Cars on blocks. Knee-deep grass. Going to seed. Around a neglected above-ground pool. In the front yard. Chartreuse-and-fuchsia repainting jobs. Beds of silk plants. Bordered by pinwheels acquired at a dollar store end-of-the-season closeout sale.
The horror. The horror.
The remote chance that one or some combination of these apocalyptic prospects could come to pass on your block is why deed restrictions and their enforcement arm - the homeowners association - evolved. It turns out, apparently, after Woodstock and Vietnam, we no longer trust one another to tend to our corner of the American dream as fastidiously and tastefully as June and Ward Cleaver (the 1980s Clair and Cliff Huxtable notwithstanding).
To that, the HOA abolitionists cry "HOA apocalypse now!"