[3] A tater tot sent me to the ER

[3] I once ate a rotten tater tot that tasted like vodka.

Smelled like it, too. That's why I don't eat tater tots any more.

Aren't ice breakers fun? Let's get in to today's newsletter.

A Darkness Retreat with the Backstreet BoysI entered into a darkness retreat against my will one night in college when a car crashed into a pole next to the bar we were at. The driver was fine, but the entire block was without electricity for the rest of the evening. It was suddenly pitch black.

After the initial shock subsided, there was an unexpected shift in the room. The patrons, who were once strangers, started bonding in the shadows. In the midst of the chaos that came with the unexpected darkness, there was an overwhelming abundance of this collective forgiveness. People stepped on each others toes in search of their tables. People bumped shoulders and knocked elbows in search of their friends. People spilled drinks on themselves and onto each other. But there was a heightened sense of understanding, because we were all going through it together.

Bartenders blindly scribbled orders onto unreadable napkins, but we drank whatever eventually made it to our tables with gratitude. And we willingly overpaid, knowing those scribbles would likely never see the light of day, lost in the shuffle.

With no visible cues from our body language to hold the floor or signal that we wanted to speak, everyone listened to each other - really listened. We were more attentive. We were more intentional with the time that we were choosing to spend together. As the night went on, the mix of separate conversations around the bar slowly fused into a singular hum as everyone settled into this new norm. But suddenly, from the back of the room, a voice rose above the rest. It wasn't directed toward a friend or a bartender. It was addressing everyone. There was an air of invitation in the voice as it started singing: "You are... my fire..." And without hesitation, we all heeded the call. As the bar sang along, I couldn't see their faces, but I could hear everyone smiling.It wasn't anything like a concert, but it was everything like being a part of something.

That night there were no fights to flag down bartenders. There were no delineations of where one group of friends started and another began. No singular person was bidding for the attention of anyone in particular. Everyone was worth your time. Somewhere in this shared experience of navigating something unfamiliar together, we were thrust into a singular group. A whole. Disarray blended into harmony. It felt easy. Simple. Everyone assumed the best of each other. 

I don't remember how the evening ended. I can't remember if they kicked us out to close down for the night or if they stopped serving alcohol when people ran out of cash. But I do remember the high I felt as we walked to the parking lot. I remember kicking rocks as we all lingered near our car doors. No one wanted to make the first move - reach for the handle - begin the ending of the night. We told stories of fumbling to find toilet paper in the bathrooms. We relived the moment the lights went out, from each others' perspectives, as if we hadn't just lived through it together. We held onto the night for just a little bit longer, until we reluctantly joined the rest of the world in our well lit homes with our boring televisions and boring electricity and boring distractions.

Behind the comfort of our screens and behind closed doors, it's easy to convince ourselves that those who think differently are different. We nestle ourselves into groups. We gravitate towards dichotomies of 'are they one of us, or one of them?'

But I prefer to live within the confines of that blacked out bar. To assume the best of each other. To treat everyone like they're worth your time. And if I learned anything from that night, its that no matter how much money you make, how you dress, or how badly you're trying to get laid... everyone is a fan of that one Backstreet Boys song.

If you hadn't already noticed, I love to reflect. It's nice to look back on an event and dissect it. Learn from it. Romanticize it, even.But ultimately, I think reflection is a skill. Like practicing for the big game. It's not just reliving a moment in time, but taking the time to understand a moment. To understand yourself.In some ways, I think that the better you are at reflecting and thinking through your past actions, the more control you have over your present reactions. Or maybe not. Maybe Nick Hornby is right.

When Hurricane Katrina hit, we were out of power for a week or two, but I had my iPod. I would conserve battery life by only listening at night. Track 1, Tautou, will forever remind me of lying on a couch in the humid, quiet, dark confines of my home in high school... dreaming of a working air conditioner.Full discloser, I always fell asleep before track 7.

You are, my fire. Until next time. -cd