It's easy to see why New Jersey is scorned by the rest of the United States.

A visitor to New Jersey notices two things when he arrives: First, he sees cars with license plates bearing the state's official monniker "The Garden State."

Second, our visitor sees blooms of toxic smoke pouring from chimneys. He sees knots of superhighways teeming with hot-footed motorists. He sees vast swatches of industrial moonscape garnished with warehouses, chemical storage vats, and square-mile parking lots.

There is no wildlife. There are no pedestrians. There are definitely no gardens.

Gardens, in the Garden State, happen to be a vanishing commodity. Jetting home from vacation last month, I peered down upon the once-lush croplands of Middlesex, Mercer and Morris counties, former home to farms producing the venerable Jersey tomato and Jersey egg. Across the old farm belt, the reaching arms of suburbia had smothered the rich soil in blacktop and concrete. Sure there are farms somewhere in South Jersey, but I've never seen them -- and I live here.

Hell, I've been living in Jersey for going on three years now, and I have yet to see a garden. Jersey tomatoes are now so rare they cost more than individually-wrapped hothouse tomatoes flown in from The Netherlands.

Calling a horticulturally-challenged place like New Jersey "The Garden State" is akin to naming California "The Stagecoach State." It's a bygone name for a bygone era.

It's time for a new slogan.

Fortunately, I happen to have one handy. Mine is a monniker so right, so quintessentially Jerseyan -- yet historic and hip -- that the rest of the United States need only ponder it a moment to realize that New Jersey is not a place to be ridiculed; rather, it's a state to be admired.

Out, I say, with The Garden State. In with this new image-slogan: New Jersey - The Diner State.

Diners are the sole Jersey commodity that curdles the envy of the rest of America. New Orleans, San Francisco, Seattle, yeah, you may be hip, but you lack sleek train-car roadside hangouts; streamlined restaurants where hash is slung and mobsters ponder their next rubout over porcelain mugs of steaming coffee. The diner is a Jersey icon.

My favorite, The Tunnel Diner in Jersey City, is a symphony of stainless steel, formica, sky-blue Naugahyde, and grease. The Tunnel features a long smoky-lit domed ceiling, sumptuous wrap-around booths, and inward-slanting windows that look like they need windshield wipers.

The weighty plates and mugs are chipped, items on the menu board carry ingenious spellings -- "ha$h and egg$" -- and shiny personal jukeboxes perch astride each booth. It's the kind of architectural gem that sets outer-staters to lathering at the mouth.

The best thing is, the Tunnel Diner is just one of hundreds in -- dare I say it? -- The Garden State. In Jersey, diners outnumber gardens by a ratio of 7 to 1.

There are added benefits from a name change. Besides basking in the newly-won admiration of the other 49 states, Jerseyans' self-esteem (and real estate values) will rise like a pan of freshly-baked dinner rolls.

Instead of mouthing the name "New Jersey" with sheepish guilt, we Jerseyans can reply with pride when some outer-stater asks us where we're from: "Damn straight I'm from New Jersey: the Diner State."

Is Krane on the cusp of turning New Jersey into the world's most coveted address? Or is he a common windbag and general pain in the kiester? Bend his ear with an e-mail. He'll post the best comments for all to read.