CD sales have been pretty good, but I'm still a ways from my goal of raising 35 million dollars to erect a low income housing district on Chicago's South Side, which I will call "The Hard Taco Projects." People will call me "The Kind Super," because I will personally decorate the hallways for all major holidays. On weeknights, I will sit on the stoop with the tenants, drink punch, and discuss local politics. ("What on Earth does Mayor Daley think he’s up to this time?") Maybe after we have built up a rapport, I will respectfully try to talk one or two of the tenants into quitting smoking. When I arrive at work in the morning, there will be two young sisters jumping rope in front of the main tower. I will briefly jump rope with them, give them high fives, and ask them when their mother is going to bake me some of her famous pound cake. When I go through the front entrance, I will always be whistling some old song. The maintenance man will say, "Uh oh! Here comes The Super!" like he is afraid of me, but then laugh afterwards so that I know he is joking.
At the end of the day I won't have hordes of gold watches and jewel-encrusted piles of treasure, but I'll have something a hundred times more valuable: A smile from a hard-working family with quality affordable housing. That's the kind of riches you can't buy, even with a lot of money.
The Hard Taco song for June is called "Stamp My Hand." So far, everybody who has heard it has commented on its pithiness. One reviewer even said, "Now that's what I call pithy!" I admit I intended for the pith factor to be tangible, but such overwhelmingly consummate pithiness was completely unforeseen. All I can hope for is that I don't alienate any of my dear friends or family with offensive levels of relentless, unadulterated, hard core pith.
With warmest regards,