Author Archives: Michael Arce

Butterfly

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I’m sure that most folks are familiar with the Butterfly Effect, yeah? If not, here’s the simplified concept – small changes that occurred over here can result in larger changes somewhere way over there.

It’s best to see it in line with time travel. For example, I get in my DeLorean and go back to 1920. I walk into a bar, sneeze, and when I return to 2016, Joseph Stalin is not only still alive, but also the President of the United States.

Case and point, when you time travel – take Flonase with you (it really works).

But here’s the real story I want to tell – I’ve been swimming. A lot, primarily because I’ve been nursing a back injury suffered this passed May. I wake up and go to bed in pain, and everything in between is alleviated by being in water. Great cardio without any impact absorbed by the spine. That’s a nice win.

The simplest, yet constantly forgotten idea has remained at the forefront since I’ve surrendered myself to the pool – just keep swimming, and better is reached when you letter better in.

And as I let my man Justin Timberlake take it to the chorus below, my hope is that the effect of this action of mine can lead to something better for you.  For me.  For all of us.

And Joseph Stalin is still super dead.​

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Removed

Video

Earlier today, I actually attempted to share something on my Facebook – my first in four months – only because it garnered a small viral flame on Instagram.  I thought to expand its reach on another platform.

Unfortunately, FB decided to prevent the post from happening due to copyright violations (I used a “real” song as background music).

That’s a bit of a bummer, because I had a lot of fun putting it together.  I have even confirmed proof that several folks in charge of Homeland Security in Washington, DC. watched my video, and thoroughly enjoyed it.  So much – that they all agreed that it’s pieces of fine cinematic art like mine is exactly what will uplift the spirits of America.

Okay, that last part is a bit of a stretch on my part.  But really, it was watched and approved by Homeland Security.  Too bad it’s not good enough do FB.

So here’s my loophole – my good and trusted blog.  Try and remove this (or just visit my Instagram, @_michaelarce).

Oh, and don’t nunchuck in the kitchen.  Unless your a highly trained ninja and reached the ultimate levels of badassery.

Like me.


(Original IG Caption, 8/22/16 at 21:00 hours)

You know that song at the end of Fast and the Furious 5? I like that song. And why do most people hate Mondays? Not me, I love Mondays. So what the hell is in my tea? Because I am on one tonight. Simple reminder – don’t take life too seriously. #putahammeronit #YOLO

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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