Mossy concrete, grimy siding, mud and sludge and dirt on every surface. Somebody ought to clean up this neighborhood.

The few good people left are all too scared to take a stand. The kids don’t even know. They’re too young to remember a time when everything wasn’t filthy. The city isn’t going to do anything about it. Buncha ineffectual, paper-pushing bureaucrats. They don’t know what it’s like out here on the streets. To clean this place up, you’d have to get your hands dirty.

Boy, if I only had a good, solid power-washer, I’d set a few things right. Serious hardware. Electric powered. Dual onboard detergent tanks. Couple of spray wands with variable pressure. I’d start with the porch. Dirt wouldn’t know what hit it. Hey, what hit you, dirt? You don’t know? A cleansing tsunami of pure, clean water, that’s what.

Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets. Until that happens, though, I sure would like to give the ol’ driveway a thorough sanctification with 1,750 pounds per square inch of pressurized suds.

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