Boston’s joined an unenviable club, populated by the likes of New York City and Oklahoma City, London and Munich, Tokyo and Mumbai, and countless other cities around the world.

It’s difficult to know what to say in a time like this: I feel sad, I feel angry, I feel robbed. I struggle to come up with anything that feels sufficient, that lends any sort of meaning to these events. There aren’t any, of course: As my friend Paul wrote, “There can be no real logic or reason behind such a heinous action.” My brain desperately wants to shape it into some sort of comprehensible narrative, but with the person or persons who’ve done this still at large, that’s an impossible task. Even then, if and when justice is served, this still won’t make sense.

Instead, I’ve just found myself thinking about geography, about the place where this happened. It’s not some out-of-the-way corner of the city—the Back Bay area is one of the busiest areas of Boston, home to thousands of people, one of the city’s major shopping thoroughfares, the two tallest buildings in the city, and more churches, hotels, and restaurants than I can probably count.

While I’ve never lived in Boston proper, I was born in the city and, over the next thirty-odd years, I’ve lived almost exclusively—with the exception of my undergraduate years—in the surrounding area.

I’ve walked down Boylston Street more times than I can remember. As a kid, Copley Square formed the cornerstone of what was Boston to me, mostly because my mom worked in the Boston Public Library; my earliest memories of the area are peering out from the tiny window in her office in the Humanities department.

Two months ago, I was taking part in some training at my parent company, at our headquarters at One Exeter Plaza. That building is almost directly above where the first explosion went off yesterday, and from the helicopter shots I can see the windows of the conference room that I spent three days in. I stayed at the Lenox Hotel, right across the street.

Just the other week, I walked back along that very stretch from my dentist on Newbury Street, to catch the T at Copley Station, the station that’s now closed after yesterday’s events.

I’ll walk down that street again, I’m sure of it. But even long after the wreckage is cleared, and the crime scene removed, and the storefronts rebuilt, there will always be a permanent, invisible scar on that spot—one that we’ll some day have to point out to our kids and grandkids, because forgetting it won’t be an option.

In times like this, it’s all too common to say one doesn’t feel safe—and certainly, I remember feeling that way in the aftermath of September 11th. But I’m older now. More to the point, this is a place I know. I want to walk that street again, and I don’t think I’ll feel afraid to do so.

Because scars and all, it’s still my city—and that’s one feeling that never goes away.

My first experience behind the wheel of a car was in my family’s blue Subaru station wagon. It wasn’t luxurious. The Subaru predated automatic locks and power windows, its chassis had started to rust, and turning the steering wheel could be a Herculean struggle.

Then again, I was only about seven years old.

It didn’t matter, though: I was convinced that “my” car—for I’d declared that when I was old enough to drive, it would be behind the wheel of said Subaru—was more than just a car. It was a time machine, a spaceship, and a racing machine par excellence. Even though I could barely see over the dashboard or reach the pedals, an hour could be spent working the gearshift or punching in the jump to hyperspace. (Seriously, who hasn’t thought the hazard flasher button looks like it would engage the hyperdrive?)

Our bond, between car and driver, was unbreakable, like Michael Knight and KITT or B.A. Baracus and his van or Han Solo and the Millennium Falcon. We escaped death on a weekly basis, rescued friends, and defeated enemies. Together, there was nothing we couldn’t do—assuming, of course, that it didn’t involve leaving the garage.

When the tow truck pulled that venerable rusted-out blue hulk out of our driveway for the last time, my only regret was that I’d never gotten the chance to start the engine.

D’Accord!

At the age of 19, I took possession of my dad’s 1997 Honda Accord, a four-door sedan in a deep red. I’d driven our other car in the years since getting my license, a light blue Toyota Camry station wagon that was our third of that model.¹

I’d become adept at piloting the Camry through the back streets and parking lots of my hometown, but the Accord presented a new challenge. At age 58, my dad had bought the Accord to be his fun-to-drive car. And that meant a manual transmission. (A librarian, even my father’s mid-life crises are responsible.)

I admit it: I initially pooh-poohed the idea of a manual transmission. What was the point of shifting gears when the car could just do it for you? Why run the risk of stalling out? Why deal with the unsettling experience of rolling backwards on a hill? And parallel parking was bad enough in Boston and environs with an automatic—why the hell make it even worse?

Never trust the judgment of teenagers.

Stick with it

Learning to drive stick is a frustrating process, especially for a kid who is sure he already knows everything there is to know about driving. If I’d had my way, I would have stuck with the comfort of the automatic transmission until the heat death of the universe.

My dad—quite the driver himself—wanted me to learn to drive stick. Getting back into the car with him for driving lessons years after I’d first learned was a bit like moving back into your parents’ house after college. (I can state this authoritatively, having done it not once but twice, to my chagrin.) Much as it seems like the power dynamic should have changed, that you should have outgrown being told what to do, everything somehow reverts back to old patterns. It’s a recipe for friction.

I struggled at first. There were more than a few rolled eyes and shouting matches. Like so many things we learn, driving stick is trial and error—emphasis on “error.” When starting out, for every time you successfully get the car into first, you stall out a dozen.

The trickiest part—at least for me—was the apparent lack of structure, like playing a game where you don’t know the rules. I remember being annoyed, for example, that there was no way for me to tell, from the dashboard, what gear I was in.

And the nerd in me wanted to watch the tachometer, to try and figure out exactly what RPMs signaled time to shift. Among other flaws with that plan, it’s quite hard to stare at a dial while you’re also trying to, you know, drive a car. I’m sure there are mathematical formulas that could tell you the precise time to shift gears, but what every driver of a manual transmission eventually learns is that the only way to know for sure is to listen to your car.

Can you hear me driving?

Listening to your car may not seem like something that comes naturally. But nerds are better at it than most: Not only are we usually surrounded by machines, but in many cases we’re already attuned to them. Ever gone to troubleshoot a relative’s ancient computer and heard the fans kicking up? Or found their network connection pushing bits a bit more slowly than it should? A lot of people don’t notice these things, or ignore them if they do.

Driving a stick shift is much the same. There’s a rhythm to it, but you appreciate the music only after long experience. (If you doubt that, then you’ve obviously never heard the discordant, fingernails-on-a-chalkboard screech of a mistimed shift attempt.) The more you drive stick, the more you get a feel for when the car wants you to shift: the pitch of the engine, the feel of acceleration when you step on the gas, and the exact point when the gears engage when you release the clutch.

The clutch pedal controls how quickly you release the clutch plate towards the flywheel; the two parts have to mesh and spin together to engage the gear you’re changing into and let the engine do its thing. On some cars, the transmission is forgiving and it’s an easy matter to sync up. On others, it feels like a hair’s-breadth movement of the pedal separates a perfect connection and a popped clutch, which can stall a car or worse. You can only learn by experience. I once assured a friend I could safely drive his BMW, then let the clutch out too fast and almost backed it into the parking garage wall.²

See, a stick-shift car isn’t an appliance. It’s not a toaster or a washing machine, where you push a button and it chugs along at its job. You have to take the time to get to know your car, to develop a relationship with it. Every manual car you drive asks and offers different things, and you have to adapt to unfamiliar vehicles; they don’t change themselves to fit your needs.

Highway to heaven

Why drive a stick? I can’t show you evidence that it will make you a safer driver, or a better driver, or that it will save you money on gas or repairs. It used to be true that a well-driven manual would consume less gasoline, and though stick-shift models still often cost a few hundred dollars less than their automatic siblings, anyone who’s had a clutch replaced knows the bill comes sooner or later. These days, neither safety, expertise, nor cost remain significant factors.

Qualitatively, though, there’s no comparison. Driving an automatic is a task; driving a stick shift is an art—an art that’s quickly disappearing. Edmunds, which tracks car sales, says that just seven percent of cars sold in the U.S. in the first half of 2012 had manual transmissions. These days, many probably consider driving a stick as quaint as churning your own butter, writing a letter by hand, or brewing a decent cup of tea.

So, maybe it’s not for everyone. But we nerds like lost causes. We learn Elvish, write FORTRAN on an iPhone, roast our own coffee, and shave with a straight razor not because those tasks are easy or make us fit in with the crowd. Nor, in many cases, do we even do such things because they’re empirically better.

We’re driven—if you’ll permit the expression—by a fundamental curiosity, and a basic need to challenge ourselves. To master what is hard.

Sometimes the hard thing is worth doing simply because it’s hard. It’s a philosophy behind great accomplishments from Hilary’s ascent of Everest to Kennedy’s promise of going to the moon. The hard things we do define us: They stretch our brains and our limits, and they give us the courage and confidence to do the even harder things.

Owner’s manual

I wish I could say that, at 19, I chose to get back in the car with my dad because it was the hard—but ultimately rewarding—thing to do. Truth is, I don’t remember why I decided to learn to drive stick. Maybe because I liked driving and it seemed like a way to get more out of it. Maybe because I was enticed by the promise of getting to drive something sportier than a station wagon. Maybe I was just bored that summer.

But the years have validated my decision: Since starting to drive a manual transmission 13 years ago, I’ve never looked back. I’ve even put my money where my mouth is: the car I bought last June is a manual. It even tells me what gear I’m in, that feature I longed for as a teenager, and has little arrow icons to indicate when I should be shifting up or down.

You know what? I wish I could turn that off.

My time’s split between the Macworld Live stage, which is on the second floor and open to any attendee, and Tech Talks in the conference’s session rooms.

So, if you’re looking for a chance to catch me on a panel, you’ve got plenty of opportunities to do so. Feel free to come up and say hi (after the panel, naturally).

Thursday, January 31

• A Word from the Developers: I’ll be hosting a panel discussion with developers Guy English (Aged & Distilled), Paul Kafasis (Rogue Amoeba), Rob Rhyne (MartianCraft).
  11am-11:45am; Macworld Live Stage

• Answer, Please—An Apple Trivia Extravaganza, with Glitz, Glamour, and Great Prizes: I’m also co-hosting a brand new trivia contest this year, along with Paul Kafasis (that guy again!). It’s a pub quiz-style event, with the chance to win some great prizes from show vendors. We’re hoping for a great turn out. The event’s open to anyone with an iFan badge (which you can grab here for half price if you order before January 30).
  3pm—3:45pm; room 2011

• Rapid Fire: A one-hour session featuring 5-minute talks on a variety of subjects; I’ll be MC’ing the event for the second year in a row.
  6pm-7pm; Main Stage

Friday, February 1

• The Best Overlooked Features of iOS 6: Along with my colleague Lex Friedman, I’ll be giving a talk on iOS features that you may not be familiar with.
  10am-10:45am; Main Stage

• Apple in 2013: What’s in store for Apple in 2013? I’ll be moderating a panel with my Macworld colleagues Serenity Caldwell, Dan Frakes, and Lex Friedman, as well as special guest John Moltz (Very Nice Website), on what we—and the rumor mill—expect from the year ahead.
  11am-11:45am; Macworld Live Stage

• The State of Apple: I’ll also be filling in for my boss, Jason Snell, and hosting a panel with Ryan Block (gdgt), Christina Bonnington (Wired), Jacqui Cheng (Ars Technica), and John Gruber (Daring Fireball); we’ll be talking about where Apple is now and where it’s headed.
  1:25pm-2:10pm; Main Stage

Saturday, February 2

• The Incomparable Live: A live episode of our award-winning podcast all about the works of writer Aaron Sorkin (including his next project, an adaptation of Walter Isaacson’s biography of Steve Jobs). With Serenity Caldwell, Dan Frakes, and Lex Friedman.
  11am-11:45am; Macworld Live Stage

• Ask the Editors: Our annual chat with Macworld editors, and your chance to ask us whatever the heck you want.
  3pm-3:45pm; Macworld Live Stage

If you’re not a subscriber, or you don’t have an iOS device, have no fear: The article will be posted here in a few weeks.

In the meantime, I’ve been fascinated by the response to it, which has mainly come in via Twitter and App.net. While the story clearly struck a chord with a number of stick-shift aficionados, it seems like almost half of the responses come from places outside the U.S. where manual transmissions are still the standard. (Ha ha, see what I did th—please don’t hurt me.)

Indeed, a friend of mine mentioned that’d he’d recently had to learn to drive stick on a trip to Europe, because the few automatics available for rental were more expensive and there was supposedly some restriction to taking them over borders. It’s funny: though I lived in the U.K. for six months while in college, I never tried driving, stick or otherwise—I’m pretty sure that handling the whole “wrong side of the road” thing would have done me in.

As I mentioned in the piece, I love driving stick—I bought my first new car ever last year, a 2012 Volkswagen GTI. I wanted a vehicle with a little more pep to it; I may not be a racecar driver, or even a expert when it comes to car facts and figures, but I genuinely enjoy driving. The GTI’s proved to be a nice upgrade from my old Honda Accord (though I miss it dearly); it’s taken me some time, however, to get used to the fact that it’s a six-speed transmission instead of a five. But it’s got zip in spades, which is one of the top things I was looking for, and on the whole, it’s a very well designed car. (Except for its electronics, but that’s another story.) But it was only recently, on a trip up to Vermont, that I actually got to really put the car through its paces on some twisty back roads. The result was pure delight, even if it did remind me that I could still use some time adjusting to the shifting pattern and clutch release.

Anyway, if the response from those stick shift fans is any indication, I managed to convey at least some of my joy over driving a manual transmission. And while I don’t expect many—or, let’s face it, any—of my readers to go right out and buy a stick shift on my say-so, I hope I’ve at least reminded them what they loved about it in the first place.

Not that it’s not good—it’s downright riveting for most of its two-plus-hour running time. But its vignette-like structure—complete with occasionally cryptic intertitles—doesn’t fall within what most mainstream audiences understand of the traditional filmic narrative. At times, it can’t quite seem to decide if it wants to be a documentary-style direct-cinema venture, or a gritty thriller.

That vignette structure breaks down somewhat at the end; the last thirty to forty minutes of the movie chronicles the night assault on Osama bin Laden’s compound in Pakistan and is practically a separate movie in and of itself.

But that’s the film’s high point—hell, it’s what the audience has paid to see. And on that, it delivers. Shot largely in “nightvision,” the sequence is almost intimate in its cinematography and sound design, right down to the eerie whispers from the SEALs trying to draw out their targets. It’s more remarkable for its silence than its sound.

Also fascinating are the depictions of two separate terror attacks: One comes out of nowhere—literally in the middle of a sentence—while the other is a long, slow build that you watch, fingers white-knuckled, because you know exactly how the scene’s going to play out. It’s a textbook example of surprises versus suspense, and it’s clear that director Kathryn Bigelow’s got chops for both.

While the film’s fairly light on character, it’s anchored by a very strong performance from Jessica Chastain, the CIA agent whose single-minded devotion is at the heart of the film. The rest of the cast is largely peopled by a revolving door of blink-and-you’ll-miss-it appearances from character actors. I kept nudging my viewing companion and pointing out faces like Harold Perrineau (Lost), Stephen Dillane (Game of Thrones), John Barrowman (Torchwood), Mark Duplass (Safety Not Guaranteed), Christopher Stanley (Mad Men), and Mark Valley (Human Target), among others.

As for the criticism leveled against the film, anybody who argues that Zero Dark Thirty is a pro-torture movie isn’t reading closely enough. Yes, torture is part of this movie, and yes, it’s not pretty—it’s torture, people. But the argument that the movie somehow legitimizes torture by showing it leading to results just isn’t correct: The first time that the CIA actually acquires any useful information in the film, it’s because they bluff a prisoner into believing that he’s already given up the goods. While feeding him and offering him a cigarette.

The acting CIA director and top senators—including John McCain—have stated that the film is misleading and that “enhanced interrogation techniques” were not the bulk of what actually led to finding Bin Laden. But the fact remains that they have long been part of the equation in our military and intelligence apparatuses. We may not be proud of what we have done, but we should be even less proud of pretending that it didn’t happen.

Zero Dark Thirty isn’t a rah-rah patriotic movie. The reaction from the SEAL who actually kills Bin Laden isn’t a gauche fist bump, but rather a sort of quiet befuddlement. (“I shot the third floor guy,” is his shocked explanation to one of his buddies.) When the eventual war whoop of success does come—after the SEAL team’s made it home—it’s cringeworthy in its accuracy. Yeah, Bin Laden’s the bad guy, but celebrating the killing of a man still resonates with awkwardness.

During the movie’s conclusion—and even afterwards—my thoughts kept dwelling on the children that the SEAL team comes across in Bin Laden’s compound: What are the odds, I wondered, that one or more of them grow up hating Americans for what they did to their families? Will one of them be the next Bin Laden? Have we just perpetuated the cycle? Where does it end?

And that’s perhaps part of what makes this film so unsettling. It’s been just eighteen months since the events on which this movie was based—we know how the movie ends, but we don’t really know how the story turns out. We’re not viewing at a remove of decades, as in the case of an Apollo 13 or an Argo. In thirty years, maybe we’ll get the Argo version of these events: the sensitive details will finally be made public, and the characters will instead become actual people.

But real life doesn’t always follow narrative convention—and that’s why Zero Dark Thirty does ultimately work, even if it’s not an easy-to-parse, traditional war movie. Its bite-size chunks and “ripped from the headlines” genesis are reflective of this age of instant communications and social networking, and its ethos of faster, quicker, sooner. Though there have already been movies detailing the conflicts of the past decade, I think we’ll look back upon Zero Dark Thirty as a war movie that’s emblematic of the 21st century—not just about its era, but truly of it as well.

From a young age, my librarian parents had inculcated in me a love of knowing things. A frequent refrain from my father, when asked a question at the dinner table, was “Go look it up in the Funk & Wagnalls.”¹ (Which always confused me, as we had a World Book.) In recent years, my friend Paul and I have participated in a number of winning pub trivia teams before the pub in question criminally stopped doing trivia night. The bastards.

Last August, in the throes of jealousy over my friend Glenn Fleishman’s then upcoming appearance on Jeopardy, I fired off an email to the people at NPR’s Ask Me Another.

If you’re not familiar with the show, it’s a pub quiz style endeavor, where contestants face off in a variety of games, ranging from word puzzles to pop culture trivia, with musical accompaniment provided by geek troubadour Jonathan Coulton. I’d listened to most of the first season and thought I had done pretty well by shouting out answers at the radio, so hey, why not take it to the next level?

My inquiry about being a contestant lay unanswered for a couple months, since the show was on hiatus—in truth, I’d pretty much forgotten about it by the time an email appeared in my inbox in October, entitled “So You Want To Be a Contestant on NPR’s Ask Me Another?” Included was a short quiz, with instructions to send it back as soon as possible.

Please do not agonize; we know this quiz is hard! We just want to get a sense of how your mind works. If you do well enough or make us laugh hard enough I will call you in the weeks leading up to the show for a chat

The quiz was tricky, but they also suggested that “funny/clever answers will get you far,” so every time I didn’t know something—and, believe me, there was plenty of that—I put in something completely ridiculous. Which was pretty much the entire section on completing song lyrics and anything else to do with music. (Fortunately, they asked us upfront to rate our knowledge in various areas, so I was able to truthfully report that my musical knowledge largely comes to a grinding halt in the mid-20th century—with the exception of They Might Be Giants and movie scores.)

I did almost completely nail the question on associating fictitious towns with the TV show they appeared on—thanks, brain!—as well as completing a series of names that were missing most of the letters. Asked to list all ten movies Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson appeared in since 1998, I didn’t do as well as I’d have liked (I only came up with four correct answers), but I did volunteer some extra information:

(On the off-chance you award bonus credit, I can tell you that Owen Wilson appeared as the voice of a talking motorcycle in the Ben Stiller-directed pilot of Heat Vision and Jack, created by Community genius Dan Harmon. Sadly, it never made it to series. Yep, I’m a giant nerd.)

My greatest triumph—In my life? Sure!—was when, at the last moment, my tingling Spidey sense encouraged me to change my answer for “What product is protected by United States patent #4289794, a “Process for Preparing Gasified Candy”?” from “Cotton candy” to “Pop Rocks.” My worst? While the four genera of great apes in the world do include Gorilla, Chimpanzee, and Orangutan, the fourth is human, and not, as I suggested, Grape Ape.

The final question asked me to construct a lipogram—a work where you intentionally omit one or more letters. We were asked to write a paragraph or two without the letter ‘o.’ I cracked my knuckles and got down to work.

I’m glad this quiz included a true test in which I can display my skill. Luckily, I spend all day writing, thus a simple paragraph is little impediment. Shall I explain why I’d be an excellent participant, were I selected? First, I have always been dubbed a smart aleck in matters trivial. (Sadly, it was likely in many cases intended as less than kind.) Next, I’m great at thinking quickly, even when the timer is ticking. Third, I have been smitten with puzzles since I was but a wee lad. (Plus, I annually take part in the MIT Mystery Hunt.)

But I must admit, I mainly want a way in which I can match up against a certain friend—he recently acquitted himself very well in a particular televised quiz. (Its name will remain unsaid, but I will say it is run by a Mr. Alex Trebek.) That, in a nutshell, is my argument. I’d be delighted were I given this truly brilliant chance. I sincerely pray that all this meets with the reader’s enthusiastic agreement. Thanks very much.

Sincerely,
Dan

You never realize how much you use the letter ‘o’ until you try to write a sentence without it.

About two weeks later, I got a response from Eleanor Kagan, the show’s production assistant, inviting me to a phone interview. In it, I mentioned that my friends sometimes called me a human IMDb, a moniker which was later (embarrassingly) attributed to myself. But the chat went well, and they offered me a spot on a show recording on November 19.

The downside to that particular date was that my lovely girlfriend would be unable to join me, as she’d already flown home for Thanksgiving. In her place, I instead recruited Brian, my best friend from college, so I could avoid navigating the streets of New York City alone (and also so I had some place to sleep that night).

Somehow we ended up missing the first train from his place in New Haven into the city, which meant that when we arrived at Grand Central, we literally ran down East 42nd St. trying to find the F train stop (neither of us has particularly good New York geography). Fortunately, a nice stranger overheard our befuddlement and pointed us towards an entrance underneath the New York Public Library. Which we then ran through, only to miss the F train.

I started composing a message to Eleanor, letting her know I was running late, but the lack of signal meant that I couldn’t send it. So, by the time we arrived all the way in Brooklyn, we once again found ourselves running to the show’s venue. The realization that I hadn’t brought my inhaler—flashbacks to elementary school gym class—and that I didn’t want to show up sweaty and out of breath got me to drop it back to a brisk walk.

At first, we weren’t totally sure that The Bell House was the right place, since it seemed to be at the end of a street of deserted warehouses. (I understand now that this is simply how you know something in Brooklyn is “hip.”) But we wrangled our way inside, and turned out to be in plenty of time.

Brian offered to buy me a beer once we’d filed in and been to shown to our VIP contestant section (a small wooden box at the back of a large room); I declined since, despite my protestations to the contrary, I was pretty nervous.

Eleanor ushered the contestants aside, at which point we were told in which order we’d be playing, who our opponents were, and what our subject area was. I ended up going up against a nice fellow, Alexander. We shook hands and exchanged some jokes as we were walked through the process of coming up on stage, speaking directly into the mics, and instructed on how to use the buzzers.²

That done, we filtered back to the box and waited for the show to start.

I’ve been to a bunch of radio shows before—even been on a few—but this is the first time I was in a non-professional capacity, or in front of an audience. Moreover, I was going to have to prove my mettle by answering questions about something that I’d claimed to be knowledgable about. And I was all too aware that, though I felt confident in my knowledge, that could all go out of my head the moment I got up on stage.

Indeed, I watched a few of the contestants in games before me do just that. The first had to do with candy names, and though you could watch the participants warm to it a few questions in, it’s tough to have a break-in time in a game that lasts only a few minutes.

For the second game, my opponent and I were whisked to just offstage, so I got to watch this one from close up, and thank the merciful heavens that I hadn’t gotten this segment, about animal sounds in other languages, because I would have been curled into a fetal ball by the end.

Then it was our turn, and we were brought up under the bright lights—Lights? Don’t they know we’re on radio?—to talk into a foam rubber microphone an inch from our faces. (I’m going to blame that for the reason I flubbed my joke to host Ophira Eisenberg.)

The game itself went pretty well—the category they gave me, TV show finales, was right up my alley, although I did notice in listening to the replay that they cut some of the questions: There was one about Six Feet Under that it took a couple of hints for me to answer. (I’d never seen the show.) I missed the one about Sex and the City because I’d only ever seen maybe two episodes, and I knew Newhart (in fact, I’d been thinking about it since they mentioned what our topic was), but didn’t ring in fast enough.³

Still, I acquitted myself well enough to earn a place in the final round. The spelling bee style was a little odd: We were lined up in order on the steps leading to the stage, and on our turn, we would walk up, speak our answer into the microphone (I had to lean way over, because it was at a height more appropriate for my shorter competitors), and then, assuming we were correct, walk back down the stairs to the back of the line. Rinse. Repeat.

But that was where the wheels came off the bus, ensuring that I will now never forget the movie Uncle Buck, despite never having seen it. You have failed me for the last time, IMDb brain.

So, mission accomplished! I’ve been on a quiz show. What’s next? Well, this past week, I went to register for the Jeopardy online test again (making the third time I’ve taken it), but as I was filling out the form, I realized that being on a competing quiz show in the past year disqualifies me from being on Jeopardy this year. (Somehow, I suspect this is all Glenn Fleishman’s fault.)

Jeopardy will have to wait, then. In the meantime, I have redoubled my efforts to submit answers for the Weekend Edition Sunday Puzzle. Watch your back, Wil Shortz.

This is what it’s like to be a tea drinker.

It’s an embarrassing state of affairs for a drink whose consumption dates back to the 10th century B.C. We’ve known how to make a proper cup of tea for thousands of years, but in the last century or so it’s as if our collective cultural tea-brewing knowledge has been whacked over the head and thrown into the trunk of a car. Filled with coffee.

Unsurprisingly, that century mark coincides with a singular event in the history of tea: the rise of the tea bag. If anything has contributed to the downfall of tea in society, I’d argue that it’s this “invention,” which came about more or less as the result of idiocy. Around the turn of the 20th century, tea merchant Thomas Sullivan would send samples to his customers packaged in small silk sachets. The customers, unaware of their purpose, dunked them right into the hot water. Thus, the tea bag was born, and the beverage’s long slide into commoditization and second-class citizenry began.

And so, order a cup at many an otherwise admirable restaurant, and you’ll be given an eyebrow raise usually reserved for those who ask for ketchup to go with their filet mignon. Why are tea drinkers an afterthought? Tea has a long and distinguished history in America. Nobody protested high coffee tariffs by dumping it into Boston Harbor. (We may have done ourselves a disservice there, as some argue that the tense relationship between the U.S. and Britain during the Revolution only served to increase coffee’s popularity.)

Though it may have been popular among our forefathers, to many today tea seems old-fashioned, fuddy-duddy—perhaps even a bit froofy. And it’s clearly not strong enough for the caffeine-driven needs of today’s office workers; those who drink tea must do so because they just can’t stomach coffee.

But ask yourself: When was the last time you had a real cup of tea? Not a cold mug of lukewarm water and a limp bag of Lipton’s, but a well-and-proper freshly brewed pot. Never? Here’s your chance. If you can boil water, you can make a cup of tea. (If you can’t, watch for my forthcoming article “How to Not Burn Water.”)

The tea: It all starts with the tea. Tea all comes from a single plant species, the leaves of which are processed in different ways to make a few types that dominate: black, green, and white. (Other outcomes include oolong, yellow, and post-fermented varieties.) Black teas tend to be stronger in flavor than green teas, with a higher caffeine content. White teas generally have the lowest caffeine content of all.

Bag the bags: The tea bag has taken some of the mystery and ritual out of the tea process, but, more than that, it brews a less pleasant cup of tea. That is in part due to bagged teas traditionally relying on the leavings of the tea-making process: small pieces called “fannings” and a powder referred to as “dust.” These smaller pieces have a high surface-area-to-volume ratio, which leads to an insipid or stale taste as oils evaporate more rapidly than with larger pieces. Avoid tea bags in favor of loose tea whenever possible. Mail-order options abound, or your town may have a tea shop or two, while a natural-foods store may also sell tea leaves. But if resort to tea bags you must, there are some acceptable options, as more and more tea purveyors offer longer-leaf tea in pyramid-shaped bags that mimic the traditional brewing process.

Infusion confusion: Instead of a bag, you’ll probably want to use an infuser. They come in numerous varieties, made from materials like mesh, ceramic, or perforated metal. Ideally, you’ll want a larger one that allows tea leaves to move freely as they brew; it produces a better flavor than if the infuser constrains and compresses the tea. Otherwise, the choice of material depends mainly on your cleaning habits. I tend to favor ones I can just rinse out, as soap can leave an unfortunate aftertaste. If you’re going the truly traditional route, there’s nothing wrong with putting the leaves right in the pot (as is often done in Chinese restaurants), as long as you don’t mind drinking some leaves. (Don’t worry, they won’t hurt you. Much.)

Don’t use too much tea: You’re using loose tea—great! Unfortunately, some people seem to think that quantity is more important than quality, so you might be tempted to spoon in half a container. This does nothing but mar the experience and waste perfectly good tea. The rule of thumb: one measured teaspoon per cup—not a literal teaspoon with which you stir tea. If you’re making a whole pot, add one more teaspoon for the pot itself.

Warm the pot/cup: Pouring hot water into a cold cup is a good way to end up with a room temperature cup of tea. Providing a hot mug—not a “teacup,” the wide, shallow shape of which tends to more quickly bleed off that heat—will help the water stay hotter longer. Iced tea is one thing, but cool tea is nobody’s friend. Fill your cup with hot water from your kettle, or even from the tap. Let it sit for a few moments, and then dump it out when you’re ready to brew. Traditionally, the Chinese pour the first cup of tea into mugs to warm them, then dump it out; the first cup of tea, it’s said, is for your enemies. These days, I find there are never enemies around when I need them.

The water should be boiling: Note that I didn’t say the water should be boiled—we’re not trying to sterilize surgical instruments, make potatoes, or prepare for a home birth in the 19th century. As any tea drinker worth his salt will tell you (not that you should put salt in tea), an infusion like tea requires boiling water to correctly release the properties of the dried leaves. There are a few exceptions, depending on the tea itself. Both green and white teas require lower boiling points, in which case it’s recommended that the water be boiled first, then be let to cool briefly.

Steep, but not too steeped: Every tea has its own ideal steeping time. Most black teas run about three to five minutes. You can certainly keep steeping after that, but the bitter, astringent result may be more suited to scrubbing scuffs off your hubcaps than consumption. Follow the instructions on the box.

Add nothing: This one is personal preference. Some people like adulterating their tea with sugar, milk, or lemon. To each his or her own, I suppose, but I highly recommend trying a cup without anything at all, to let the innate flavor come through. Otherwise all you really end up tasting is sugar, milk, or lemon. (My one exception? Tea with honey is a great way to soothe a sore throat.)

And there you have it: a real cup of tea. Maybe I sound a bit obsessed, but I’m not alone in my fixation. Tea can count no less than Christopher Hitchens, Douglas Adams, and George Orwell among its ardent defenders.

Of course, the real dirty secret of tea is that you can ignore almost everything I’ve written if you decide you want to drink it another way. That is, after all, why it’s your cup of tea.