Monthly Archives: June 2016

Bookend

It’s hard for me to believe that I’ve had Facebook for the last ten years, close to a third of my entire lifetime.  I first signed up when Facebook was exclusive to college students, verified through the .edu email address we were provided by our own campus of higher learning.  It was an exciting time then, especially for the early 20s crowd.  Writing on walls was the thing to do, poking wasn’t creepy, and individual status updates were forced in the format of completing the statement “First Name Last Name is ______,” many of mine being reminders that I was the king of grilled cheesing sandwiching (“Michael Arce is the Champion, the MVP, the King of grilled cheeses and you [expletive] know it!” was an actual post).

It was undeniable.

And at the time, Facebook was not mobile.  It had to be experienced through a computer since the iPhone/mobile devices and the app revolution did not come into play until the latter half of 2007.  The FB Feed or Timeline did not exist then, nor did the like button or comment box.  Ads were nowhere to be found.  Selfies were here and there, but they weren’t called selfies.  Most of the time, you’d still just ask someone else to take a photo for you, and you’d probably load it into your MySpace page first.

Time never stops flying, does it?

What was once a refreshing platform that supplemented the primary act of actually talking to real people has become an all-out undefended assault into the details everyone’s world.  The level of social media engagement has become THE primary measuring stick when seeking validation, and all of a sudden, popularity can actually be quantified.

And I hate it.

I’m not going to lie, I had that mindset for a while.  If I didn’t get the amount of likes I thought I should have gotten, it was a failed post.  I felt no one cared for my opinion or photo, or where I was or what I was doing or what I just accomplished.  So maybe I would delete it, and maybe post it again later, or just not bother with it ever again.  Eventually I began to study the science of social media – maximizing exposure, timing a post, amplifying content, what to target (region, age group?), and how to effectively hit that target.

I don’t know what’s more sad – knowing that this social media science actually exists, or that I actually became decent at it.  In fact, it’s my highest rated skill on my LinkedIn profile (how the expletive did that happen?).

There’s an idea that everyone is, or should be a salesman, and that you should be selling yourself all the time.  Facebook was a prominent way of doing this.  You can sell yourself as anything you want, even if it stretched the truth.  Suddenly, people became interesting than most, changed for the better, perfect in relationships, compatible in spirit, extraordinary in conversation, watchers of Game of Thrones, hardworking employees, masters of the “rise and grind,” and probably my favorite – long time sports fans.

And people will buy it.

That’s probably the problem, isn’t it?  That everyone wants to sell themselves rather than just be themselves on these platforms.  We’ve become so reluctant to hold up our mirrors and see what’s really there, and instead choose to believe in and evoke an image of ourselves that will validate us the most, even if that image is flawed with lies (granted, however, not all are).  Back in 1999 in the film Fight Club, Tyler Durden gave us an unforgettable list of what we are not, and I want to add to that list today to keep current:

“You are not your job.”
“You are not how much money you have in the bank.”
“You’re not the car you drive.”
“You’re not the contents of your wallet.”
“You’re not your (expletive) khakis.”
– Tyler Durden, 1999

“You’re not the number of likes you get.”
– Michael Arce, 2016

So, to turn the tables – who am I, then?  Well, as told via my social media –

San Francisco is my home, Ingleside is my hood and I love the Inner Sunset.  I am a lover of the creative process, especially in writing, design and film.  On average, I work over seventy hours a week with no weekends off.  My only source of validation has been from the dope ass emails I get from my boss, who is easily the smartest man I ever met.  I can compose a decent photograph.  President Obama and I were born in the same hospital in Honolulu, which to me makes us brothers from other mothers.  I call myself Batman and pretend I’m Thor, but never both at the same time.  I’m a huge fan of sports and the Bay Area pro teams, a coffee aficionado/addict, and a true believer in simplicity.  I’m a half marathoner, but will never consider myself a runner.  I’m a gym rat, and I love a good chocolate chip cookie.  I’m left-handed, and have natural movement on my 68 MPH fastball.  I should be an owner of a kayak now, but procrastination continues to defeat me.  I talk to the universe, which is another way of saying I talk to myself, and I’m the best listener I know.  I like cats, and dogs love me.  And I haven’t engaged in Facebook in over a month, nor do I ever plan to ever again.  But you can still find me on my blog and my Gram.

And who am I, really?  Just someone who’s willing to hold up the mirror.  If you want to find out the real details, come talk to me.

Face to face.

P.S., I’m still the king of grilled cheese sandwiches.

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Doors

“Good afternoon everyone, I’m currently looking for Crystal Roland here at Gate 53 flying to Seattle, Washington with Virgin America, flight number 211. Once again, this is for Crystal Roland, and you have 307 seconds left to get to Gate 53 – well – 305 seconds now. Please get here as soon as you possibly can, I’d hate to close the door on you. One final time – Crystal Roland, Gate 53 to Seattle, Virgin America flight number 211. 292 seconds left and counting. Hope to see you soon, Crystal.”

This announcement echoed with hope sincerity throughout Terminal 2 as I walked away from Gate 54 after landing home to my San Francisco fog, a complete and welcoming contrast from the dry 94 degree heat in Austin I was in prior to.

276, 275, 274, 273. I found myself counting down and still rooting for Crystal. I’ve been in this situation once, and I know how it feels to have to showcase your best effort in the barefoot sprint after passing through airport security, dodging other travelers, their luggage on wheels, and the tired air.

Time took Gold that morning. I won Silver and five additional hours with uncomfortable chairs in Gate 12 at Oakland International. Needless to say, it wasn’t a good feeling. However, there isn’t anyone within my sights that are in any hectic rush to make the gate. She’s nowhere to be found; the barefoot sprint doesn’t look like it’s happening anytime soon.

Each passing second continues to raise my curiosity over the two possibilities – will she make it, or miss her flight? My walk becomes a sluggish stroll toward the exit, and now in front of me is the backside of the security checkpoint entrance, and still I see no one in a rampant rush. My thoughts begin to wonder about this stranger – who is Crystal, where is Crystal, and is Crystal okay? Perhaps Crystal went to the wrong terminal, or airport even? Does Crystal even care?

I guess there’s the chance that she doesn’t even want to catch this flight. It’s possible she’s willingly somewhere else – somewhere where she’d rather be – not having any worries in the world that she has 180 seconds left before the plane takes off without her.

I’m now at the exit door, and unlike Crystal’s, this door will stay open for me. I can turn back around and have a few drinks at the Vino Volo and absorb all that wine (I don’t even like wine) with a breakfast burrito at Andale Mexican Restaurant (I love breakfast burritos) while I read the latest issue of People Magazine (I don’t read People Magazine) that I picked up from the next door gift shop. My point is I can do all that and more, despite if my interests are piqued, and my exit door will still be there with its same open arms. These speakers aren’t booming with warnings that I have to leave within any certain time frame. I can decide to exit on my own terms, I can decide when I want to go home.

I can even turn around and fly to Seattle.

It’s comforting knowing that some doors will never close, but not all doors are built that way, are they? Most doors have a clock on them, exactly like Crystal’s, whose door to Seattle is closing in 126 seconds. Some of our doors are always there, and they just need an easy turn of the knob. For certain doors, you may decide to be aggressive, kick them right off its hinges, and tear your clothes off as your walk through, letting everyone know of your arrival and loudly share how much you oppose the answer “no.” If you choose to, you can wait patiently, or anxiously, for doors to unlock or open themselves.

Every door is different, and new doors always present themselves at opportune times. One door may be locked now, but it could possibly open in the future. Sometimes, we find doors to a place we want to be, but were never really meant for. Or even doors that were once unlocked, but are now bolted down and the key is lost forever.

Either way, each door is a decision – regardless of how impactful – and you live and die with all of them.

You have 78 seconds left, Crystal. Good luck.

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Bird

The best advice I was ever given on writing, was to just keep writing.  Literally.  Because after letting out pages and pages of garbage, you’ll eventually run into something worth keeping.

There was a period in my life – when I was young(er) and stupid(er) – that screenwriting was just about the only thing that invaded my mind.  Call it the dream job, and in a way, it probably still is.  And during that time, through literally thousands of pages I’ve kept a few hundred of them.  And in these hundred-something pages are dozens of unattached scenes – mainly if not all dialogue exchanges, one completed screenplay, and a collection of characters that fit in a larger universe where only I understood the connections (mainly because many of these remain unfinished).  Not blatant connections like The Avengers, but before Marvel Studios made it cool, guys like Kevin Smith and Quentin Tarantino pulled it off in subtle ways decades before anyone ever really noticed.

Out of this collection of garbage are three pieces I feel have a legit shot… somewhere.  A shot at what?  I don’t know, but when I read them years later, I don’t cringe, and I’m my own worst critic.  That has to mean something, right?

Out of these three, I brushed off one of them the other night, and gave it a real stern look and mindful re-write.  And several hours and cups of coffees later, ‘The Bird Story’ which I first wrote nine years ago, still makes me laugh – proof that I am the funniest guy I know.

— – —-

EXT. PUBLIC BENCH ALONG A SIDEWALK – LATE AFTERNOON

In this particular corner of this college campus finds abundant shade from tall trees, a small, inexpensively housed café equivalent to mini-stores you would find in the middle walkways of a shopping mall, and a public bench. Those who sit on this bench are acknowledged as the first in line for the rotating college-funded shuttle that takes students to and from the nearby subway station, and the number of people unluckily standing behind this bench can be counted in four hands.

Two young men in their 20s that are very close friends – Saul and Richard, who prefers the nickname “Panda,” – are sitting on this very bench. Saul fits you’re average male physical traits in height and size, while Panda is easily regarded as one who is the majority stockholder of a bucket of fried chicken. Although the bench can comfortably fit four people, Saul and Panda purposely own it all to themselves, and are unafraid to deny anyone behind them who wants a seat using unwelcoming facial gestures.

Although we meet them in mid-conversation, we haven’t missed anything important.

PANDA
Life’s going too fast, man. Everything is just… retard fast. What am I now?

SAUL
(confused, but answers seriously)
Um, a human being?

PANDA
No, my age. I don’t even know how old I am anymore.

SAUL
(proudly acknowledges and reminds Panda his age with a friendly backhand to his chest)
You’re 28!

PANDA
I’m fucking 28 years old man. I’m 28 and I haven’t done anything significant in my life yet.

SAUL
C’mon, I beg to differ. You’re the bassist for rock band, you know? That’s pretty significant.

PANDA
(points to Saul with intent to correct him)
Indie, rock band. And the key word there is rock, which, as we know, is all but deceased.
SAUL
Still a rock band, nonetheless. AND you released a record, and a damn good one I should add. I have the CD. And uh… it’s a real CD, you know. Even if CDs not really around much. The best part, though? It doesn’t say Memorex with the track list in Sharpie!

PANDA
Yea but we haven’t done anything since. That was what, a year ago? Maybe two?

SAUL
Year and a half, give or take a few months. I haven’t been counting, you know how I am with stuff like that. You know, the way you’re acting, looks like this has been bothering you a lot more than a while. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?

PANDA
(nonchalantly)
Because you’re always busy fucking your girlfriend.

SAUL
(in disdain)
You know, in an environment like this, where there’s about a good twenty, twenty-five people behind us waiting for the shuttle, I’d appreciate it if you just turn down your blunt meter some ten notches down. It’s called overshare, remember? Overshare? You need to work on that.

PANDA
Yeah well the 15 or so people toward the back of the line can’t hear m–

SAUL
(cuts off Panda)
It doesn’t fucking matter! It’s the principle of it all!
PANDA
Fine, fine. Sorry.

SAUL
Whatever. Anyway, back to the former. So what’s the source of your bother?

PANDA
Well, what was I again? 28?

SAUL

(sarcastically)
I think we covered that, yeah.

PANDA
And you just turned 22 right?

SAUL
Mm-hmm.

PANDA
I just wish I were in your position again. Today, it’s easy to get caught up by this current wave to just… go. You know? Be what you want to be and go where you want to go as quick as you can. And all of a sudden, just like that, you realize you went pedal to the metal for too long and you forgot to stop and enjoy everything in between. Now you’re in your late twenty’s, and even in your late-twentys you don’t feel so young anymore. Because people younger than you conjured up some bullshit tech or app idea one day, and walked around the very next day in luxury. And, and you see all these teen jocks being given, GIVEN, multi-million dollar contracts to play professionally and haven’t even proven anything on a pro level. Then you have all these people in intimate relationships moving in light-speed. And now they’re either engaged or married or maybe neither – but they have a kid. This probably wouldn’t be so bad if they were all 28, like me. But they’re not. They’re you’re league, barely over the legal drinking age, or even scarier, they’re younger.

SAUL
(lets out a long winded sigh)
Well, I can tell you handful of clichés like life isn’t about money and –

PANDA
(cuts off Saul)
I know all that shit. It’s just everything I said and all the people I just described put an exclamation mark on the fact that I’m broke and I’m single, and it all leads to me feeling old. And I shouldn’t be feeling old. I’m broke AND in college, which puts me 50 feet lower than ‘broke-as-fuck.’ I’m trying to graduate, but my advisors say I need these other classes, so I can’t doubt them.

SAUL
Well not necessar –

PAUL
(with sharp, accusing eyes that can cut glass)
And single. Single and lonely because of you.

SAUL
Woah, woah. Woah. How’s that even remotely close to being my fault?
PANDA
(throwing non-stop finger pointing jabs at Saul)
Don’t even try to deny it. No, do not. Even! Don’t test me today!

SAUL
(getting himself comfortable to what he expects to hear a long fairy tale of a story)
Well please, ‘splain.

PANDA
How the fuck you forget?! We went to eat at that dinky Italian joint, remember? Leila was there too, and we had the cute El Salvadorian waitress? Ringing bells now?
Her name was Julia. I know you fucking remember! She was completely into me, and just when I decide to make a move – and I know I don’t make too many moves, but you know, KNOW, that my moves are as good as Rodman on the rebound!
You ask for the check –
Leave the cash on the table like it was the dirtiest paper you’ve ever had –
And you and Leila storm out the door. Without any explanation! None! And why?! I don’t know! No clue whatsoever! And I knew something was even more wrong because you didn’t take the leftover to-go with you.

SAUL
(with guilt so thick in the air you can cut it with a karate chop)
Oh that’s right.

PANDA
I could be drenching my dinners with some sweet fuck sauce every goddamn night! But I’m not, all because of you! That’s right! You!

SAUL
Okay, okay. All right, I see what I have to do here.

(Long moment of silence)

SAUL
Whenever I feel like life’s moving too fast, I take the bus.
PANDA
(with absolutely no hesitation in his reply)
Fuck your advice.

SAUL
I don’t give advice. This is a story.

PANDA
(mockingly with a ‘blah’ face)
Well fuck your story.

SAUL
Give this one a listen. It’s a mighty fine tune.

PANDA
Fuck no, man. Not today. I’m done.

SAUL
(tickles his best friend and does not let up)
C’mon, you know I tell them good!

PANDA
I’m serious! Don’t! Do not touch me right now! I’m fed up!
(Saul stops, and looks the other way. He looks back at Panda, but doesn’t say a word, though he knows that Panda’s curiosity, as usual, starts to eat him alive.  After another long moment of silence, Panda gives in)

PANDA
Okay. Okay. Life…moving…fast. You…take…bus.

SAUL
(with so much excitement you’d believe that fireworks were just set off in the background as he gears up to tell this story)
This is true! So true that it made the solved mysteries episode of Unsolved Mysteries.

PANDA
You are way too young to even know that show.

SAUL
Re-runs my man! And c’mon, you know me? I’m an old soul.

PANDA
(annoyed, buries his face in his hands and keeps it there)
Go on.

SAUL
I take the bus whenever I feel like life is moving too fast. It gives you time to put things in perspective. It slows life down for you. You’re not driving on the freeway, speeding 80 trying to get where you want to be. You’re on a bus, a Muni, an electric Muni, going no more than 20 and taking Mission Street toward The City. And somewhere during the ride, you’re bound to run into wise words from the old guy sitting behind the bus driver that no one wants to sit next to because he reeks of room-temperature nacho cheese. And urine.

PANDA
(picks his head up out of his hands)
So you sat next to The Nacho Man Stinky Savage?

SAUL
I had to. My leg was in an uncompromising cramp and the only open seat was next to him.

PANDA
Okay, so what’d he tell you?

SAUL
He told me the bird story.

PANDA
A bird story?

SAUL
No. THE Bird Story.

PANDA
(shaking his head)
Yea, that’s uh, wow. Can’t wait to hear it. A story about a bird. So. Fucking. Thrilling.

SAUL
Sarcasm aside, jerk. Give this one a shot.

PANDA
I’m painfully and obviously not going anywhere.

SAUL
There’s this newborn bird, completely fresh out of its shell. When the mother bird flew away to find food for her newborn, this strong gust of wind blew the nest right off the branches, and the newborn bird tumbled down the hills, far and away from the tree it called home. When the cold night came, the freezing bird shivered without the warmth of shelter or from its mother. Fortunately, a nearby cow noticed the freezing young bird and decided that the only way to keep it warm was to take a shit on it. So the cow did. It dropped a steaming mountain of shit on the bird, and the bird became warm. But you can understand that a bird can only live in cow pile for so long. So the bird shrieked for help, hollering and screaming and bitching to remove it from the shit it was stuck in. Then, a coyote appeared and saw the jam the bird was in. So the coyote decides to help the bird out of the shit. The coyote pulls out its paw and slowly reaches toward the bird, inching closer, and closer, and closer. And just like that, with swift Ali-like jab, yanks the bird out of the shit. The bird flutters its wings with appreciation while the coyote brushes off the remaining dirt and shit and all sorts of nasty. Eck. But just when the bird thought it was finally safe and secure, the coyote flings the bird upward and, with its unforgiving jaws, snatches it from the bitter air, devouring it in one, satisfying gulp.

PANDA
(shrugs his shoulders in confusion)
The end?

SAUL
The end.

PANDA
So what the fuck does it suppose to mean?

SAUL
Well, when he finished the story, it was already my stop to get off, so I couldn’t ask him what it all meant. I kept thinking about it for days after that. So honestly I haven’t a clue.

PANDA
So you just wasted my fucking time?

SAUL
C’mon man, we’re waiting for the shuttle. We were going to wait here regardless.

PANDA
Jesus f’n Christ.

SAUL
But. Wait. Just, just hear me out right now. Just now, I think I finally understand the moral of the bird story.

PANDA
(lets out a long sigh)
And?

SAUL
I think it means that in life, even when folks give you a lot of shit, they’re not always trying to hurt you. And there will be other folks who come along that, although they may have gotten you out of trouble, aren’t always trying to help you, either. And the central point of it all – when you’re up to your nose in shit, keep your goddamn mouth shut.

(A moment of epiphany for both, along with the five people behind them that heard their entire conversation. A short moment later, the shuttle arrives, and they both get up and ready themselves to board)

SAUL
So uh, Leila volunteers at the hospital, you know that. And normally she wouldn’t say anything, but when she saw that you were all but eye fucking Julia, Leila whispered to me that she came in to her clinic one day.

PANDA
And? So?

SAUL
(a moment before the step on the shuttle’s first steps)
Well, she participated in a few popular tests. And Julia has Chlamydia. And herpes. And sometimes crabs.

(They enter the shuttle and take a seat. Afterwards, in a rapid exchange of dialogue)

PANDA
…That’s called overshare.

SAUL
That’s called the anti-God of fuck sauces for your dinner.

PANDA
You’re like, my holy cow.

SAUL
Don’t mention it.

PANDA
You have my absolute blessing to use me as a shield – like, literally – if you are ever to be caught in the middle of a human trafficking exchange gone horrendously wrong even know that type of exchange is already horrendously wrong.

SAUL
I’ll keep that in mind, even though that’s probably over-doing it and I hope you don’t mean it in a literal sense.

PANDA
Dude that bird story rocks balls.

SAUL
Yea.

PANDA
Chlamydia.

SAUL
AND herpes.

PANDA
AND crabs.

SAUL
Who would’ve thought.

PANDA
Obviously not me.

SAUL
Ditto.

PANDAr
Fucking dodged those bullets.

SAUL
You’re like fucking Remo Williams man.

(Panda slowly turns his head to Saul, completely confused yet amazed as to how he can reference Remo Williams)
CUT TO:
BLACK

Bird

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