Star in a Stunt
On camera, in the action. We roll, you shine.
Curious who my boss really is? →
Star in a Stunt
On camera, in the action. We roll, you shine.
Curious who my boss really is? →
I'm the guy in the yellow suit. Door Two leads here. You'll find the videos, the crew (mostly real), the gear (definitely real), the wisdom column (under review by the Foundation), the appearance schedule, and a few things I'd quite like a Foundation grant for.
None of this pays me. The Foundation runs the money. I just show up and try to be charming about it.
Help me change the world Who am I? →
So here's what happened. You came to the doors. Tradition on the left. The Civilization on the right — that's the Kindness Vault, the eleven-thousand-year-old serious operation where the real work gets done. And the middle one. The fun one. The Adventurer.
You picked the middle one. You picked me. And honestly? Great call. I'm a delight.
But don't think for one second I'm not going to sell you on that third door.
Because here's the thing nobody tells you: I'm in the civilization too. I took the same oath you're about to hear about. The difference is I have to wear the cape about it. You don't. You can do the work in regular pants. The work can be as small as holding a door. That's it. That counts. We can laugh about all this — and we will — but there's real work to be done, and you just walked into the building.
Let's play a game. I'm going to guess. Was it one of these?
Here's the honest truth, and I want to be upfront because that's the kind of operative I am: I'm not entirely sure how I got here either. One day I had a regular job and regular pants. Then I went through the Vault, there was a yellow light — super cool, you should see it — and now I have a cape and a recurring calendar commitment I did not negotiate.
There was also a boot camp. A mandatory one. I, ah, did not fully live up to my contract, so they sent me to learn the fundamentals of performing kindness. You can watch the footage. I'm told it's educational. I'm told I improved. They said I learned a great deal — which, frankly, was in the contract I signed and didn't read. Best student in the basement, they called me. I choose to hear that as a compliment.
The civilization's eleven thousand years old. You go through that third door, you can find out how the whole thing got launched. Me? I was handed this prestigious cape pretty recently. So relax. I've got good stuff coming. Well — they've got good stuff coming for me. I'm basically the gopher. You'll see it. You'll smile. You'll laugh. Don't be disappointed if it's still growing in — let this thing evolve.
Who the hell is this guy?
That dude seriously needs to get a life.
Nothing worse than an anonymous attention-seeker.
My kid won't stop talking about him. We had to take down the poster.
Strong asset. Continues to improve. Costume budget exceeded for the third quarter.
That was actually pretty cool. I'm not saying I cried. I'm saying it was dusty.
Without him we are just another boring but important charity with a message.
He really was on the cover of Time. I checked. They put a slash through 'Person.' I don't know what that means.
That dog on silver was robbed.
My cat got the Cat Fancy cover and I'm in the corner of it. I'm fine. I'm fine.
He sat through twenty-two minutes of follow-up questions in full costume without breaking.
The Mississippi feels different lately. Cleaner. Lighter. Almost like it's being heard.
My cat runs my life. I want that on the record. He decides the schedule. I just drive.
The costume's a little tight, sure. But discomfort builds character, and I'm full of character now.
I had car problems on the way to a kindness. The irony was not lost on me. A stranger helped. I wept a little.
I almost said my real name during a handshake again. Now I carry the NDA on me. You'll have to sign before we get to know each other.
When I'm in front of a crowd, I start the same way every time. Hand up. I look them dead in the eye and I ask: "Do you think you know who I am?" And then we take the oath together. Out loud. You can take it right now, actually. Go ahead — say it.
That last part isn't a bit. Well — it's a little bit. But the anonymity is the whole thing. It's what makes this work. Keeping me anonymous is itself a nano-sack of kindness, and you just dropped one in the world by saying it.
Here's what actually happens at a gathering. I reach into the yellow backpack and I pull out the full twenty-page NDA. And I say: "Great — I thought we'd review this together. Don't worry, I've practically got it memorized. That was part of boot camp."
And then. Between you and me. The civilization isn't really watching me, as far as I know, and the Kindness Guard standing there — those guys are not tattletales. So I just cut to it. I have everyone raise a hand and take the short oath instead. Here's the wink: when someone from the civilization talks to you, or a Guard gives you a nod — you just nod back. That nod means "oh yeah, I read the whole thing." Cover to cover. Every clause.
You know the nod. It's the exact same nod you give every single day when you click "I have read and agree to the Terms" on an app you wanted to use for free. Nobody read it. Nobody has ever read it. We all just nod. I rest my case.
But the full thing does exist, and here's the deal if you want the real treatment:
It goes on. It goes on for a while. That's by design. Request the full Oath PDF → · Download the published Oath → · ☎ 1-844-KIND-111 · ask for Gloria
Here's the part of the oath nobody expects. You're required to report to Confession. Not for the bad things you did — for the kind things you could have done and let slide. The held door you didn't hold. The cart you saw and walked past. We've all got them.
So I set up a booth. A card table, a curtain, two folding chairs, and a sign that reads "THE CONCESSIONS SPACE" (with a smaller tag underneath: "Kindness Confession Booth," for the people who need the plain version). You sit on one side. I sit on the other. You confess the kindness you skipped. And then I assign your Restorations.
A Restoration is a civilization term. It's when you go back out and do the kind act you missed — to, as I understand it, restore the balance. I'm told that's what it does. I just say the word and point at a door. "That'll be four Restorations." You'll feel lighter. People do.
I keep a cheat sheet on my side of the curtain. Most of what people confess, I've heard before. Here's a sample of the standing menu:
And sometimes you confess something that's just not on the sheet. Happens all the time. I'll look at the list, look at you, and go: "Well... that one's not on here. I don't even know what the Restoration is for that. How about you do X, Y, and Z — you good with that? Alright. Make sure you call Gloria." That's the system. It's held up for eleven thousand years. Mostly.
Schedule your Confession with Gloria · ☎ 1-844-KIND-111 · or just look for the booth — I move it around.
See the Restoration Wall → every Unkindness people have confessed — anonymous, and pending until they call Gloria
We didn't want to spell out "Anonymous" — it's a lot of letters and frankly people struggle with it. So: A to the power of two. It means two things at once. Anonymous and Acts. We put it right in the logo. Super efficient. (It also quietly means we support both kinds of kindness — the anonymous kind, and just plain acts of kindness. Between you and me: any act beats no act at all.)
And while we're decoding things — look at the name. AOK MAN·KIND. There's "kind" sitting right inside it. And "mankind" is the old word for the entire human race. Think about that. Why else would they name all of humanity in a single word built around being kind? That's not a coincidence. That might be the only link the civilization ever fully cracked. You're welcome.
I told you I'd sell it. Come on — just try the Kindness Vault. The civilization kicks butt, to tell you the truth. Between us, I'm still working through those cookbooks of wisdom myself, and I can already feel it making me a better person. I didn't think I could get better. That's how good it is. That's why I'm wearing the cape.
Enter the Kindness Vault →It used to be one very long scroll. I cleaned it up. Each of these is its own room now. Wander wherever.
What I'm doing out there while you're not watching. Season One — eleven episodes, in production.
I tried doing this alone. It didn't take. The Bodyguard, Nugget, the Kindness Guards, and the rest.
My cookbook. The Foundation has theirs — mine is shorter. Four essays, all awaiting their review.
The cape costs more than the car. Yes, I know how that sounds. The full kit, head to backpack.
A few publications have noticed. Six covers. One of them gave the cat top billing. I took it in stride.
Where I'll be next. Some of it is wishful thinking. Now that I've read the contract, Gloria runs my calendar.
I'd love to be a car salesman about this but I won't. Tip jar, the Eco Line, and the eBay vault.
Look what they found this time — the version I half-remember. Eleven thousand years. 847 tablets. No signatures.
The Kindness Guards are a real strip-mall security firm. Silent. Suited. Surprisingly affordable. Call the number, ask for Gloria, leave a message.
☎ 1-844-KIND-111
The yellow light at the Kindness Vault is the door to the whole civilization. Go through it at TheKindnessvault.com — the Cookbook, the Hill, the Gazette, all 847 tablets.
My Foundation-assigned administrator keeps a fifteen-minute recording explaining this entire operation. Better than anything I could tell you. She'll play it if you ask.
☎ 1-844-KIND-111 · ext. Gloria