Tag Archives: love

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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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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Andrew

I’m trying to work, but I can’t.  I’m angry, confused.  I feel everything and I feel nothing, all at the same time.

Just like that, without explanation or warning, my friend Andrew was gone.  And all I have left is the fortunate ability to remember to keep myself composed.

We came up at the Village Fitness Center together.  When I first met him, he came in as a new member at the gym, and I was with the Service Desk.  He was a skinny kid right before, and as I like to joke, the gamma ray accident turned him into the Hulk that everyone knew and loved.  In reality, he was extremely dedicated and focused at his craft, and the physical feats he reached are proof of this.

Shortly he began an internship and eventually became a certified personal trainer with the VFC Family.  After garnering success, he took his work to other locations within the company – Federal Fitness, Avalon Bay, and Fillmore to name a few.  After several great years with us, he moved to Los Angeles, and found more success in the fitness industry.  The sky was the limit for Andrew, and everyone that knew him believed this with complete certainty.

One of the best memories I have with Andrew was Halloween, had to have been close to six years ago.  We were at a party in the city, and I’m pretty sure that, and this is something that happened way to often than it should during this previous version of myself, I forgot many of the details toward the end of the night.

But I do remember this – I was a cop.  Aviator shades, vest, and two colorful water guns.  There were other cops with me, and we looked really cool. I’m talking about other-side-of-the-pillow cool, trust me.

Not as cool as Andrew, though.  He waltzes in as Akuma from the Street Fighter video games.  He had it down to the details – the attire, the wraps, and of course, the muscles.  The guy was built like a statue, and it was safe to say he stole the show.

Andrew wasn’t much of a drinker then, in fact I don’t think he ever had one up to that time.  Until, this Halloween party.  Maybe he was intimidated by my water guns (that probably shot out a liquid that rhymes with Pequila later in the night), maybe it was my pheromones that eventually changed his mind, or maybe – and this is what I will believe – maybe it’s because he loved me like a brother, and because of this, he was going to have a drink with me.

And yes, I loved him, too.

We go to the bar, and I tell Andrew, “F&#% it man, bring your boys too. I got all of you.”  Side bar, when I drink, everyone drinks.  That’s my own little life rule.

“Four Jameson shots my good dude,” I tell the bartender.  We toast to… something.  Maybe we toasted to being gym rats, or to friendship, or to the Akuma character, or to the fact that the Giants were one more game away from winning their first World Series in the San Francisco era.  We took it like champs, hugged and high-fived like bros, and took more photos at the photo booth in the other room because we were that much full of ourselves.  Andrew then tells me, “That was my first shot in my life.”

I bought Andrew’s very first shot, and I truly take that as a high honor.  They say that you never forget your firsts, and I hope this rings true with Andrew.  Because I will never forget him.

You always think that life gives you chances for another round, but that’s never the case.  This is another reminder that the only chances in life are the ones you take.

As I remember Andrew, I am reminded how unpredictable all of this is, and that anything can be taken away at any given time.  I’m reminded to continue to take those chances every day, no matter how big or small, because just how Andrew easily displayed, greatness is manifested from those with the will to win, not from those who are afraid to fail.

I am reminded to continue to live in the honor for those we’ve all lost in our lives, and pave the way for others after us to adopt the same.  The best thing in this world is what we have between each other.  Not of things made of matter, but things that matter – conversations, moments, laughs, undocumented sights, and unrecorded sounds.

This is the privilege of remembrance, and Andrew – my colleague, my former co-worker, and most of all, my good friend – it has been an amazing privilege to have had you in my life.

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Air

To have life, we need energy.  To gain energy, we need air.  To have air, we need to breathe.  In order to breathe, we need life.

It’s always easier to understand life when you can make it into a circle (cue Lion King music here) – its actions and reactions constantly giving and taking.  All circles are different, and none of them are perfect.  While they differ in size, shape, depth, color, and gradient, every circle can make an impact.

Last week, I had the honor to meet a beautiful baby girl named Leona.  She was born in the early evening of a late August day in Palo Alto as the daughter of not only two great friends of mine, but two of the kindest souls I know – Mac and Kim.  I must admit that prior to meeting Leona, I was rabid with excitement, nervousness, pride, fear – while I felt everything, I knew nothing.

All I knew, was to breathe.

When I arrived to the hospital, it didn’t feel like a hospital, and I really liked that.  After a few hours of catching up with Leona’s parents and other friends, it was my turn to see her.  All those uncontrollable feelings came back again and any senses of calm I gathered before dissipated.  So, I leaned back on what I knew, back to the basics: breathing.

Mac led me to another room to Leona.  I checked in, turned a few corners, and ensured that I applied enough antibacterial on my quaking hands.  After treading through showering sounds of beeping machines, overlaying voices of nurses, and a handful of other crying babies in the room, I was finally in the grace of Leona’s presence.  And the moment I laid my eyes on Mac and Kim’s daughter, in absolutely every sense I was swept off my feet.

Leona moved, albeit in small doses, with curiosity.  Her scent was sweet and refreshing.  She was unburdened with worries and new to earth, and in this moment with Leona she made me feel what I can only imagine what she felt – unsusceptible to gravity.  Most of all, Leona was full of might.  More might than I can ever gain in my lifetime, more might than I have seen from a team of champions.

Leona’s story, unfortunately, is one with complications.  She required the aid of a machine to breathe, and the burden of this condition on Leona and her parents is one I will never be able to fathom.  She fought and defied every single odd that went against her and her family.  She made every play on the field, threw every pitch with pinpoint perfection, and had a batting average of 1.000 at the plate.

She did it all.  And she did so, for seven days.

My one and only meeting I will ever have with Leona is on repeat in my memories.  While she was not granted a full life, she put on a dazzling display of courage over fear, and risk over regret.  We are reminded that life is short, whether it be seven days or seventy years.  And in that time, while life simply means that you’re breathing, the meaning of life depends on what you do in between the breaths that you take.  This is the story of Mighty Leona, a story that will never end.

All that might, she got from her parents.

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