The way I look at it, there are a couple of ways to play these last three weeks here at Green Acres. I'm the lame duck tenant, so I don't have to go out of my way to be respectful or courteous. On the other hand, I'm still going to be living within bottle rocket launching distance of these people, so why make them hate me?

In other words, I could be an asshole, or I could be a wimp.

The eternal conundrum of social interaction. You choose your persona and live with it. Or you don't choose, you're just drawn that way. It's in your genes to be selfish and testy, or it's in the way you were brought up to be civil and well-mannered. Some of it is who you are, and some is who you want to be.

It's a small planet, getting smaller, and my conscience tells me to bend with the prevailing westerlies, because that's the way you stay in control. If you push back, something is bound to get broken.

I really have no desire to make anyone else's life miserable, and I'm not sure I could even if I tried. Okay, if I really, really tried, I probably could, until Bert broke through my door and brained me with a baseball bat. Then he could make all the noise he wants, which he already does anyway.

So to counteract the buzz saw bass rattling the Wall of Sound this afternoon, I gave them a little dose of John Coltrane. Just enough so that I could hear Trane's sax and not the rattle and hum of some nameless eighties hair band. Which still came through between tracks on the CD, but oh well.

In a way, it's easier to handle, knowing that I'm a short-timer here. I still won't stoop to their level by competing decibel-for-decibel, even though I could, but at least I don't have to care whether they hear me. And the more often I repeat to myself, "soon, very soon," the less odious I find the neighbors' noise.

I don't know if they realize yet that they're going to have to break in a new neighbor after the first of the month, but I hope they get the person they deserve. I'm thinking that would be a fussy old fuddy-duddy (even fussier and older than I, if not fuddier and duddier). Someone who will whine and complain and threaten police action. Wouldn't that be a hoot?

The landlords plan to start showing my place this weekend, so I'm working on making it presentable. They didn't ask me to do anything, but I've been spreading the dust around and sweeping out the corners. Hazel's long deserted web is now but a fond memory. The sink is discolored, but only because the water that flows through it is a sickly orange-brown hue. I'll do the best I can with that.

In preparation for the big move to the Fortress of Solitude, I've been reconnoitering the arena, making plans, lists and outlines in my head. That's the first step toward actually doing something, putting stuff in boxes and all that. I want this move to happen, with all my heart, but I'm still recovering from the last move and not fully energized yet.

Sounds like a potential buzzer-beater. I'll probably end up pushing the deadline and barely making it. So far I have an excuse — no empty boxes. I can't count on that condition lasting for long, though. Then I'll either have to get moving or think of another excuse.

This is my middle bedroom. Most of these boxes have been sitting here untouched since the last move. They can probably be transferred as is to the upstairs bedroom at the new place.

Some of the kitchen cabinets here never even got used, and most of the rest are half empty. With so much less space in the new kitchen, it's just as well.

The infamous Wall of Sound will be someone else's problem soon.