how to start your weekend.

Most of San Mateo County’s operations are in the county seat, but for departments that don’t have a lot of traffic with the downtown offices—the county library system, the coroner—are up the hill in San Mateo in what I can only describe as a citadel. It’s cleverly set in terrain that offers remarkable privacy, and chunks of it are somewhat fortified, because the biggest occupant is Juvenile Court, including detention, and a variety of things that look like they’re there for the children of juvenile offenders.

When I picked a date for the hearing, they told me all adoption hearings are on Fridays, and it didn’t occur to me to wonder why until we were there, and the staff was relaxed and happy. There are signals of what a more ordinary day is like: signs like "NO HATS IN COURTROOM" and "GENTLEMEN, TUCK IN THOSE SHIRTS.’ Adoptions are obviously one of the most joy-inducing things they do, so it makes sense to just pick a day of the week where people show up for court and they’re there to make a family.

The courtroom blew my mind. There’s the usual judge…podium? pseudo-throne? pulpit?…arrangement, but when the judge entered, she brought a giant smile down to a floor-level lectern. The walls had two-foot wide emojis, lined up like shields in a medieval great hall: "To acknowledge that all emotions are valid in this room." There was a five-foot tall teddy bear, with dozens of smaller bears surrounding it.

And in a final surprise, by tradition, adoptees pick a bear to take home.

just like that.

I’ve never really looked at the child adoption procedure. In part this is because we’ve had no adoptees in the extended family until my cousin adopted her stepson. Normally at this point I would say "Right, suuuure you don’t," except that the genetic variation goes from this:

all the way down to this:

Good luck telling the guys apart on the telephone.

Adoption results in a new birth certificate, which is obvious when you think about it, since the entire purpose of a birth certificate is to legally define the parent-child relationships via the circumstances of birth. I find it weird for a bunch of reasons:

• Rewriting history is not really something my brain will do. I can usually remember what we’re supposed to say about the past (true or false), but I also remember the past.

• I’ve never been a legal parent before, and I always very carefully avoided the word "father." (And still will, really: the birth certificate will list us both as "parent." J’s word for "adult male who shows up with patience and kindness" is just "Chris.")

• A birth certificate will now attest that I had a kid a few years before I met the kid—the form said "Enter your name as of the date of the child’s birth." I remember that year very clearly, and the most I could claim was being uncle or uncle-like to a marvelous trio or two of girls.

In my world growing up, birth certificates were static, authoritative documents, not just because I come from a line of lawyers, but because our genes allow no doubt about where we came from. We look, sound, smile the same. When my grandmother died and I went back to the Rust Belt village my grandfather settled in after leaving Pittsburgh, I went into the one coffee shop, and the owner, Marit, came out from the back and said "You’re a D—, aren’t you." (My cousin tells me Marit loves telling the story as much as I do.) All but one of Generation #4 is through high school. My uncle was on the School Board for a bunch of years. His father was a judge, whose portrait is in the courthouse.

I tell a story, and I hear the more or less uniform voice the men have. I make an expression with my face, and it’s the same smile gifted to a few dozen other people on the planet. 

So in my life to date, a birth certificate is a set-in-concrete record of past events involving biological parents, the ironclad thing you use to sign up for soccer teams or get a passport. It’s wonderful that we can alter the law’s view on our relationship, but it’s also just viscerally odd.

sleepy now

We returned from an epic college road trip up to the delightful greenery of Oregon, and we will be launching J to college up there for the coming year. It's a transitional program, with a couple dozen students, where they take a couple courses to learn How To College, and spend the rest of their time learning the many skills of How To Adult, like interpersonal and life skills stuff. It was amazing to watch J show up as himself, and the program staff really love him for it, and everybody all around settling in to the idea that he will live and thrive there. It was so perfect that we decided that we don't really need to be nearby while he's there, as we've always figured we would: having us available has always been the surest way for him not to need us.

But, we also know that he's capable of amazing things without us around, especially these days, and this place will help him as needed. The student:staff ratio approaches 1:1, and each student has 5 case managers in different areas, meeting with of them through the week. Sending him off on his own feels odd, but the core parenting goal is to raise a functioning adult, so...here we are.

It's a lovely college city, and it's entirely possible J could just continue there, since the university has good programs for what interests him, and he'll have spent a year getting to know the place. Plenty of time before that decision, though.

We brought the dog, because we were driving, and Leela's been getting older (obviously) and a bit more anxious lately, and not really in a good brainspace to be separated from us for 4 days. This was the first time we traveled with her since right after we got her in 2016, and she totally nailed it. We stopped every hour or so, to switch drivers and let her have a sniff and pee on things, and as we got up to the Oregon forests, you could see her tiny, tiny inner wolf perk up at all the new sights and sounds. We stayed in a very comfy 2-bedroom at the Marriott Residence Inn, which loves dogs in addition to having full kitchens.

Happily, we'll be back.

Another One Bites The FDIC Receivership

You've probably heard about the mysterious Silicon Valley Bank disappearing into the hyper-efficient, government-backed maw of the FDIC, followed quickly by the even more mysterious Signature Bank. A decade ago, I had never heard of either one, because as a software engineer, you're probably only going to see the company's financial infrastructure if you try really hard. As it is, I'd never heard of Signature, because it was a bank for cryptocurrency nonsense, which I avoid like the plague, because it's too dazzlingly stupid I can't even get a foothold in it.

SVB had been around a long time, and you might correctly think that startups, which tend not to have things like "profits"—whatever those are—are not a terrific class of customers if you're a bank, and that's true, but not for the obvious reason that they usually disappear. Instead, the problem is that startups deposit and spend money on short timescales. SVB invested their deposits in long-term, fixed-rate assets, and then when everyone's board of directors ordered everyone to act like there was a recession, VC funding rounds dried up, and SVB's depositors started spending more of their deposits. SVB tried to get short-term liquidity to back up the deposits, depositors went to get their money out while they could, and we had a good old-fashioned bank run.

Don't be misled by venture capitalists talking about how smart they are, about "disruption" and "innovation": among themselves, they are a flock of sheep, clad in Patagonia vests.

Ultimately, since I have cleverly avoided having a job for the moment, this doesn't directly affect us. Neither SVB nor Signature were banks for human beings. I did call our finance guy about some strategy stuff, and right now we don't need to do much; but he spent the entire weekend fielding calls from his much more alarmed and high-maintenance clients. He's a friend, and has pretty well absorbed that we don't pay much attention to the stock market, because we want him to do it for us, but when things like this happen, I do call to check in.

We don't seem to be doing a 2008, which is good, as I was making my finance guy laugh thinking of the time interest rates went negative: which is to say, people were telling BNY Mellon, "I will give you $100, and I will let you keep $1 if you just guarantee I will get the other $99," which, like stagflation, is not one of those things anyone imagines to see in a lifetime.

Stay safe, healthy, and warm!

and in conclusion...

I finally acquired an attorney, from a friend's recommendation, and who is delightful. They opened the conversation with "Okay, so I've read the demand letter, and I've read the contracts...and to be honest, I'm a little confused about the letter in relation to the contracts, so maybe you can give me an overview."

Because, yes, when someone writes a settlement demand letter alleging some sort of contract fraud, but fails to mention a single line of the contract, or any other piece of evidence, that is some Hail-Mary scammy bullshit right there. The response letter is magnificent, with the attorney even finding one or two juicy tidbits I'd forgotten, like the clauses that say "we all agree we have all the information we need, and we don't all have the same information, and that's fine," or "we have our own sources of information independent of Chris, and we're happy with what we know."

Hapless Stock Guys know this, of course, since they provided the contract and drove the whole process, soup to nuts; they screwed up and blew a hole in their balance sheet, and the ROI of having an attorney spend an hour sending me a threatening letter is so huge it doesn't make sense not to try, even knowing I'm the kind of person who quoted the contract back to them from memory, without prep.

It doesn't mean they're not assholes, though.

for fuck's sake.

As a country, we have apparently lost our goddamn minds, where California alone has managed 3 mass shootings in the last couple days. Two of them just yesterday: I just heard about Oakland, but yesterday I saw several cop cars, going extremely fast, on different highways, all headed towards Half Moon Bay.

It's hard to escape the conclusion that it's getting worse.

A couple friends were suddenly able to move to Ontario a little while ago, sooner than planned, so their 4-year old "doesn't grow up thinking little kids getting murdered at school is just a thing that happens sometimes." Most of Canada, of course, means leaving behind a lot of things that make living here really nice, especially during a respiratory pandemic: world-class medical resources, a fairly solid vaccination rate, and with minimal adjustments, like a gazebo and a propane heater, you can enjoyably be outside even in the cold months.

(There's the not inconsiderable downside of the now-annual wildfire smoke. Everything is trade-offs.)

Hopefully our education consultant has some suggestions about a transition year for J, who is now 18, ending the power of Angry Biodad to interfere or slow-roll or any of the other fuckery that emerged out of his miserable narcissism. (One particularly salty school psychologist dubbed him "Mr. Happy.") We've long dreamt of moving to the Pacific Northwest, but wherever the kid goes, we'll be nearby.

This fucking country.

only keep going.

This was the second Christmas without Tim, coming up fast on two years since he departed. When he died, I hadn't seen him in several years, though we'd talked to catch up a bit right after Christmas, and it's both irrational and undeniably real to be so affected by the calendar. It's annoying, is what it is. I think about Tim all the time, in all kinds of contexts, and not for a moment does his suicide leave my awareness. Why should I feel the pressure building in my thoughts as December counts away? (My therapist has a technical term for a conditioned response to a single event, but I didn't take notes.)

It builds, then Christmas releases some of it, then some more building, and finally the first week of the New Year has passed, and it's back to the regular slog. I'll need a job at some point, I guess.

The Hapless Stock Guys, who flubbed everything by overpricing my shares, are now threatening to sue me because I knew about a pre-IPO stock split and didn't tell them. I didn't know, as it happens, and there are emails to that effect at the time, and if I'd known, it's likely that telling them would have violated my NDA. Plus, I am the descendant of many lawyers, and so I knew the contract has many gems like this one:

5.3. Purchaser and Seller represent to each other that on the date hereof and as of the Transfer Date:

(i) they are entering into this Agreement voluntarily and they are not under any form of duress; 

(ii) they have had the opportunity to review the form of this Agreement with their legal and tax counsel and/or other advisors prior to executing it and are fully satisfied that its terms are fair and that it effects, and at all times hereunder will effect, a fair exchange of value; 

(iii) they are familiar with, or have been advised by their respective counsel of, applicable securities laws regarding the Forward Transaction, and are responsible for ensuring that their entry into the Forward Transaction is in compliance with such laws; 

(iv) they are not relying on any express or implied legal or investment advice or information from the other with respect to the prospects or value of the Company or the Shares or any other aspect of the Forward Transaction; 

(v) they acknowledge and accept that the other party to the Forward Transaction may have material, non-public information about the Company that they do not have and which has not been disclosed; 

(vi) they hereby irrevocably waive any right to, and agree to refrain from pursuing against the other party to the Forward Transaction or against any other party, any and all actions, suits, litigations, arbitrations, proceedings, investigations, claims or liabilities of whatever nature (including but not limited to under SEC Rule 10b-5 or similar laws) that relate to the other party’s potential possession of material, non-public information about the Company; and 

(vii) other than as explicitly stated herein, they have not relied upon any other representation or warranty of the other, or any third party.

So they would first have to convince a judge that something merits nullifying extraordinarily explicit and broad clauses like these, just to get a hearing, then convince a judge or jury that I knew a variety of insider things that I didn't (like the stock split), or that I'd sold some stock earlier at N/2 the price they paid me, and thus I knew it was only worth N/2. (The stock I'd sold earlier was waaaay below N/2.) At the end, if somehow they get to a trial (they won't), they'll end up arguing that a techie middle manager, with indifferent financial skills, somehow conned two guys who make some phone calls and activate investment groups with millions of dollars, and who signed the contract that they themselves provided, which makes all of it ridiculous, and then they'll have to pay my legal fees and expenses.

That sort of interrupted my week of moping about or being reflective. I've never gotten a legal nastygram before! It's really unpleasant.

One more day until Tim's yahrzeit. The new year can start on Monday.