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I came to Slate nearly 12 years ago. I’d been working in New York at Sports Illustrated Women and was about to sign on at another glossy monthly when I got an email: “David Plotz here.

I want to offer you our job.

SUMMARY I missed it (I should really be keeping a calendar of these things) but celebrated its 20th anniversary last month.

Please call me so I can do it with the enthusiasm and delight I feel.” The gig was to be Slate’s editorial assistant in D.C. Compared with the New York job, the title was worse, the money was worse, and the prospects were worse—it was a one-year contract gig.

On the Internet! But there was something beguiling about Slate: Its matter-of-fact intellect, its skepticism, its inquisitive and puckish nature. Not to mention the enthusiastic and delightful people who seemed to work there.

When I turned down the other job, the editor said, “You really want to go work for those eggheads?” I did.

This turns out to have been a fortunate decision for many reasons. I had the opportunity to learn from a host of dazzling reporters, writers, and ed