But I wouldn't be parked in front of his house if I could've parked in front of my own. Someone else was parked in front of my house. Someone else was always parked in front of my house. These … these … parkers don't belong in the neighborhood. They don't even belong in the city.

How do I know? Because their cars don't have D.C. plates. Which, by the way, are the coolest license plates in America. Most license plates say something like, "Blue Sky Most of the Time State" or "Warmer Lakes Than You'd Think, Really, State." The District plates have attitude. Because D.C. residents are denied Congressional representation, their plates say, "Taxation Without Representation." Of course, it would be cooler if the nearly half-million residents of the capital of the world's oldest democracy had representatives, but having a mobile civics class in basic American values is, I guess, the next best thing. But I digress.

The cars in front of my house were usually from Maryland or Virginia, sometimes from as far away as North Carolina.

"Why do they park there?" I'd exclaim to my wife.

"Why do you get so upset about it?" she'd say.

"Because that's our spot!"

"It's a street. It's nobody's spot."

"It is somebody's spot. And that somebody is me. Everybody who lives in a city knows the Code of the City," I argue. "The Code is that the space in front of somebody's house belongs to the homeowner."

"It's a public street. People can park where they want."

"And I can put a note on their windshield if I want."

But I never did. Instead, I just went outside and grumbled loudly to make sure half the neighborhood heard me.