I remain unconvinced that anyone living outside of the confines of Manhattan -- unless you've read Calvin Trillin's spot-on and utterly hilarious book Tepper Isn't Going Out -- could possibly understand the maniacal behavior of New Yorkers desperate to find, or keep, their parking spot. Those who miss the daily, hourly oddities, might be surprised, or even shocked, at the following.

Take, for example, an entire posse of Upper West Side doormen, who have an alternate, and several-times-more-lucrative business, "holding" spaces for people who've left to pick up kids, or dogs, or groceries. Or, the blocks' worth of individuals who have nothing better to do from 9 am 'til noon most weekdays than sit in their cars, engines running, reading the dailies and drinking bad deli coffee, while waiting for the gift of a post-street-cleaning spot, right where they started.

Of course, if you're curious about this behavior, just talk to sprout's Paoletti Grandparents, who risk life, limb and sanity each week to pull into Manhattan at precisely 2 pm, not a moment before, nor a moment afterward, for the optimal spot across from their apartment.

Consider all that, and you wonder how people might even be able to enjoy a day away. Not everyone, after all, has the luck of Two-Mules-For-Sister-Sarah, who can find the snow-plowed spot, closest to a mall entrance, with two hours' of shopping time remaining before Christmas...

Thanks to The New Yorker, August 11, 2003.