the parade was worth it; both the pasta and the wine were delicious. But it was a chore, and if they’d had the option simply to order a couple of bottles as the evening had progressed — no rigmarole — they’d have taken it without a moment’s thought.
Forty years later, I am here to tell you that, when it comes to National Review, you have exactly that option before you.
As you may have noticed, a great deal of our content is now locked behind a paywall. Yes, if you really want to, you can get around that paywall. You can delete your cookies and pull some other tricks, maybe read one article on your iPad and another on your wife’s laptop with the battery that doesn’t work. Our disincentive structure is sturdy, but if you’re truly driven, you might be able to break through to find what’s being kept around the horseshoe in the cellar. But you could also not do that. Exerting far less effort, you could take advantage of our current deal and pay about $3 per month for all the National Review your heart desires.
If you do, you won’t just get around the paywall in perpetuity, you’ll enjoy a host of other great benefits into the bargain. You’ll be able to comment — so you can tell me directly why I’m wrong. You’ll see almost no advertisements while browsing. You’ll get access to our Web and podcast archives. And you’ll be invited to members-only meet-ups with our writers — so you can tell me to my face why I’m wrong. (And I promise: There will be no half-bottles within view.)
As neatly befits a conservative institution, National Review has eventually come full circle. We started off as a community-based subscription service, and, 60 years later, after having briefly taken the same Internet-inspired detour as almost every other magazine in America, we are once again a community-based subscription service. We hope that you will join us.