Author Archives: Michael Arce

Swans

So it took a pandemic to get me to log back on my blog.  Sucks, right?

Not my writing, the pandemic.  Obviously.

I’m like many of you – I don’t have any answers to this.  I’m as worried and hopeful, fearful and fearless as anyone else.  Just the other day I ordered what I call a stress burrito.  It’s exactly what you think it is – a burrito to devour while under stress.  I don’t know if it was the greatest burrito I ever had, but it was quite memorable.  So I’m definitely no expert in the field, I’m not Brad Pitt from World War Z.  Especially after eating a burrito.

What I’ve been asking myself throughout this ordeal is something that you might be asking too – is this the apocalypse?

All I can confidently say at this point is that, I hope it’s not.  There’s many things I’d still like to accomplish, like throwing a first pitch at a baseball game, see Tokyo, catch Thundercat live ten more times, go off-roading in Toyota Landcruisers in Borneo.  I’m sure many of you have list of things you’d like to continue to check off as well.  But most of us are in quarantine, and this has become a global effort to slow and cease the spread of *The Rona; the state of Florida seems to have missed this memo.  Our lives have been limited to the confines of how far out our walls and ceiling go, thus severely limiting our movements and reach.

Hence, aforementioned stress burrito.

In my confines I have put together a soundtrack of this possible apocalypse.  I’m titling it, “Swan Songs.”  In ten total tracks, this is how I see it go down:

  1. Man in the Mirror, Michael Jackson
  2. We Didn’t Start the Fire, Billy Joel
  3. I Like America & America Likes Me, The 1975
  4. The Man Comes Around, Johnny Cash
  5. Turn Back Time, Cher
  6. Let You Go, Chainsmokers
  7. End of the Road,  Boyz II Men
  8. God Bless the Dead, 2Pac
  9. Lost Cause, Beck
  10. Good Riddance, Green Day

The best albums tell a story from one track to another, not many musicians take you on this ride anymore.  Swan Songs starts off hopeful with exuberant beliefs that we can change the world, and it starts with our own first steps:

1. I’m gonna make a change, for once in my life.

Then, it goes into an idea that – hey – perhaps change wasn’t going to be enough anyway because:

2. We didn’t start the fire, it was always burning since the world was turning… no we didn’t light it, but we tried to fight it.

Once we realize everything is burning, fear comes into play.  Fear of what?

3. I’m scared of dying, is that on fire?

That only means one thing, as Cash eloquently told us, that death is around the corner:

4. The hairs on your arm will stand up, at the terror in each sip and in each sup.

We’re human.  We get filled with regret with a quick and simple blink of an eye.  With the reaper looming upon us, we are likely to think of the past:

5. If I could turn back time, if I could find a way…

And hope that there could be a way to return to those times:

6. Holding a room for you.

But, hope is lost:

7. Although we’ve come to the end of the road.  Still, I can’t let go.

And we’re all fucking dead:

8. Don’t worry if you see God, first tell him shit got worse.

But hey, as Billy Joel said in track 2, we didn’t start the fire.  So maybe having hope to change in the first place was a game played by fools?

9. Baby, you’re a lost cause.

Whether or not that’s the case, our time on this planet was always limited to begin with.  This isn’t measured by the amount of breaths you take:

10. I hope you had the time of your life.

So, if this is the apocalypse, just remember – it was probably Kim Kardashian’s fault.  What’s your ten songs for the apocalypse?

Hope to see you on the other side.

— – —-

*This is what the cool kids on Twitter call COVID-19.  Twitter is a free website.

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Fonzie

It’s the night of June 10, 2019.  I’m watching Game 5 of the NBA Finals on my phone as I board a plane to Paris with my Golden State Warriors cap on, absorbing all my anxious yet hopeful sweat.

Kevin Durant ruptured his Achilles in the second quarter of this very game.  Not only is he out for the game and the rest of the series, he’s out next season as well.  We’re down 6 with 2:31 left in the 4th.  With the Raptors up 3-1 in the series, it’s win or lose the championship.

You can’t find more accurate words for this than “emotionally taxing”, other than “fucking emotionally taxing.”  Probably.

If you’re a fan of the NBA you probably know the rest of the story – the Dubs find a way to pull out a win and force a Game 6 back in Oakland.  The flight from San Francisco to Paris is approximately ten hours long.  Suffice to say, a loss here would have made this the worst flight of my life.  With the help of the Warriors, no one else was happier on that plane than me, cheesing harder than provolone sitting in seat 30D.

Well, no one except for the big burly man that took seat 30C, who laid his head ever so gently on my right shoulder and slept like a big ass baby well over half of the entire flight.  Dude didn’t even buy me a dinner or a drink, or give me his name.  He just Paul Anka’ed (1) himself and took my shoulder for his pillow.  But I didn’t care.  The Warriors won that night and was fully convinced we’d win Game 6 in Oakland, consequently forcing Game 7 back in Toronto to defend our NBA Championship and seal our 3-peat (we didn’t).

Let’s rewind some.

It’s the night of August 22, 2017.  I’m on a business trip, and Minneapolis is a frequent destination.  After back to back long days, I decided to take in a ballgame at Target Field with the Minnesota Twins hosting the Cleveland Indians.  Granted, I’m a Giants fan, proudly being the only one in this house donning my black and orange baseball cap.  But, I love baseball wholeheartedly, so I’m all for in any chance I can get to lay my eyes on live ballgame and my lips on a beer and a hotdog.

The stadium is a few thousand away from an officially packed house, with small patches of empty seats here and there.  The seat to my left remained open for the entirety of the game, and to the right of me what I assumed to be either a Twins or Indians fan.  He didn’t have a hat on to confirm this, nor did he react in a way where it was clear he was rooting for one over the other.  I played a simple game of roulette – he was either going to be black or red.

“I can’t believe Bartolo Colon is still pitching in this league,” he says toward me, attempting to jumpstart a conversation.

“There’s always a market open for a former Cy Young winner (2),” I replied.

“Even if their weight is equivalent to a sumo wrestler?” he says.  “His jersey is barely tucked in!”

“Look at it this way, he’ll stop all grounders up the middle with his gut.  He can win a gold glove with that thing!” I said.  We share a laugh.  We exchange names, his is Jason.

Well, you know who I am.

“So you’re a Giants fan?  Are you from here?” Jason asks me.

“I am, I’m actually here on a business trip.  I live in SF.  Just decided to catch a ballgame since I had the chance to.”

“Yeah I had to figure you weren’t a local.  I live in Vegas,” Jason replies.  “I’m also here on a business trip.  Same, decided to catch the ballgame, except I’m a Dodgers fan.”

Remember that little roulette game I played in my head earlier?  This is when the ball lands on 00… on a completely different roulette table from across the room next to the penny slot machines.

What are the odds that, out of 30,000 mid-westerners, two guys on a business trip from the west coast end up picking two seats next to each other and happen to be opposite fans of one of the most heated rivalries in baseball history?  I’m actually sure Sabermetrics has this answer to the decimal, but I’ll make an educated guess that it’s not very high.

“No fucking way!” I say laughingly.  This beer is well engaged with my system by now.  “God, what are the odds? This is funny.”

You should understand that since I was a child, I’ve grown to feel within the fibers of my being that the Dodgers were the ultimate, hated enemy.  The Joker against Batman.  Thanos against the Avengers.  The root of all things evil, like inserting mayonnaise in between your peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

The Dodgers are that mayonnaise and they ruin everything that is joyful and pure on God’s green earth.  Why oh why, Jesus H. Christ, did this guy have to sit next to me?!

I’m totally kidding.  This is a rivalry I respect and love.  I’ve met highly savory Dodger fans in my life (like the Pantone294 crew [3]) and Jason is this description.  He even bought me a round of beer, and I later returned the favor.  We talked baseball for the rest of the game, hoping to see a line drive bounce off the stomach of an unfazed Bartolo Colon.  We talked work, exchanged numbers with the chance of doing some business in the future.

Let’s rewind again, sometime in August 2011, when rideshare services did not yet exist.

On a similar type of business trip to Minneapolis, I called for a cab.  The driver’s name was Muhammad (4).  He ended up being one the most easiest guys I’ve ever talked to.  He knew I was from out of town before I even explained the reason for my business from the Giants baseball cap I had on.

Every time I asked the hotel to call for a cab, by sheer luck Muhammad ended up being my driver.  This happened for 3 days straight.

My ride was anywhere between 20-25 minutes to my destination, so it’s safe to say that I spent well over an hour of conversation with him in a span of a week.  It’s worth noting that I was in my mid to late twenties, and was absolutely convinced I knew everything.

I didn’t know shit.

But in these conversations with Muhammad were some of the most insightful takes on life. Multiple windows were being revealed, and both oxygen and light were being absorbed for the first time from various angles of my mind that I never thought existed.

The truth is, I still don’t know shit.  But I learned how to keep learning from Muhammad.  On my last cab ride I paid him substantially more than the meter read, though I assure you he was worth way more than I could have given him.

This is not about having lucky caps, or meeting the most pleasant strangers in the Minneapolis.  The point is this – you may be able to choose your own seats in life, but you’ll never be able to pick the people that end up sitting next to you.  Them doing so – whomever they are – proves that they’re on the same boat.  So do yourself, the people next to you, and the rest of the boat a favor – be Fonzie.

And you know what Fonzie (5) was like, yeah?

— – —-

Footnotes:

1  Put Your Head on my Shoulder – written and performed by Paul Anka (1959)

2  Bartolo Colon won the Cy Young award in the American League in 2005, with the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim

3  Check them out here

4  The most common name in the world

5  Cool

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Compass

Structured Query Language, or SQL (pronounced ess-cue-el) for short, is the standard language used to find and extract data from multiple tables of related information from a database. In simpler terms, this is how it works:

You spit your game and slide in the DMs by way of love letter in this nerdy ass SQL language, and if your code is correct, engaging, and heartfelt, you’ll achieve a ‘swipe right’ and get the data you’re looking for. Most of the time, you’ll continue to take the data on breakfast, lunch, and dinner dates at Excel where you can manipulate and breakdown the information in order to find insights in what is happening (and not happening) in your business or organization, city, state, country, so on and so forth.

This is 75% of my job – writing SQL queries to help find quantified answers to questions looking for measurements of quality. Within the last two months, I seemed to have broken through several layers of wall, and I’ve written more meaningful queries during this time than the last two years prior to, and I’ve finally figured out why. It wasn’t by way of books (though I have been reading a lot of books about Big Data… and um. Daredevil), a changed diet containing nothing but superfoods, or the limitless pill.

My mathematical writing has reached new highs, because I’ve been too much of a coward to write the final love letter to my cousin Angie, whom my family and I lost earlier this July. She was young at the age of 46.

Today, I have at least enough courage to find a way to stop writing code, and start writing emotion.

Writing SQL queries can be very difficult, but it’s easy for me to digest from this specific vantage point – it’s either the right answer or it’s not. I always found comfort in my math ability and patience to solve for x. So it made sense that I was too chicken shit to face the problem of why Angie died way too early – there was or never will be a right answer.

I was primarily raised and influenced by women, with my mom leading the way. With her were my grandmother, two aunts, and literally a dozen older female cousins. It was my own Lady Avengers team that watched over me, and Angie was a cornerstone during my developing years. She always seemed to be around during some of my most endearing memories, likely because she helped create them rather than simply being present, even though being present already goes a quite a long way.

Dropped off and picked up from school? Angie was there.

Running around the arcades and reloaded me with coins? Angie was there.

Sea Life Park in Hawaii, Disneyland and Universal Studios in Los Angeles? Angie was there.

Watching horse racing at Bay Meadows and Golden Gate Fields, and making sure I always had hot dogs to eat? Angie was there.

Hanging out at her mom’s dry cleaners in Hillsdale? Angie was there.

Sprinting to the Baskin Robbins ice cream parlor across the parking lot from the same dry cleaners? Angie was there.

Protected me during the 1989 earthquake in Foster City? Angie was there.

Flying back and forth from Honolulu and South San Francisco? Angie was there.

Flying home to California after visiting the Philippines without my mom on the same flight back?

Angie was there. She was always there.

And you know what’s the most beautiful thing about this? I was never the only one. Angie was there for so many other cousins like me, and generations of nieces and nephews after. She was the magnet that helped keep so many of us together. And now more than anything else I wish I could say the same back to her, that I was there for her, especially during her time of need. But I can’t, and I feel like shit that I can’t do anything to fix this. I can’t make this right. I never checked in, I should I visited more, I didn’t do enough. Time always runs out, and my lone diminutive brain – let alone the quintessential mathematical minds of the world combined – won’t solve the stoppage of time.

This is going to happen again. I don’t know who, I don’t know how, and I don’t know when. Hell, it could happen to me, and it could be an hour from now. I don’t know the answer to death, I nor anyone else can stop this or the constant feelings of grief that come with it. All I have is this love letter. It’s not the right answer I want, but at least I know I’m not wrong.

Angie, my beautiful cousin, my guardian angel –

I will never be graced with the amount of time I need to express how lucky I have always felt being around you, and with you. Without trying, you showed me how to live, how to love, and how to chase fun, and for that I am eternally grateful.

On my wrist I wear a clock, but in my heart I have a compass. For the time I have left on this earth I hope that, somewhere in paradise, you’d do me a kindness in allowing me to dedicate pieces of my life adventures to you.

From all corners of my heart – I’m sorry, I miss you, and I love you.

Forever your Balong,

– Mike

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Growing up in Honolulu I knew a girl.  Her name was Sasha.  She was a few years older than I was.  I was two.

I knew Sasha through my Uncle Ray.  One day, we were in a room of a hotel that my Uncle was employed at.  I don’t have a clear recollection of why we were there.  Perhaps he was babysitting us, or maybe we went to visit him, anyone’s guess will be as good as mine.

Sasha and I were comfortably sitting on the soft feathery carpet, avoiding eye contact for most of the duration of our stay.  Meanwhile, Uncle Ray drenched himself into the single seat couch, looking out the window and staring into the dark eyes of Diamonhead Crater.  I sat there criss cross applesauce style and still as a photograph, not uttering a single word to Sasha or my Uncle.  She, on the other hand, was seven notches more active than I was.  Sasha drowned herself into the television set presenting some program I had no interest in. Every commercial break or so, she’d turn around and indulge herself into the one detail of this memory I remember the most – mini sugar powdered donuts.  She didn’t share with me.  What a bitch.

So I continued to just sit there, ogling at her crumby plump rings of sweet pastries. Suddenly my mouth began to water; to keep myself busy I played with my fingertips and nervously fondled with the carpet like it was my mom’s hair.  My attention began to move frantically from Sasha, the television set, my Uncle Ray, my fingers, and to the coveted donuts.  This process stayed on repeat to a point where I couldn’t take it anymore.  So I did what any other hungry fat, isolated little island boy would do.

With my quick-like-a-cat greedy little hands, I pounced on one of her delicious donuts while she wasn’t looking and shoved it into my mouth.  Sasha didn’t catch me in the act.  She did, unfortunately, realize that her once family of four donuts were down to three.  She also couldn’t help but notice my peculiar white, powdery lips and my cheeks bulging at maximum capacity.

Fast forward nineteen years.  I’m living the Bay Area in California. At the time I had a girlfriend.  I was twenty-one.

We’re drying two baskets of clothes at a laundromat we frequented.  Being the big, bulky guy that I am, I get pretty hungry while staring at the colors and the whites go round and round.  Lucky there’s some neighboring food places – a Mexican restaurant, a liquor store, a 7-Eleven, and a donut shop.

I chose the donut shop.  I treated myself to an apple fritter and decided to get an old fashioned chocolate doughnut for her.  I devoured my pastry in two seconds while she gracefully and neatly picked at hers, breaking off small portions seemingly every five minutes.

So I continued to just sit there, on top of the counter ogling at her crumby rugged ring of chocolate covered pastry.  Suddenly my mouth began to water; to keep myself busy I played with my fingertips and nervously fondled with my Dr. Pepper cap.  My attention began to move frantically from my girlfriend, the clockwise spinning dryers, my cap, and to the coveted donut.  This process stayed on repeat to a point where I couldn’t take it anymore.  So I did what any other hungry, fat grown up living in the Mainland would do.
I asked her if I could have a bite.  And without hesitation she said, “Go ahead!”  I gently broke me off a piece, popped it in my mouth, and life was good.  I finally earned redemption for stealing a donut nearly two decades prior.

Fast forward thirteen years.  Dare to D.R.E.A.M.; donuts rule everything around me.  And this shirt is available for purchase here:

https://www.IRUNSF.com/onlinestore

Oh, and I’m sorry Sasha.  Wherever you are.

— – —-

Originally written in 2005.  D.R.E.A.M. segment was added for the ’19.

Dream

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