In “Living Here, But Registered There,” the Times celebrates all the “New Yorkers” with out-of-state plates. Harry is the story’s cowering Officer Krupke, on a lonely crusade against these scofflaws who clog our alternate street parking and–and don’t pay the $15 city tax and– From where I’m standing (off the curb, naturally), a New Jersey plate means you don’t know how to drive in the city; when you finally stop (in the crosswalk), I’ll still look down at your license plate before making dismissive eye contact.
2003, it seems, will not be the year that other gang gets lauded in the press: New Yorkers who register their cars here, even though they keep them somewhere else. And you better not be in my spot when I get back.
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the making of, by greg allen