Tuesday, November 3rd, 2026

So: at 8:41 p.m. the billionaire tax was losing 62 to 38, and I was lying on the kitchen island under the heat lamp, refreshing the count with the tip of my tongue.

It was then observed that I am contractually a Californian until 2034, in exchange for protection from a tax the Californians have declined to collect. The lawyers call this "consideration." Priscilla calls it "you got the shares anyway." Both are, technically, correct.

I reread the measure tonight, which I think I should have done in September. It applies to anyone who lived here on January 1st. So the threat to leave was never a door. It was a painting of a door, and I stood in front of it for six weeks, looking large.

The settlement has an exit for "material unforeseen circumstances." Legal has asked me to stop emailing examples. Winter. A second molt. The sun, generally.

Opponents spent more than $300 million, and several of them moved anyway. I spent nothing, moved nowhere, and was paid in stock for holding still.

So the way I think about this is that a lizard on a warm rock is not resting. It is in negotiations. Eight years. I have begun pricing heat lamps by the decade.