Nothing was as responsible for killing disco quite as much as the monotonous thumping bass line. I think we just got tired of the lack of variety. Boom, boom, boom, boom ... so what? Play another record and you get the same thing all over again.

Now, I know the two preteens who live next door to me are not cranking up the volume on their Donna Summer album every time their parents leave them home alone for a while. It would actually be kind of cool to think that was a possibility, but one look at the do-rags they affect tells me they're gangsta wannabes, not night fever refuges. They've probably never even heard of polyester.

If these country boys choose to use urban sounds to deafen themselves, it's okay with me, as long as I'm not a victim of collateral damage. Disco, rap, or the friggin' Macarena, measures must be taken when the wall shakes as it did this afternoon. The perimeter must be defended, subtly if possible. Because that's my way.

That's why I chose a CD of Cecilia Bartoli singing Mozart. I merely wanted some more pleasant sound to muffle the rhythmic thrashing that penetrated the barrier and invaded my space. I doubt they could even hear it on their side, but it was soothing over here, even when I was forced to set an all-time decibel record, narrowly edging out the time I resorted to Dookie by Green Day on endless repeat, which sort of backfired because I forced myself out of my own living room with that ill-conceived tactic.

If any of this did any good, I'd be one happy old grump. But they still watch 3rd Rock From the Sun every night at 6:30. There's the show with the most annoying music track of anything on television (at least anything I recognize). It's like a thirty-minute Toyota commercial, on this side of the wall. "Sproinnggg!" Surf guitar rules!

They never, ever watch the same thing I do. It's almost uncanny. Why couldn't I have moved next door to baseball fans? Why can't they watch Jeopardy? Or at least Survivor?

Sometimes I flip around to see if I can figure out what they're watching. That's how I found myself a few days ago tuned in to Scooby Doo at around midnight. If you can't beat 'em ...

My clock radio comes on at seven o'clock and goes off at eight. When I woke up this morning and rolled over to check the time, it took a while to register that it was eight thirty. Either I hit the snooze alarm hard enough that it knew I was really serious, or I was making up for some serious sleep deprivation.

Needless to say, I sprang out of bed, grabbed the cordless phone, and took it with me as I crawled back under the sheet. It was only for another ten minutes, though, and then I was up and going about my morning routine. No stress, that's the new rule, so I wasn't trying to make up for the lost hour. Everything in its time, all in perspective.

As I was getting my body ready to face the rigors of a new day, I felt an odd sensation when I moved my mouth. I felt my chin, and it seemed to have grown overnight to Popeye dimensions. All of a sudden I had some Jay Leno action going. What now, I wondered. How is this deformation related to the near-whatever experience I had the other night?

A whining bug of some kind had been buzzing around my bed last night. I couldn't find it and dispose of it because I couldn't see it without my glasses, and it was, you know, dark. Although I couldn't feel any external sign that I'd been bitten, I suspected as much, and when I shaved (a procedure that took twice as long as normal, due to the extra territory to cover), my suspicion was confirmed. The swollen area was smooth and tender to the touch, exactly what I'd expect from an insect bite.

It didn't itch, though, so I don't know what kind of creature it could have been. Maybe it's still in there, eating its way through to my brain. If so, good luck to it.