Another one of my neighbors has bit the dust.   They moved out Easter weekend and I wasn't even home to bid them farewell.   But alas, they were the dreaded "renters" on the block, so there are certainly some around here who will be glad to see them go.  See, in my neighborhood, if you rent your home, you are practically stamped with having an incurable disease and no matter how stand-up you are, you are not welcome.  This particular house, which sits directly to my left, has seen its fair share of losers, don't get me wrong.  For the longest time I thought the lousy landlord's criteria was:  (A.) you must love southern dirt rock music, (B.) must have a fake garage band, (C.) must have at least 3 ugly kids, (D.) must have 2 dirty, unleashed pets, and (E.) must have a wife who, from a distance, resembles a dude.   He hit a homerun every time.  But the couple that just left, well, they were actually very nice people to have living next to me.  He was retired military, and she worked doing something or other.  They had no rugrats tearing up my yard, and if they enjoyed any type of music, I was none the wiser.  The house to my right, well that went into foreclosure and our good friends got the boot.  More on that later.  But I digress.  The most frustrating part of this story is the ideal renters were willing to buy that house, but the dummy for an owner has refused to sell it all these years because he's still holding out for the quadrillion dollars he is certain he will get.  So with my professional, quiet, ideal neighbors outa here, I sit and await the inevitable lifted 4x4 pickup to come barrelling into the driveway next to mine.  And only too soon will I be subconsciously humming the tune of "Sweet Home Alabama"....