My friend Joshua Black (perhaps the smartest person I know) doesn't like The New Yorker because it makes him feel dumb. He hates the way it references things he's never heard of, like some private joke that he's not in on. Joshua and I are almost diametric opposites. What I love about the magazine is that I have to look up half the words in a cartoon's caption.
The going rate for a year's subscription to the best magazine on the planet is $39.95. That's 47 issues and roughly 3.2 billion words for less than the price of cab fare from Harlem to the Bowery. And they even throw in a free calendar.
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