November 04, 2022 | Read Online

Piece of Cake.

How Airbnb killed Halloween and what this means for humanity.

Cole Schafer
November 04, 2022

The Movie...

One of my best friends and I are challenging one another this November to step outside our comfort zones as writers.

Ben Cake is an exceptional writer––very likely the best writer I know––but he's a perfectionist and this gets in the way of him hitting "send".

So, I've challenged Ben this November to Tweet three times a day. Once at breakfast. Once at lunch. Once at dinner. He's a clever bastard and worth the follow. I particularly liked something he Tweeted a few days back...

"

Wondering if anyone took their child door-to-door this Halloween, only to discover their neighborhood is almost all Airbnb properties.

"

I, on the other hand, have great difficulty not whoring my writing out to the world the moment I write something versus committing myself to longer, deeper projects that require a great deal of quiet, uninterrupted focus.

So, Ben challenged me this November to write a short story. I'm about 1,000 words in and despite the fact that I can't share it all over the internet in exchange for little hits of dopamine, I'm having a real riot writing the piece.

If good ole Jimmy Rohn wasn't completely full of shit in his remarks on folks being the average of the five people they spend most of their time with, I'm sure glad that Ben Cake is one of my five.

In a world where everybody is constantly chasing their 15 minutes of internet fame, Ben has been the angel on my shoulder keeping my head attached to my neck while helping me war with the constant temptation of needing to be seen.

Ben is one hell of a satirist and I think the reason he's here on this Earth is to be the guy at the party in the cheap tuxedo (by choice) sipping the Old fashioned, addressing the elephant trumpeting around the room.

I suppose there is a place in this world for real estate moguls who own dozens of Airbnbs in the same neighborhood to fund their lifestyle in Ibiza––pronounced "Ee-vee-sa" as many a rich white people who weren't born there will correct you––but there is also a place in this world for folks like Ben who hilariously points out that his kiddos only got five pieces of candy because Airbnb has left him neighborless.

(It turns out that despite all their memorable marketing, State Farm isn't down the street on Halloween passing out popcorn, peanuts and Mars bars...)

Admittedly, I exist somewhere on the spectrum between Ibiza and Ben––hopefully landing to the right of center most days––and I'm slowly realizing that leaning left comes with its own set of costs.

Late last night, I was at Duke's at the bar, drinking a soda with lime and waiting on a sandwich I had ordered and couldn't wait to devour.

There was a woman seated next to me who kept glancing over. So much so, that I was getting a bit self-conscious. Finally, she said, "Sorry to bother you––you just look like an author I read."

Shel Silverstein had died back in 1999 so I didn't know who the hell she was talking about. So I just shrugged and I asked, "Who's the author?"

When she spoke my name I was just as taken aback as she was.

She said a couple of nice things. I said thank you Then, she went back to whatever she was doing and I went back to waiting on my sandwich. I don't think she realized how much I needed that moment last night.

But, when I got back to my vehicle and fired up the ignition, I found myself opening Twitter, Instagram and Email––in rapid succession––to see if there was a glowing notification that would make me feel less lonely, less inadequate and less like a nobody.

This is the cancer in the constant chase for 15-minutes of fame. We always find ourselves wishing for another minute on air.

As I'm getting older, I'm trying to remain ambitious while placing my happiness not in the digital, artificial moments but in the moments that truly feed my soul: good books, cold coffees, tough boxing workouts with Coach T, Friday afternoon catch-up calls with Ben, morning snuggles with June, warm baths with Kace, trips through the carwash and, occasionally, a kind stranger mistaking me for me.

I'm telling myself––perhaps lying to myself––that if I keep coming back to these wells, I'll eventually stop looking at the like count on my Instagram posts.

But, I digress.

By Cole Schafer

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good ole Jimmy Rohn Cole Schafer PS longer deeper projects quiet uninterrupted focus tough boxing workouts afternoon catchup calls real estate moguls rich white people digital artificial moments

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Piece of Cake.

The Movie...

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