Author Archives: Michael Arce

Oras

I am wildly fascinated with humanity’s study, measure, and management of time.  This is my long way of saying horology is cool as fuck, and I want to start the first part of this love letter (of sorts) with a very brief history on how we have told time.

The concept of telling time goes as far back to our first several rounds of ancestors.  Without a clock, we simply just look up at the sun and note a general idea of the time of day.  If without clouds, a rising sun meant morning, the sun somewhere at its highest point is noon time, and a setting sun signified that evening was approaching.  By nightfall we’re told one thing: rest until you see the sun rise again for a new day.  It’s not by any means a technological method of telling time, but it served as good enough for a few thousand years.

Then came the sundial – the first true device for timekeeping that eventually led to the modern analog clock face  – which still utilizes the sun but this time giving sunlight a pointer to cast a shadow on a surface.  Still, it’s rendered useless on days when clouds are present and at night where sun is nowhere to be found.

Then there’s the development of the hourglass, which measures the passage of time by the fall of a fine substance, usually sand, using the pull of gravity.  While I would not bet the farm on its accuracy, it’s quite aesthetically pleasing to the eye to watch the sand travel from one glass bulb to the next through its tiny canal.

Then came the origin of the first mechanical clock, which looks to be debatable with one side of historians believing that it was first developed and used by medieval Chinese, and another side arguing that mechanical clocks first appeared as clock towers during the Renaissance period in parts of Europe.  Who gets true credit is neither here nor there for me, but I will admit that I am wrong to believe that the first clock tower was built in Hill Valley in 1885, later to be struck by lightning in 1955.  Zemeckis had me roped in on that belief since 1990.

Let’s fast forward about five to six hundred something years.  Advances in timekeeping lead to the modern wristwatch in the 1800s, and there are now thousands of watchmakers worldwide.  I wrapped my first “real” watch around my left wrist sixteen years ago.  And just within the last ten years, one watch became two, two became four, four became eight, and eight became… I have literally lost count. I feel great fortune that my wife has not (yet) called me out on spending too much money on timepieces. With that being said, let’s just say I’m prepared for her smoke when I come home with a Naoya Hida.

So, what does this all mean?  Am I just a collector of watches burning money?

I assure you that probably tells five to ten percent of the story, and my love for time goes far beyond than what I wear around my wrist.

I love exploring time in non-linear and philosophical and physical frameworks, like time as the fourth dimension, or the flow of time not being uniform under different conditions.  I love attempting to explain to my wife the concepts of time cycles and time loops where the idea of time travel may be possible, wholly disputing the traditional take of time as linear.  I often don’t get that far since she falls asleep a few minutes in, and I end up just talking to myself.

It’s fine, everything is fine.  Except –

And here lies the catch, when I look at time as linear – that today eventually becomes yesterday, and tomorrow is the future – there’s far more fear there for me than love.

I’m afraid of running out of time, so much so that I’m literally trying to buy it.

If there is one thing that I have leveled up in skill in the last decade, it’s holding up the mirror to myself to truthfully admit my flaws.  I even make it a game to find them before my wife calls me out on my shit.  So if I don’t count clowns gazing sexually at me through my bedroom window at night, running out of time is my biggest fear, with the line going damn near full vertical on the graph.  And, I can tell you exactly when this inflection point is: July 7, 2024.

The day my daughter was born.

A quick look and study shows that as of 2025/2026 the median age of first-time fathers is thirty-one.  That puts me ten less autumn seasons I will get to spend with my daughter versus the average.  With a whole lot of luck, I might get to spend a total of forty healthy autumns with my girl, God willing far more than that.  Using envy and more so anger, I can still out-lift and out-train all the still-in-their-physical-prime-twenty-somethings at my gym because I want to be able to carry my daughter, whether or not she wants to be carried, until she’s thirty.  I know she’ll eventually prefer to hang out with friends more than she’ll want to hang out with me.  One day, she’ll just ask for less reading time, less park time, less ice cream, less hugs, less cuddles, and less kisses.

And that’s why I am going to become the fucking Airwolf of helicopter dads.  But, in a good, cool-dad way where she won’t resent me, I swear.  I don’t know how, because I’m not there yet.  Let me figure that out in time.  Maybe I’ll write a book about it when I do.

I know.  I know!  I’m probably overreacting.  She hasn’t even turned two yet for fuck’s sake.  There’s a lot more autumns left before I have to worry about any of this.  I just know that when it happens, it’ll feel like a blink of an eye ago.  I’m going to feel the vast weight of that emotion and likely cry about it.  I’ll be much grayer then, with a hairline running higher and a healthy collection of finer lines on my face.

But, when that day comes, I’ll be wearing my Grand Seiko SBGE271, and yes – still hoping that time travel is possible (and putting my wife to sleep talking about it) just so I can go back and hold my little girl as I do now, but goddamn proud that I chose to be Airwolf.

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Ballgame

I’m a baseball nut – I think that those that even remotely know me would also agree – and I fell for the San Francisco Giants well before I could handwrite. I can’t say that my in-person memories of the team started in Candlestick Park, it was not a luxury that was affordable to my family and I (even though “luxury” would be the absolute last term that anyone would ever describe the dump that was Candlestick). So I took any and all chances I had to either write down or clip newspaper sections of the Sporting Green from the SF Chronicle of Giants stats and standings. If a game was televised on local channels, I was likely in front of a TV.

I did not attend a live Giants game until 2001, one year after they had opened and moved to Pacific Bell Park, then later to be known as SBC Park, then later to be known as AT&T Park, and now currently known as Oracle Park – which to this day, unlike its predecessor, would be the shining definition of the luxury title.

25 years later, I still feel pristine fortune being able to make memories here, with the latest one being the most nearest and dearest to my heart – our first Giants game together:

A father holds his daughter beyond the main entrance of Oracle Park, who will enjoy their first Giants baseball game together as father and daughter.

To anoint this game and memory on April 23, 2026, I want to go back and remember my top five moments at Oracle Park. I was here quite often, so this proved to be a lot more difficult than I had initially imagined:

5. Holy $#!% – Andres Galarraga clears the bleachers, September 18, 2001.

I can’t recall if this was the first game of the series, but it was definitely the first series at Oracle after 9/11. Roy Oswalt (rookie year, no less) dominated the Giants lineup and gave my team the L, but The Big Cat got a hold of one, strapped a rocket on that baseball and touched the Coke bottle in left field. It’s still the longest home run to LF, and no one has come close to either the bottle or the glove since.

4. Running the upper level stairs, 2015 – 2017.

2015 was my first year as a long distance runner. I’ve had to significantly cut down the miles since due to several injuries, but for a 5 year period logging 15-30 miles a week was the norm for me. During this time I had learned that starting pitcher and one of my favorite players – Matt Cain – ran the stairs at the ballpark before every start. The sadistic part of my brain loved this and decided to challenge myself to diversify my training and try to match his energy. So before every day game I attended for 3 seasons, I showed up to the ballpark 2 hours early and ran the entire upper level – section 302 to 336. It took anywhere between 30-40 minutes to finish and proud to say that I never skipped a step.

3. After a 4 hour rain delay, Timmy dominates the Braves for 10Ks in 7 innings, April 9, 2010.

To provide context here, this was tagged as a Sunday afternoon game at 1:05pm first pitch until heavy rain delayed the start. Because this was Atlanta’s only visit to San Francisco in the season and the final game of the series, it was not advisable to postpone the game entirely to reschedule. So the umps called to cover the field and wait this out.

Mind you, I usually get to the game an hour early, so I sat in my seat for almost 6 hours before the game even starts (minus the amount of time I left to go back to my car to grab a blanket, and some stranger stopped me in my tracks because they thought I was Andrew Garcia from American Idol).

It is a difficult task for a pitcher to go through their normal pre-start routine, hit a dead stop to the game, sit cold for 4 hours, then on a drop of a dime get everything ramped up and going again. A normal pitcher (and their manager) would have probably skipped this start and asked for a spot start from the bullpen.

Timmy bursted out of the dugout and darted to the bullpen, ripped no more than a handful of warm up pitches and told his catcher, “I’m good, let’s go” and proceeded to overpower major league hitters for 7 innings.

This one of many reasons why we called him The Freak.
I was wet at the ballpark for 10 hours.
Worth it.

2. Marco Scutaro is unbothered by the rain, October 22, 2012.

Another ballgame with rain – this time it was game 7 of the 2012 NLCS against the St. Louis Cardinals. This overall series proved to be some of the best baseball I’ve seen, especially having to overcome a 3-1 series deficit. Capping it off with an eventual World Series win over the Detroit Tigers amplifies this memory to a near unreachable plateau.

1. Holding and watching my daughter eat ice cream while Logan Webb strikes out Shohei Ohtani, April 23, 2026.

The link to this video exists only in my brain, and will be on replay for all time.

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Poetic

1,087 days. 

That’s the total amount of days since I last penned paper for this blog (yes, I am still a guy that handwrites in 2026).

While I feel like I have good reasons why this blog has been completely ignored for 1,087 days, I don’t have one good one to justify why I stopped writing all together.  Writing is a pillar of my being, and doing so keeps me grounded without collapse.  But this doesn’t mean I’ve been face to floor this entire time, it’s actually the complete opposite.  During a handful of moments I was able to get a few ideas down, but only enough to formulate particles that eventually fluttered away with the wind.  I stopped dead in my tracks each time to tend to this girl who, rightfully so, is always looking to fulfill her constantly evolving, long list of needs.

Truth be told, I need her just as much.

My daughter, Autumn Jem, on Easter Sunday (2026).

642 days.

That’s the total amount of days since I became a father to my daughter, Autumn Jem (yes, my wife and I named her after the 80’s animated series Jem and the Holograms).

Case and point, I just stopped for a long moment because Autumn wanted to write on her dry erase board, and she needs me to carry her while she does so.  But just like her, I’m not skipping this writing session this time.  We’re going to see this one through today.

In the 445 days prior to her birth were a lot of soul searching with my wife and I after several failed fertility rounds and a debilitating miscarriage.  You would think that in these 445 days I’d have a lot to say – which I did.

Just not a lot of heart to write it.

People will always tell you how harsh it is to navigate these waters, and all the empathy will never make you feel it’s true weight unless it happens to you.  And I could not describe the feeling well enough for anyone else to truly see these endless, sordid knots inside me, so I didn’t bother trying any further than a few words before I let it simmer in pity.

So when I say that Autumn is perfect, it’s pure fact.  I cannot track the endless amounts of biological cogs, levels, and pieces that needed to be in the right place and the right time for her to grace the world with her existence.  And during these last 642 days – this time on the greener side of the grass and a whole lot of my heart behind this – I’ve attempted to find and construct words together to paint this aura of perfection.

Only to reach failure each time.

The energy behind the sentences, statements, sequences lacked the literary cadence to match what I feel being her father. Reading what I wrote felt like listening to a bad cover band of Air Supply (Low Air Supply, if you will.  I’m here until Wednesday).

I would say it’s because I’m not a poet, who are masters in writing about pain, bliss and everything in between.  But I technically have two poems that have been published.  Do I prefer these books remain buried and hidd—yes please.  Am I a good poet?  Absolutely not.

So I rather not chase these rhythms that can never match these Autumn days and nights
And will merely live to the beat of the surf together
After all, father and daughter only has spots for her and I

Maybe, I can be just poetic enough.

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Meal

It was a warm, quiet Christmas evening at the Art Box.  Or, for natives and residents of Thailand, just any other December night.  There was certainly more decorative lights and red pieces of flare than, let’s say, a September night.

With the population being primarily Buddhist, Christmas décor in Thailand was more a festive extension with the new year celebration that shortly follows afterwards.  For myself – being from the west – I did not visit Thailand because it was a mecca for Jesus’s birthday.  It was, in fact, the complete opposite.

I was here to escape home.

ex·​hale

The Art Box was an outdoor market in the Sukhumvit neighborhood in downtown Bangkok that gathered an eclectic collection of food vendors, bars, and gift shops.  I wasn’t alone, travelling here with my best friend, RQ, who we were then met by Gil, RQ’s cousin, who flew in from the Philippines.  We were frequent customers of the Art Box, particularly toward dinner time where we were ready to unwind from the day filled with visits to markets and temples, speeding on riverboats and Tuk Tuks, and admiring (then somehow ending up racing on the backs of) elephants.

The convenience of The Art Box was that it lounged around the corner of our hotel.  Its gravity were kind people, great food and art, and an energy that almost impossibly resembled the same feelings from when I’d spend my teenage years at a friend’s house solving the mysteries of how to talk to girls, and how to be a DJ (I was terrible at both).  Or hooping at the neighborhood park from the noon to dark, draining threes and airballing layups while avoiding jackers at the same time.  When a jacker did show up, it was a full sprint back with all my stuff in hand (wasn’t lucky every time) to the same house where we’d proceed with unsolved mysteries of how to talk to girls and how to be a DJ.  It even tapped into my roaring 20’s capsule, where there was nowhere else I would have rather been than being at my favorite bar in The City on a Thursday night with the boys.  No, I never became a DJ.  But I did reach half-decent levels with talking to girls.  The Art Box sparked a magical trifecta of these energies from various pockets in my life that had just enough of the unknown, anxiety, and danger that made it my kind of bliss.

Like the center of a multiverse where worry was non-existent in the dictionary.

But it wasn’t just this trip, this place, this moment that led to this decompression.  That Fight-Club-Tyler-Durden-just-let-go kind of moment, if you will.  Please allow me this opportunity provide some back story.

pre·face

For nearly a decade, I was in the mental fight for my life.  While very few people knew, I did not allow anyone to see or feel the extent of not only how completely defeated I was, but how much I actually chose defeat.  Like walking toward relentless speeding traffic with a blindfold on.  Doing the same thing over, and over, and over, and expecting different results.

in·​san·​i·​ty

It wasn’t until the second half of that decade circa 2014 – 2019, I decided to punch back.  I was rocked and brought to my hands and knees more than I could keep count and some days were too hard to answer the next round.  Some days pushed me three, four, five steps back while I only mustered one step forward.  But there was always a step forward, and that was all I allowed myself to control.  “I can’t win them all,” I convinced myself.  “But win some, and I’ll wise the fuck up along the way.”  I was content with this.

I travelled, a lot.  Some of it was for work, some of it had people on the other end of the destination.  But most of it was by myself.  Perhaps not the way I wanted it, but certainly the way I needed it during this time.

I took… things.  A lot (and I’ll allow you to piece together what you think that means – but I will say this – I’m sorry, mom).  Somehow I kept myself in enough fear of the things I took that I never fully succumbed to its hypnotism.  Staying scared saved my life, it’s strange hearing myself say that but it couldn’t be any more closer to the truth.  It was my darkest time, and while I wasn’t completely by myself, I couldn’t feel any more alone than I did.  Perhaps not the way I wanted it, but certainly the way I needed it during this time.

During this period I also became a runner and trained for dozens of runs, and on the wings of a miracle I was able to complete a full marathon.  Maybe this helped counter the things I took.

nope

But it made me feel like I was doing something healthy along the way.  What running did teach me was to fight back from a place I’m not comfortable in.  I’ll be the first to tell you that I am not built to be a long-distance runner.  I’m not light on my feet, I’m not skinny, and I’m not lanky.  My thighs and calves are the width of tree trunks carved to sprint, push, and lift heavy shit up.  On top of that, my L4 and L5 discs in my lower back are beaten to a pulp, running didn’t make this any better.  This five year period of running was, far and away, the biggest physical fight of my life.  But what was clear as day was that my running was less about my own health – no – and more about being in:

lim·bo

I was running from fears I didn’t have the strength to admit to, and chasing something I was never going to catch; end preface.

RQ returned to Thailand in July of 2022, only to find that The Art Box just another victim to the pandemic that stole so much from us.  It’s now a under construction for a new high rise of luxury apartments, a sight all too familiar in The Bay.  Once a place that gifted me my biggest moment of clarity and escape weakened under the greedy patterns under my own home soil, thousands of miles away.  The best things in life are always designed to be fleeting.  This was a just a reminder.

iro·​ny; bitch

Travelling can never be bad for the soul, I truly believe that.  But this alone wasn’t the left hook that knocked out the other version of me that gave this version of me the win I was looking for.

It was a warm, quiet Christmas evening at the Art Box.  Or, for natives and residents of Thailand, just any other December night.  There was certainly more decorative lights and red pieces of flare than, let’s say, a September night.

For two particular Filipino women – Joy and Grace – both who worked at one of the food booths at the Art Box, it meant just any other work night. RQ’s Tagalog is fantastic. Mine not so much, and he decided to speak to them in our people’s native language. They also spoke English fairly well, but maybe hearing Tagalog greased the conversation enough to lean more genuine and less stranger danger. It probably also helped that this wasn’t their first conversation with each other. At first it was small talk – “hi, how are you, what a nice night it is tonight, How was your Christmas Eve, your eggplant fries with salted egg dust are so good!”

ma·sa·rap; de·​li·​cious

After a while their conversation began to pick up steam, with body language on both sides that resonated more than just your run-of-the-mill employee and customer talk.  I observed from afar, remembering to look up in between bites of eggplant fries with salted egg dust, seeing more smiles, more blushes, more giggles.  Then, RQ started to talk with his hands.  And when RQ talks with his hands, it’s a different ballgame.

“RQ knows how to talk to girls… I wonder if he learned how to DJ, too?”  A glancing thought.

Right at this moment my mind began to formulate ideas of what he was trying to do – as I’m sure you might be doing the same, too – though I assure you this story is nowhere near down that path.  The Art Box was closing soon, with other businesses wrapping their night up, and RQ came back with some unexpected intel to my ears.

“So, I invited Joy and Grace to eat dinner with us after they’re off work in a bit.  They said okay, but they’re shy.  Gil’s knocked out at the hotel, he won’t be coming.  Where should we go?  What do you feel like eating?”

I was hesitant to agree, since my interests here did not align with what I initially presumed were his.  But I can’t leave my guy hanging by himself, right?

“The ladies should pick, and I’m not picky.  I’m down for anything,” I said.

“Okay, I’ll go let them know, and we’ll just hang out until they’re done.  By the way, it’s not what you think.”  I am Jack’s current when it serves.

Joy and Grace were hesitant, I could tell, and that made it surprising to me that they agreed to grab a meal with us.  I still had my hesitations, too.  I was not yet privy to the bigger picture.

“So, you’re both from America?” Joy asked.

“Yes, we’re from California,” I replied.

“What part?”

“The San Francisco area.”

“Oh wow, that’s so expensive.”  We (more so RQ) learned that money was extremely scarce for them.  The way they described having the same shared meals for lunch – often that same meal split as their dinner – and never in any amount that fulfilled their appetite or required nutrition was enough to paint the picture.  The difference between their wages and mine was the size of the Pacific Ocean, so hearing this made me feel embarrassed that I ever complained about, well, anything.  But Joy didn’t say this with intent to make me feel guilt.  It was an honest reaction, one and I didn’t have any good reply or comeback to ease the awkwardness.

di·gress

“What’s another good place to eat around here?  What are you in the mood for?”

They hesitated again, and gave each other a concerned look before one of them provided their shared admission.

“There’s nothing here we can afford.”

RQ steps in, “Oh we’re paying!  Please, let us.  We wouldn’t ask you to pay.  This is nothing more than a Christmas dinner with kaibigans [English translation: friends].”

Still with hesitation, still with a concerned look toward each other, Grace shared, “What if you just run off after dinner when we get the bill?”  I mean, that’s a pretty damn valid concern, right?  At this point RQ and I were still just two creepy ass Americans trying to have dinner with them.  I assured them that’s not who we are, while RQ reinsured this in Tagalog.  That might’ve been the key in easing their anxiety as Grace said with comfort, along with a few steps forward, “there’s more restaurants down the block here.”

I can feel the anxiety slowly melt away from Joy and Grace with each step.  RQ has that type of voice that can do that.  After two long city blocks we get to a quaint, well-lit court.  Forgive my memory here – there was restaurant blah, restaurant hmm, then the third option was Korean BBQ, and you can see their senses drool over Korean BBQ.  Before making this final decision we studied the menu alongside the entrance door.

“I think this is it, you can’t beat bulgogi!” RQ exclaimed.  Joy’s anxiety kicked back in like a sudden gust of wind.

“This is too expensive.  It would take months of work to have a dinner here.  We can’t eat here.  I can’t accept to eat here.”  I was halfway around the world, maybe this shouldn’t have been a surprise to me.  For me, it’s without question the cheapest Korean BBQ restaurant if this exact place were rooted in The Bay Area.  For Joy, this restaurant is the most expensive place that she’d never dare to walk in.  There’s struggle, then there’s third world struggle, and seeing the latter at ground zero you easily start taking less things for granted.

“Joy,” I said as I pulled out my wallet to hand to her, “You and Grace are not paying tonight.”  Two thoughts immediately came to mind.  First thought was, “I wish I knew how to say that in Tagalog.”  Second – “if she takes my wallet, gives me a right cross/left hook/leg sweep/curb stomp to the nuts combo and sprints off in what would have hoodwinked me into the most massive twist of my life up to that point, then Buddha, let me willingly take this L.”  A few days prior I rode piggyback on a man while riding a motorcycle, only to find out after we got to our final destination that he was missing his right eye, and his left eye wasn’t holding on too well either.  Suffice to say I was feeling lucky, and this was no different with attempting to hand over my wallet to a stranger.  After a moment of stand still, RQ sneakily and smoothly opened the door encourage them in.  Joy did not take my wallet, but my offer still stood.

Nothing shuts people up better than good food.  And soju.  But we did not shut up – we spoke comfortably and fruitfully for hours as we ate and drank like we were royalty.  Regardless of where anyone is from, people find common ground on challenges, ideas, and endeavors.  It struck a chord with me to hear that Joy sends money to her daughter in the Philippines without receiving a receipt of gratitude.  Every phone call between them started with her daughter saying “did you send the money yet?” even before “hi mom” was seemingly formulated as a thought.  “But that’s my daughter.  And I’ll always send her support,” Joy said with a few tears.  Before getting her work visa and permit in Thailand, Grace worked tirelessly in Macau trying to earn enough money to replace her dad’s boat that was completely wrecked in a storm back home, with the only piece of the boat her dad was able to salvage was a splinter of its former self the side of his hand.

As I process their stories and emotions my mind began to race through endless avenues.  Some new, mostly old, but even going down these familiar roads I noticed a shift in my mind’s eye.  Still in the driver’s seat, but thinking less about the control and more about the ride.  That Fight-Club-Tyler-Durden-just-let-go kind of ride.  Even after absorbing their heartbreaking stories, I knew they were better off than me and it had nothing to do with money.  Sure, money can solve an abundance of problems, and solving problems makes you happy.  But in order to solve problems you need to have purpose.  Something these two women have – which I completely and utterly lacked – and finally understood what I envied more than I could ever describe on this warm, quiet Christmas evening.  Or, just any other December night in Thailand.

Our conversation slowed and settled in sync with our buzz, plates empty but our bellies and minds full of good. We kept our promise and paid the dinner tab. If I could Michaelangelo the shit out of this moment I would paint the looks on their faces – soft, kind, with more than enough belief that worry was non-existent in the dictionary – and everyone would have called it a masterpiece. We walked back toward the direction of our hotel, where their bus stop was conveniently nearby. As their bus approached we gave each other a hug, and I knew we would never see Joy and Grace again. But the memory of them will continue to serve as a beacon of truth that life isn’t intrinsically designed to be cruel.

Joy and Grace safely got on the bus, RQ and I went back to our hotel, and we called it a Christmas night.

It’s taken me four years to share this story. I’ve often wondered if this was something RQ practiced on a regular. Maybe it doesn’t have to take place on Christmas or any other holiday, or in another country – but the way he quarterbacked this entire dinner out of thin air has always made me believe that this wasn’t the first time. He denies this notion in his signature nonchalant manner that only makes me believe the complete opposite. This is a debt I owe RQ I can never repay for a lesson in purpose orchestrated through a simple meal with two other perfect strangers that led to the most important night of my life.

The very last night I chose defeat.

pre·​vail

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