New Stock Market Blog

I have recently started a new blog, Fraud on the Market, arising from my day job, which is senior legal assistant at a law firm which handles mostly securities-related litigations and arbitrations. Although I am not an attorney, I have picked up some useful advice in my nearly four decades of experience in the securities industry, and I’d like to share it.

The blog will dip into topics of interest to investors, particularly those who are new to it, or who know just enough to get into trouble. The truth is, while most advisors and brokers are honest, they are in it for the money, just like anyone else, and the lure of big commissions can easily warp the judgement of the best-intended. There are thousands of securities arbitrations filed nationwide every year, and uncounted numbers of court cases. I will be talking about some of the common scams I’ve seen, and trends in securities fraud (these things happen in cycles; the big problem was once limited partnerships, then churning, now it’s system outages and unsuitable margin accounts). With luck, you can avoid them.

If you’re in the market, or know someone who is, check out my blog. Since I’m not a lawyer, I don’t talk like one, so I try to present issues without legal jargon. And although I am (again) not a lawyer, nor am I currently licensed to sell stocks, I can try to answer general questions or refer you to someone who can.

The bottom line is, most people don’t deal with stockbrokers every day. I do. And if I can help you not need to call my firm because you’ve just lost your nest egg, that’s a good day for both of us.

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The Conduct of Codes

Codes of conduct are all the rage at conventions now–in more than one sense of the word. Not only are more conventions adopting them–and not by choice, but by the necessity of not being seen to be insensitive to various pressing issues–but they are also the cause of rage from various corners.

We’ve always had rules for conventions. Even back in the Stone Age, when I chaired a con, we had rules (such as no guns). But we didn’t have a code as such; our rules were simple: Aside from the “no guns” rule, you had to buy a membership to participate. That was pretty much it. I don’t mean to romanticize “the good old days,” but things are sure different now.

And they are evolving. Worldcon banned one person because he wrote about his plans upon attending, which were ostensibly considered threatening or potentially bothersome to others.* Now, another convention has announced that it is modifying its own code of conduct to include actions taken by potential members outside of the convention itself; in other words, you may be pre-banned for your behavior utterly unconnected to the convention you wish to attend.

How to feel about this? On the one hand, we all want to think that our cons are going to be fun; we don’t want to have to worry that some jerk is going to hijack the weekend for his own asocial purposes. On the other hand, should going to a con involve a virtual job interview? I don’t know of any con that has the volunteer mojo to check every attendees’ (applicants’) social media presence, but with technology improving, how long will it be? And while each concom certainly has the right to determine who it wants to have at its event (usually a real-time decision), what standards will each use? (See an analysis of the application of codes of conduct at Australian conventions here.)

For fans, conventions can be a highlight of their social life. For pros, conventions can be a marketing/networking/sales opportunity, particularly for newer authors who need the exposure. No question that to anyone, being denied entrance is damaging on some level.

The phrase “slippery slope” is overused, but it is applicable to many situations. Add to that the fact that SF fandom loves a controversy like ants love ice cream. Regardless of the fairness of the policy or its application, this is going to create a hurricane of disputation, and if it continues, it’s only going to grow over time. Look for more pros to be banned, and then fans. It starts with political viewpoints, but it will get uglier. The “race card” will be played (fairly or not), sooner rather than later. Today’s fissures today will be tomorrow’s chasms.

I hope that as I grow in stature as a writer, I will not have to maintain two lists: the cons which I would like to attend, and the cons at which I will be welcome. But we don’t always get what we hope for.

ETA: Origins gaming convention has announced the rescission of author Larry Correia’s invitation to be a guest of honor, for having “personal views that are specifically unaligned with the philosophy of our show and the organization.” Although this does not appear to be a code of conduct issue, I fear it is the shape of things to come.

 

*As this matter is in the process of being litigated, I specifically disavow any knowledge as to what any of the parties was thinking/thinking of doing. I’m just speculating here.

#SFWApro

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The Cons of Cons

Back in my day, when dinosaurs roamed the Earth in steam-powered chariots and Venus was still considered potentially viable off-world real estate, running an SF convention was a relatively simple affair. (Note emphasis on “relatively.” That doesn’t mean it was easy. I helped on two, acting as the chair of the second. I had already decided that I would never do such a thing again long before the current crop of kerfuffles grew up. Now? Now I think you have to be insane to want to run a convention.

When I wanted my con to be forward-thinking, I invented the idea of a gun-free convention. Cosplay with guns (not that “cosplay” had been coined yet) was very popular, although there had been reports of some problems with too-realistic props that made the police nervous. For specific reasons that honestly escape me now, I decided that our convention would sport a “no-weapons” policy. No weapons, no how. We got some vague reports of complaints, but nobody tried to test our resolve by bringing in a contraband toy, and although I was far too busy to notice at the time, the after-action reports said that everyone had a good time.

Of course, that was before the Internet.

Now, anything you do is susceptible to being broadcast world-wide in seconds. Millions of people who would never even consider coming to your convention can comment on (or argue about) your choices. If we tried imposing that policy today, the roof would fly off.

But there are many other, new, considerations that we didn’t have: Codes of conduct (going beyond just not bringing a weapon), anti-harassment policies, safe spaces, accessibility issues (we had a one-story convention space)…and now, the piece de resistance, civil rights lawsuits. An author is suing Worldcon because he says he was banned solely for his political affiliations. It is not my intent to discuss the merits of that case here, merely to point out that we have crossed a line: If you want to put on a convention, your liability insurance now has to include coverage for legal fees. (Even back then we were smart enough to incorporate, but this suit seeks personal liability.)

I don’t know what it costs to put on even a small con these days, let alone a Worldcon, but I do know that every new wrinkle adds to the expense. And legal fees are a very large wrinkle. Not to mention what a lawsuit does to your credit rating and your precious free time.

Maybe this is an anomaly; I hope so. But in our society, I cannot believe it. So what’s going to happen? Fewer conventions? More overseas Worldcons? I’ll tell you what isn’t going to happen: More reasoned dialogue. More unity of purpose on issues that affect us fans. We’re supposed to be looking toward the future, people, and I don’t think this is the future we want.

Ironically, those who support this lawsuit claim they just want to bring “fun” back to science fiction. It may be that there is a valid reason to drag your fellow fans into court, but I can tell you, without fear of contradiction, it won’t be fun.

#SFWApro

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Was She “Buying” or Stealing?

To those who believe with the fiery passion of a thousand suns that “Stairway to Heaven” is the greatest rock-n-roll song ever written, the current lawsuit over its opening notes is akin of blasphemy of the highest order, an attack of the Temple of Music itself, a barbaric assault on the foundations of late-Baby Boomer culture.

To those of us who simply believe that “Stairway to Heaven” was the greatest song of the rock-n-roll era because, well, we just do, we’re not happy either.

But is our wrath/tepid disapproval misplaced? Was the song lifted (consciously or unconsciously) from Spirit’s “Taurus”?

I haven’t the faintest idea. And fortunately, I’m not on that committee, er, jury.

But the question does arise (and too frequently now): What constitutes plagiarism? The standards, as I understand them, differ from music to fiction, but the question is the same. Recently, Sherrilyn Kenyon sued Cassandra Clare over the “Mortal Instruments” franchise. How that will end remains to be seen. Still, we are all operating from a common folkloric heritage which hardly varies even among disparate cultures. In other words, there’s nothing new under the sun. So what qualifies as “original”?

Spider Robinson won a Hugo for his short story, “Melancholy Elephants,” in which the government is contemplating extending copyrights in perpetuity. The story questions the consequences thereof. Hardly SF, really, but it won anyway.* I voted for it.

It seems, however, that we have enough unintended consequences already, with copyright “only” extending 75 years past the author’s death. (Which is silly enough. I mean, to 99% of authors, it’s beyond meaningless.) And the “Stairway” lawsuit is only about the opening chords of the song. Not the whole song, not the lyrics. Just the opening. The defense argues that both songs are based on old folk music, which may well be true. But even if it’s not, how much do you have to copy to violate copyright? I mean, notes are notes, right? Even if it’s all in how you put them together, there are still only a finite number of ways to do that, and if you break songs into their parts, pretty soon nobody will be able to write anything unless he can prove he never listened to music (or read a book) before putting pen to paper.

To put it in fiction terms, can you sue someone for using the sentence, “The man walked to the store,” just because you used it first? If Godzilla stomped Tokyo, does that mean no other kaiju can ever “stomp” a city? And what about all the resurgence in interest in “Golden Age Science Fiction”? Are we even allowed to write that stuff, or will we violate a copyright for a story written before we were born and never reprinted?

Most of us won’t have to worry, of course, because no one sues over a work that doesn’t make a truckload of money. But it’s the principle of the thing. We–

–wait, what? “Truckload of money” is copyright-protected? Then I guess I’m done. Just let me write “The End,” and… no, don’t tell me…

 

*Oddly enough, there was no “Social justice warriors are ruining SF!” outcry in 1982. Let’s hope the Sad Puppies don’t have access to a time machine.

 

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Two Warriors Walk into the Bar…

It’s not so much that truth is stranger than fiction, it’s that no matter how strange the truth is, you have to believe it–because it’s the truth. Fiction you can choose to want to believe, but you can always dismiss it for being too fantastic if it suits you. Fiction you can take or leave; truth we’re stuck with.

Which is why we have to believe that Paramount Studios has sued an independent filmmaker for (among other sins) violating Paramount’s copyright of the Klingon language. Now, I have no standing to comment on the suit itself, and certainly there are more grounds than this for Paramount’s allegations, but this particular allegation seems ripe for…well, let’s call it “examination.” (It’s so much more polite than “ridicule.”)

Although I have no particular insight into this lawsuit, I am a legal professional with some insight into litigation–mainly how incredibly expensive, difficult, exhausting, and ultimately futile it can be. (Really, anyone who starts a lawsuit simply looking to make a quick buck has no idea what he’s doing.) And so I have to wonder why Paramount is doing this, in the face of some excellent reasons why they shouldn’t.

Actually, I do know why they’re doing this: Because some imaginative associate charged with coming up with exactly what copyrights were being violated also happened to be a Star Trek fan and was watching his favorite episode of Next Gen, and then Worf said something in Klingon, and the eager young lawyer said, “Hey, Paramount made that up! This will really impress the partners!” Which it probably did, after they were done staring at him for a while. In the long run, it might not prove to have been the best career move.

Why? Because this one dubious point is generating a lot of expensive pleadings. Even associates at these firms charge upwards of $300/hour, and briefs take time. The firm likes that, but the client does not. And because he will now and forever be known as the “nerd” associate.

But still, the firm couldn’t do it if the studio didn’t want it done. And there are good reasons why they shouldn’t bother.

1. They might lose. Not only do you look stupid, but it’s to no purpose.
2. Even if you win, you lose fans. Paramount has a history of no caring, but still…
3. What’s the upside? You control the right to publish a Klingon dictionary?

So truth is, in fact, stranger than fiction. In real life, a giant corporation goes to court to protect its right to own something that may not even be said to exist. In fiction, Klingons would go to war to own something–but at least that something would be real.

So go ahead and argue, Paramount, but remember this: Between the Latin and the Klingon, nobody but the lawyers is going to have any idea what you’re saying. And they charge $600/hour just to translate.

 

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