Tonight, the Emmys arrive like a glittering fire drill: everyone knows what to do, and yet the hallway is somehow on fire anyway. Consider me your patient usher with a flashlight and a court stenographer’s respect for the record. We will find your seat, your signal, and your composure, probably in that order.

It starts at eight for the East, five for West Coast drivers who believe traffic is a time zone, and ‘eventually’ for your cousin who lives in Buffering Standard Time. In the Midwest, it begins as the casserole sets. In your group chat, it started yesterday and will never end.

You can watch on broadcast TV, which still exists, like a majestic fax machine with better clothes. You can stream, provided you remember which password is your dog’s middle name and which one is a childhood fruit trauma. Or you can stand outside a neighbor’s bay window like a Dickensian orphan of content, pressing your nose against the glass of prestige.

Pre-show checklist: preheat irony to 375. Calibrate your expectations to ‘sincere gratitude, interrupted by a trombone with a Fitbit.’ Stretch your clapping muscles, because the Academy’s cardio program is called ‘standing ovation until your knees pledge equity.’

If you’re going over the air, aim your affordable indoor TV antenna toward the nearest cluster of self-importance and tighten the coax until you feel like a pioneer wrangling a wild cable. For best results, whisper ‘limited series’ three times and promise to finally watch that show with the submarine lawyers.

Attire is black tie from the waist up, ‘ambitious sweatpants’ from the waist down. Snacks should be categorized like nominees: Drama (salt), Comedy (sugar), Limited Series (experimental pickled something no one asked for). Keep the remote nearby like a fragile celebrity and practice saying ‘I loved their early work’ about people you met nine seconds ago.

Do not attempt to understand category eligibility without a helmet and a safe word. Emmys time is a labyrinth designed by accountants who studied under M.C. Escher and a very chill dragon. Remember: ‘Outstanding’ means ‘a committee felt okay,’ and ‘Guest Star’ means ‘blink and you miss their mortgage payment.’

The official drinking game is taking one sip every time a montage insists television taught you empathy, jazz, and breadmaking. Bonus sip when an orchestra plays someone off for thanking gravity. If a presenter delivers a bit that escaped from the Ministry of Silly Speeches, hydrate responsibly and applaud like you’re rescuing a sketch from a well.

Cord-cutters, you are brave navigators in the fjords of App. Keep a universal voice remote with glow buttons on hand so the couch abyss can’t swallow your agency. When the stream freezes mid-tear, announce ‘bold artistic choice’ and collect your own standing ovation from the houseplants.

Between awards, watch the business peek out like a producer in a cameo: brand integrations disguised as gratitude, trailers that reveal every third twist, and cutaways that treat your favorite actors like startled wildlife. Somewhere a network executive calculates the ROI of warmth, and somewhere else an orchestra files for hazard pay as it play-fights acceptance speeches with a polite machete.

Tomorrow, recount the ceremony with authority: ‘I laughed, I cried, I googled, I added three shows to My List and then forgot where My List lives.’ Nod gravely about the state of art, then confess you mostly remember the bit with the giant prop and the heartfelt thank-you to a public school librarian. It’s fine; the audience is the final co-author, and our edits happen in the group text.

So here is the definitive ‘how and when’: How-quietly, joyfully, with the skepticism of a judge and the stamina of an usher with comfortable shoes. When-tonight, then again tomorrow in a recap, and forever as a meme with more reach than God. Look at the screen, clap on the beat, and if you’re played off by life, smile graciously and exit stage left. And should your night devolve into buffering and speeches about lighting design, remember: you can always thank the Academy, because they’ll cut you off in fifteen seconds-mercifully the perfect runtime for instructions.