Sticky Notes - Don't 💩 the bed.

Before we jump in...

If you haven't pre-ordered my third and final book of poetry & prose, you can do so here. With it being the end of the January Black era, it's a heady, bloody, slightly funny exploration into the topic of death; both literally and figuratively. 

Now, let's jump in... 

This morning I was having breakfast with my girl in the lobby of my favorite hotel here in New York.

I fast most days. Not strictly for focus but because I have an enormous appetite and I know if I allowed myself the freedom to fulfill this appetite at all hours of the day, I'd be spectacularly rotund. 

Today was an exception, however, because it marks the last day of our two-week stay in New York and I know no better way to celebrate and honestly mourn –– I've truly come to love this fucking place –– than a big, beautiful, hearty breakfast spread. 

So, I ordered three flapjacks stuffed with pears and topped with vanilla butter and hot maple syrup; seven pieces of thick-cut bacon; three scrambled eggs; a frittata mounded with a joyous clump of goat cheese; a greek yogurt parfait piled high with granola, honey and berries of every kind; and, finally, a green juice that was more savory than sweet to wash it all down with.  

Our stay here has left the two of us with quite the appetite; both physically and creatively. 

She's spent most of her time at the office –– her office being Jimi Hendrix's old flat turned recording studio –– and I've spent my days ducking in and out of every coffee shop in East and West Village gathering inspiration like a bee does pollen.

I have the tremendous privilege of seeing New York not as a New Yorker but as a small city boy that grew up in Southern Indiana, falling in love with life's tiny romances: watching lightning bugs with lanterns for asses, eating Mint Chocolate Chip Ice cream with my grandfather at GD Ritzy's, turning my hands black dribbling a basketball on the asphalt underneath a beating summer sun, brushing Grippo dust from my fingertips and relieving the spiciness in my mouth with a cold Ski. 

If you live in New York or have ever been to New York, you know quite well that New York is not so much a city as a galaxy of small things happening in a sort of strange, gorgeous synchronicity. 

And, if you pay enough attention to these small things, you'll find there's poetry everywhere you look. 

New York is complicated, though, because along with the small things and the poetry, there are giants.

The other night I was in this same lobby where I was having breakfast this morning when I heard a voice that I had heard a hundred times before but never in person. I turned my head and saw that it belong to Chris Rock. He was smiling, his jaw very much intact. 

Celebrities feel to me like sharks in that when they're in a room nobody can enjoy the swim save for those that have spent a good deal of time around them.

For those that have spent some time around celebrities, they treat celebrities in much the same way that surfers treat sharks.

I once read somewhere that when surfers see sharks in the waves as they ride them, they shout to their mates "the guys in grey suits are here".

To the surfers, "the guys in grey suits" are just there going about their business; sniffing out fish, meaning nobody any harm.

Much of my life this past year has felt neither like I'm a surfer nor a swimmer nor a shark but a sort of starfish latched to the belly of the sea watching everything going on above me. 

It has taken me some time to know my place in it all. And, to be completely candid, spending time around impressive individuals can leave me feeling wildly unimpressive. And, I've had to watch myself because the fear of being unimpressive has, at times, left me feeling distracted.

I've had to fight the urge to impress others rather than impress myself. I think that this is the fundamental difference between ambition and distraction, you know? 

With ambition, we're doing something to impress ourselves. With distraction, we're doing something to impress others.

This is another small thing you see in New York if you look closely: there are a lot of people who think they're ambitious but who are really distracted.

And sometimes, I can't help but wonder why everyone is so concerned with impressing the ambitious. Johnny Depp is dealing with an ex-wife that cut off his finger and shit in his bed.

But, I digress. 

Cole Schafer.

P.S. If this newsletter made you weak in the knees, give me some love over on Twitter, Linkedin or Instagram. And, if someone sent you this newsletter and you'd like to receive it weekly, subscribe at the button below. 

With G******** releasing in just two short weeks, I've got to clear some space on my shelves; and you've got to gain some context.

Over the weekend, One Minute, Please? and After Her will be half off for Sticky Notes subscribers only.

To claim your 50% off voucher, use code "dontshitthebed" at checkout. Again, that's "dontshitthebed"... one word, all lowercase. 

Honesty hour: with each passing day I'm hating marketing more and more. So, when I can, I try and market in such a way that feels fun and ridiculous. 

Here's the order confirmation email I wrote for my latest book of poetry and prose, G*********. 

" 

Firstly, thank you. Seriously. You picking up this book allows me to do what I love and that's write. 

Secondly, let's talk logistics (specifically shipping). 

So, after I kicked the reaper's ass in the piece you just read with a shot to his ribs followed by an uppercut to his jaw (that cloak is hiding a weak chin, believe it or not), he offered to handle my shipping. 

I said "no" for obvious reasons: customers wouldn't be too keen on the Grim Reaper showing up at their front door in the middle of the afternoon playing postman. 

But, it was damned tempting because the Grim Reaper can teleport places instantaneously using a sort of worm-hole magic and, as you can imagine, this makes shipping lightning fast. 

So, I had to settle with the UPS. And, while the UPS is effective at getting packages to the right addresses, they do so at a pace that makes Ford's Model T look like a Bugatti Chiron

All that to say: when there is a postman that shows up at your doorstep perhaps a bit later than you had hoped, don't fucking bitch at me. 

It could have been the Grim Reaper. 

Love you, always. 

Cole & January.

" 
 

Hunter S. Thompson is to journalism what Ernest Hemingway is to the written novel: there is journalism before Hunter S. Thompson and then, there is journalism after him.

And, like Hemingway, Thompson’s reputation proceeded himself. This was in part because he himself was a larger-than-life character. But, also, because he had great difficulty separating himself from the larger-than-life character he portrayed in his writing.

You can see a glimpse of this character in a memoir that E. Jean Carroll wrote of the writer back in 1993.

Carroll outlines Thompson’s daily routine; a daily routine that’s so bizarre you’d think it’s fiction.

It just might be.

P.s. Once again, if something I ever write resonates with you, please share it via the icons down below and encourage others to subscribe here.