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"O Yes! How Interesting!," the Secret Lore of Silly Grownups

Most likely some day, perhaps in your lifetime, Audrey will inherit, own, and rule the world. She may also save it, if she so chooses, and unless she forgets. For now, though, she is 9.6, a red-haired menace to herself and others. Only The Happy Tutor, a big kid himself, one thousand years old, well past his second childhood, now into his 73rd childhood, can work with her on her own terms. If you were to peek into Audrey's room just now, as I did, in my capacity as Omniscient Narrator pro tem,  you would have seen them, Tutor and Audrey, somersaulting, in opposite directions, starting in the center of her room, bouncing off the far wall, like swimmers racing in a pool, and returning to the center. One large form tumbling not very fast, one small form going at much higher rpms. Audrey always wins, and Tutor, when they meet at the center, always bemoans it, "No fair! You always win! You are a real kid. I am sore all over." This is the process by which Tutor positions his most important moral tutorials; how he opens the child's mind to receive life-changing instruction.

Audrey has been sent to her room because at dinner Diamond Jack, the most trusted advisor, provided as a service by the Private Bank of Wealth Bondage, to form the minds, manners, morals, and mores (what he calls the Four Ms)  of the rising generation of Trust Beneficiaries, had told Audrey, "Young ladies finish all the food on their plate. Think about the starving children in Darien who would kill for those broiled Brussels sprouts." To which Audrey had seen fit to reply, "Fuck you!" At which point she was sent from the table, where Tutor, in his red waiter jacket, had been serving the meal, refilling the glasses, and standing at attention, when not needed, behind Mother's chair.  Tutor joined Audrey as soon as his other duties permitted. 

As Tutor and Audrey meet dead center in her room, Tutor imparts what he calls "secret knowledge from the silliest grownups." There are still Silly Grownups, but they are few, and most are over 500 years old, living on the margins of society, and their underground lore must remain secret. If the Stupid Grownups discover that here and there Silly Grownups still exist, the last ones will be rounded up and done away with. Tutor, winded from the exercise, swears his panting charge to secrecy. "Here is what I know. When a Stupid Grownup makes you mad, you must never say Fuck You out loud," he says. "But I can't help it," she says, "he makes me so mad. He is a big jerk. And Momma likes him. He picks on me." "Yes, but that is his job, kid. He gets paid to be a big jerk. Out of thousands who applied, he was chosen for reasons of aptitude, attitude, education, bearing, countenance, good manners, wide reading, wisdom, virtue, and presumption. Then he had to undergo years of training, being mentored by the biggest jerks in the whole world. They are gone now to their eternal rest, but Diamond Jack carries on the tradition, one he passes on to the newer Pompous Jerks in Service to Wealth coming up through the system. So, of course he makes you mad. Then, because you are so mad, you say Fuck you, then you get sent to your room, then he tells Momma how lucky she is to have him mentoring both her and you," says Tutor. "And then he says you are out of control and need a real Dad, fulltime, not just on retainer, and then he smiles, showing his big white teeth. You have seen him do it, and how Momma smiles back." "Fuck him! That asshole!," Audrey exclaims. "No, no, no, kid. Let me teach you the big secret, ok?" "Ok," she nods. "Let me see your hands; hold them out. When I say something stupid like a real grownup, you can say Fuck You to yourself quietly, and smile, and first clench your left hand, on Fuck, and then your right on You. Or, if you wish, you can do the same for Asshole. I think it is only one word, but two syllables. Clench on first and second. There is more, but lets rehearse, ok? Ready? 'Audrey, be a good little girl and eat all your delicious Brussels sprouts. The children in Darien only get candied carrots and lots of cake, which is bad for their teeth, dear." Audrey smiles like Shirley Temple and her little fists clench and open, first left then right. "Excellent, kid! But there is more. When you finish clenching and opening left and right hand, then and only then you say, 'How interesting!' and you open your eyes wide. Now let's try it, ok? I will be the Big Jerk,  ok? Ready? 'Now Audrey, you must learn to brush your hair like a good girl, or I will have to have the maid do it for you. Good girls take pride in their appearance. You must learn to be an asset to your family. That hair of yours is a personal liability,  but we can optimize it, with a good stiff brush. You must do the best you can with what you have, such as it is. Have you ever tried a dog brush for the wiry haired breeds?" Audrey's eyes flash, her body trembles, but her hands, stay in her lap, and go, clench, release, clench, release, and her face lights up in the Shirley Temple smile, "How interesting!"  "Good," Tutor says. "To make it even better, go like this, "'O Yes! How interesting!' Try it." And so they rehearse, as they do in Judo practice, until Audrey, no matter how she is provoked by a Stupid Grownup, can say, "'O Yes! How interesting!' with a big innocent smile, her hands in her lap, and mind like water.

For those of you who are children, whose Mother or Father is reading this story about Audrey to you at bedtime, never ever use bad language, unless you do it quietly to yourself. Be like like Momma, not Dad, when he's mad. Remember, eat your sprouts, and always brush your hair. And if you if you ever meet a Stupid Grownup, be very careful. They are bigger than you. They are very powerful, and you must treat them with respect, and agree with all they say, or they will send you to your room. You must wait your turn. Some day you can be a Big Jerk, too. Just never ever forget what it is like to be a kid. Only kids can save the world. The grownups have made the mess, and when they try to fix things, they only make it worse. That is a secret. I bet if you tell Momma, she will say, "O how interesting!" And then you will not know what to say, but you will know you are a very lucky kid, because your Momma is a Silly Grownup, after all. The kids in Darien don't have a Silly Grownup in the family. Count your blessings!

Building a Paper Trail at Story Time

Rich kids are often sheltered so it should come as no surprise that story time at The Old Castle is always supervised. Momma tonight is throwing a dinner party for three hundred dignateries in the Great Hall to honor the President of France, so she asks Gentleman Jack, her Most Trusted Advisor, to sit in for her in the arm chair, as Tutor tells Audrey, and now Rex, nestled between them, a bed time story, this one about Mighty Dog, and how he saved a little girl from drowning in her mother's Jacuzzi.

Gentleman Jack is typing a verbatim transcript on his iPad, "To be sure we maintain a contemporaneous record, so I can give a full and accurate accounting if or when I am deposed as an eye witness to The Happy Tutor's perfidious failure in his fiduciary responsibility as a Morals Tutor to impart Wisdom and Virtue at every opportunity to this young child's tender mind. The child's mind is like a fallow garden that he sows with Thistles and Tares. She never would have been at risk of drowning in The Queen Mother's Jacuzzi, in the first place, had he not insinuated the idea of giving that mutt a bath. Better that miserable dog were drowned. Disgraceful. She should have been given a purebred, perhaps a long haired Afghan, if she had to have a dog at all. I could have handled it if The Queen Mother had asked; no task is ever too small in Service to My Lady." 

Rex Gets his First Bath

Audrey dons her bathing suit to give Rex his first bath, in Momma's Jacuzzi. "Stop squirming, Rex," she says. "I have to get you clean. You are going to be a show dog." He could win best in class, too, if Westminster ever adds an Ugly Mutt category. Meanwhile the Jacuzzi is all plugged up with wiry dog hair. Momma had to call the plumber and Rex and Audrey are in lockdown in her bedroom until dinner time. Tutor claims he had nothing to do with it, but his shirt is soaking wet. He is doing time in the Dungeon. Gentleman Jack says it is just one more example of Tutor's "inveterate malfeasance." 

Enter Wise Master Jack in the Court of the Warrior Queen

Audrey tells Tutor she heard Wise Master Jack, the Corporate Trustee from the Bank of Wealth Bondage, say that Audrey needs a real father if she is ever to grow up into a Net Asset to the Family. Tess has no current suitors and no interest in marriage, but Master Jack suggests if Tess marries him not only will Audrey have a Responsible Role Model, but the Trustee fees that now go to his mentoring Audrey will be substantially reduced, offset by free parenting. Tutor tells Audrey not to worry, Momma has more sense.  I hope he is right, but Jack is a charming fellow, a Rhodes Scholar, who played football at Yale, still holds the record for touchdowns scored in a single season, and has a swashbuckling way with the women. In Wealth Bondage he is known as a closer. 

Meet Rex, Audrey's Rescue Dog

Audrey now has a dog from the pound, the sorriest mutt. She named him, Rex. The King of her Castle. With Momma's permission, Rex was Audrey's no cost XMass gift from Tutor. She picked him, as he sat at the dead end of the row of cages. Audrey chose him because he seemed so sad, as she sometimes is. It was only when she put her outstretched finger through the bars right under his nose that he risked even a tentative, hopeless, lick.

Now, when Wise Master Jack, The Most Trusted Advisor, and Corporate Trustee, courtesy of the Private Bank of Wealth Bondage, admonishes Audrey for her many flaws, Rex growls low in his throat and his stiff reddish brown fur stands up, not unlike Audrey's unruly red hair. 

Tutor, with Audrey and Rex in her big toy box, tells them how Diogenes, too, lived in a big barrel with his mangy dog. Audrey listens, wearing her plastic Joan of Arc helmet. With Rex we are off the conquer, rule, and save the world. Momma says we can, as long as we do it without leaving the toy box, much less the Castle. Of course if horses can fly, a toy box can have wings. 

What to give those who own all?

What to give a child whose mother owns a controlling interest in the world? Tutor took a number of vows on his ordination as a Catholic priest, in 1458, but the only one he has kept religiously is the vow of poverty. He has packs of Values Cards provided by vendors to help wealthy families, in an idle moment, decide what their values are. He could give a pack to Audrey. They could use them to build a castle, or could set them up like dominoes, to fall one by one. They could make a corral out of cards for her ponies. He could teach her to gamble, calling whether the card would fall face up or down. Instead, he decides to give her poster paper, crayons and markers. With those she can create whatever she wants.

As for Tess, The Warrior Queen of Wall Street, what do you get a young single mother who literally owns 51% of planetary wealth? Maybe a picture from Audrey, of a Castle, under a big yellow sun, ruled by a smiling Queen of the Squirrels? Maybe, to go with it, a nutcracker from Ebay and a bag of nuts? Since he cannot afford the Wooden Soldier, Tutor decides he might borrow the costume and crack The Queen Mother a nut in his teeth, each time Audrey bops him in the head.  She does have that big plastic baseball bat. She will love that game, and Momma might smile. She has not been sleeping well. Often he sees her sleepwalking, in the stone corridors, staring into the blue light of her iPad, trading commodities. The markets never sleep, nor can Tess. "You snooze you lose," she says. 51% is far from all. Double or nothing. One more trade.  Then again, why sacrifice his teeth in a good cause. Maybe the values cards are a better idea.

Four Capitals three of which are Liabilities

It is axiomatic in highest level wealth planning that families have "four capitals." Wealth is one, then there are several others, like social capital, intellectual capital, spiritual capital, political capital (pick any three beyond filthy lucre, or stock up on all five.) I mentioned this to The Happy Tutor, since I thought it might help him grow, protect and transmit the four Capitals from Tess, who now owns a controlling interest in the world, to Audrey, her 9.6 year old daughter whose mission is to own, rule, and save the world.

Now, be aware, Tutor is an ordained Catholic Priest with a degree from Oxford, class of 1457. While he did graduate, he was primarily known for roistering, as a close friend of Dr Rabelais, whose best medicine was laughter. Tutor is a bit antique in his outlook. He has not kept up to date with the latest innovations in Wealth and Virtue, Wealth and the Will of God, or Wealth and Wisdom consulting. He relies mostly on the Gospels, the Ten Commandments, and his own unique blend of moral instruction, Carnival, and corporal punishment. So, I would not take his reaction very seriously. But what he said was, "Capitals? Virtues are liabilities. Virtues are what we owe to God, parents, and neighbors. If we leave these bills unpaid we are morally bankrupt, and accounts are settled in hell, which starts in life, as the death of our humanity.  Check the commandments, and while you are at it, read up on Coveting. Why twice among the "shalt nots"? What is the point of emphasizing that there is more to our lives than coveting? Could this not be a message from God, via Moses, that we not worship false gods, the golden idol, or prostitute ourselves outside the holy of holies, when we can do better for ourselves inside, as we do, Phil, here in Wealth Bondage?" I warned you. Tutor is Tutor. I am amazed Tess, she who owns it all, has not yet exiled him for good. I would say the Ten Commandments are the biggest platitudes of all. You can't get very far in this business with those. Tutor's own dismal career should be a lesson to us all.

Queen of the Squirrels

Audrey sits in her Tutor's lap, showing him her drawing, "The King and Queen of the Squirrels." The Queen, with red hair, and with a long bushy tail curled over her crown, and her King, who also has a long bushy tail, are tossing out handfuls of nuts to their hungry squirrel-citizens. In the background is the Castle, and an orchard full of trees, where the worker squirrels harvest the Queen's crop. Today's lesson is: "Own, Rule, Share."

How we got to this happy moment is another story. Not an hour ago, Audrey, age 9.6, was pretending to be Queen of the Squirrels, with a rhinestone tiara on her head, and a long up-standing tail clipped to her waistband, and with her cheeks puffed out with nuts she would not share. Tutor, hoping to teach reciprocity, had pretended to be a starving worker-squirrel, begging for a nut; then, when that did not work, he had asked if he could be King of the Squirrels, while Audrey was the poor commoner starving because her mother was a worker who had no nuts. Audrey had run from the room shrieking, "No! All the nuts are mine!" Tutor had pursued her exclaiming, "Why can't I be King, for once, you little monster?" And she had replied, laughing over her shoulder, "Because your Momma's not rich! My Momma's rich! Everything in mine, mine, mine. I don't have to share. And you can't make me!" As he chased her down the stone stairs, her tail fell off. Tutor tripped on it, and had returned to her room bruised and fuming. "That kid may be fast and tricky, but no nine year old is going to beat me. If she is the last Princess, I ever tutor, I swear I will teach that kid to own, rule, and - by God! - share!" He had done fifty commando one arm push-ups to work off his anger, and had been meditating, with mind like water.  So it was a surprise when Audrey had plopped back in his lap with, "Tutor? Want to see what I made? It is a picture. See?"

"Hey, Audrey," Tutor says, "Thank you. But I am not King of the Squirrels. Some day you will find your Prince, and he will be a very lucky man." Tutor tells Audrey she must show Momma the drawing at bedtime; it just might save his job as Moral Mentor. So, as good bedtime stories do, this one ends with a hug all around, or maybe a yawn. But for all you twenty-five or so kids out there who really will inherit a controlling interest in the world, please, be like Audrey. Remember, kids: Own, Rule, and Share. Now, may angels sing you to your rest.

Across the room, in her arm chair, Momma has nodded off as well. All is right with the world.

Faith, Hope, and Charity: Three Blind Virtues in a World gone Mad

One of the best books on philanthropy is Give Smart: Philanthropy that Gets Results, by Tom Tierney and Joel Fleishman. Witty and eloquent, as well as passionate, erudite,  and practical. One thing they say goes around and around in my head: Philanthropy is related to love, but "love is blind." Meaning that we also need to plan prudently for best results from any given investment of time, money, or effort. Agreed. Point made. Point taken.

But what all is blind?

• Love is blind
• Faith is blind
• Hope is blind
• Fate is blind
• Justice is blind

And the list of God's attributes, all blind as a stump, goes on and on. Prophets and tragic heroes, all are blind.  Sometimes even I as a Theorist have been blind, without recognizing it until later.

When aggregate net positive results for our planet are not going to come, or will come too late, maybe we had all better be blind, or go mad. Only blind love, and faith, allows for blind hope. And without blind hope, how can we lift our hands to support the results we know will not suffice without divine intervention? Maybe delusion is better than blindness. At least blind optimism keeps us positive.

Back Story on Tess, the Castle, and Audrey's Real Dad

Omniscient Side Bar

Many of you have asked about Audrey's mother, Tess, and how she became to rich, and how she came to live so isolated a life in the Old Castle, and how for that matter The Happy Tutor, the most disreputable of men, was ultimately hired as Audrey's Protector and Mentor. That seems to show very bad judgment on the mother's part. I can explain it all, but it is awkward.

In telling you the stories I will be sharing information that is strictly confidential, some of it disturbing, and some of it tragic. Much is a secret - a very dark secret - from Audrey herself. For me to publish it like this on the internet for all to see, and perhaps for Audrey to stumble upon is clearly reprehensible. Yet, unless you know the back story you will have no way of understanding how Audrey is the way she is, and how ugly the world is that she is destined to save. My only excuse is that I, as Omniscient Narrator, by long standing literary convention, am allowed to whisper to you, The Intended Reader, as my confidante, over the heads of the characters. You and I will know things that the characters do not. That is (I checked this with Dr. Amrit Chadwallah, Senior Adjunct in Charge of Hidden Meanings in Wealth Bondage) called "dramatic irony." How Audrey rises or does not rise to the level of understanding you as Wise Reader and I as Omniscient Narrator share, will determine the Genre of our Tale. If Audrye's understanding rises to include and even transcend our understanding it will have, our story will, a triumphant ending, even if it ends in tragedy, all hopes dashed, all heroes dragged dead by their feet from the stage, while I alone remain to speak the disillusioned epilogue. If she does not rise to our shared understanding, then, well, at best we have farce, and at worst the ethos of dead winter, naturalism and blighting irony. So, you see, you need to know the disabling truth towards which dear Audrey sleepwalks the Castle, in search of the man will never find, not her Dad for Hire, the Happy Tutor, but Real Dad, her natural father. Mother never mentions father. And her body language says that question must never ever be raised. It makes me so sad. I wish I did not have to share this post. But it is what we writers call, "the donnee," the given. How it works out, beats me. I hope the next Omniscient Narrator they bring in will find a solution. I just know that Audrey must someday learn and transcend these bitter truth so she can save the world. It is for that Tutor will mentor her.

Warning

The Back Story below was written late at night on Prozac, professionally adjusted by a Qualified Physician. I also  had chugged two or three beers (Malt Liquor), and had steeled my resolve, and dulled my despair, by reading more than  twenty-five motivational quotations on Linked-In and Twitter. Unless your meds are dialed in just right, or you are well self-medicated, or have just read a good positive mental attitude book, or at least one Listicle on what Successful People Do in the Presence of Suffering Humanity, I would suggest you skip the rest of the next section, particularly the last paragraph, before I return with an Authorial Aside. Thank you.

Back Story on Tess

Tess was an only child who grew up on an Army base, or actually went from base to base, as her father, who eventually rose to Sergeant was redeployed. Her mother worked as a cashier in the commissary. Tess learned to make friends easily and give them up easily, as nothing ever lasts more than a year or two. As an only child she was considered strange, and in fact, as they said in those days, "retarded," meaning late to develop. When the other children her age were lisping, she was silent. When they could say "dada" or "momma," she had nothing to say. When they could speak in complete sentences, she was only humming. For her third birthday she was given a child's plastic clarinet, or horn, a "Melodica" with a few large, brightly colored keys. The first time she blew it made an off-key sound. The second time, a good note. The third time a perfect sound. And then sound after sound, until the house was full of music, tunes never played before. Only when her music was perfected to her own satisfaction, did she begin to use English. Her first words were a complete sentence, "Mother, where is father stationed this time and when do you expect him back?" For her fourth birthday, she was given a second-hand flute; and where other kids might carry a snuggy, she always carried her flute, and played to the trees, the flowers, the snows, pets, goldfish, all creatures great and small, who recognized in her tunes their own lost voice, or the timeless music of the spheres. The animals  came at her call, and would sit crouched at her feet. The wind hummed back, and they would play a duet.

In first grade came ABCs and 1 + 1. But no sooner did she see math, than she was reminded of it. It was as if she was recalling what she had known in some other time and place. The school had a library, and the solitary child went down the math books, some on shelves so high she needed to borrow a chair, stand tippy-toe on the seat, and reach up, up. By fourth grade, she had remembered trigonometry, algebra, and calculus. In high school she was introduced to basic economics, and began to plunder the library again. It was all math, and math is all music. She heard math and heard economics as tunes, and could improvise with it, as if it were jazz. By college she was done with college, graduating Summa Cum Laude at 19 with a BA in Math, and minors in Music and Economics. By 20 she was the youngest person and only woman on the trading floor of a viciously competitive Wall Street firm, my current employer and generous patron, Wealth Bondage. Her trades resolved like tunes. She would hear the counter-party play a note, and she knew how it resolved. Her limit for trades rose win by win, until one day, without permission, she bet the company and brought down the Central Bank of Germany, as Soros had the Bank of England. At 20 she was richer than Koch or Gates.

Of course there was a dinner, for the top leadership of the firm, at a five star restaurant in NYC to celebrate the world historic trade. Tess, the solitary, had had no time to date, and no interest in drinking. Math was intoxicating enough. In her honor came three champagne toasts, one before each course. She felt compelled to drink each toast. She could remember, later, being bundled into a limo. Apparently there was an after party, for the rank and file traders, her peers, almost all young and male, on the trading floor, where she would awaken, next morning, in a fetal position, disheveled and half undressed as the sun rose over the Hudson, and blazed on her disgrace through the plate glass. She never went back. Not to the firm, or the city. She was ashamed, and even with family, would never speak of the event. So, now, wealthy, she lived in a hotel in Paris, then Brussels, then as the pregnancy ripened, she found the Old Castle, and purchased it for her confinement.

Authorial Aside

That is all I can bear to tell you. I may know more, but thank God, I have blanked it out. All I really know is second hand from the rumors outside the building, near our Dumpster, where the traders smoke, and brag.  How much of what they boasted of is true, I will never know. You now know what I know. The rest will be easier, maybe. Except for how poor Audrey will ever learn the truth of her Real Dad. That is the state of the world she must save. Not a dream world. Our world. I am just happy to be back on the payroll.