I am posh spice (what?)

Urban locales always seem to attract odd and mostly scary types of people. Making my living in the lesser half of the Twin Cities I had assumed I'd be okay parking in an outdoor lot, eating my lunch in a little picture perfect park, and strolling merrily on my way in the boundless skyway system. But I was wrong. I was deceived by the streets that seemed to be free of homeless people, the urban condos priced in upwards of $500,000, and the crowds of cell phone talking, gum chewing, number crunching, appointment making all at the same time young professionals.

The problem is that these homeless people possess ingenuity and much higher standards than say your run of the mill New York dwelling bum. They really are a demanding bunch, scoffing at the thought of a low class shelter or a soup kitchen. Nope these high class homeless prefer the rather unsecured riverboats listfully bobbing alongside the banks of the Mississippi. They've also really taken a liking to underground parking structures according to my favorite local police officer. But their favorite hang out happens to be normally ordinary corners of the skyway systems. At every turn you can find yourself a practical urban camp ground. I wouldn't be so surprised to see Joe or Bob roasting a brat wurst over a hot plate or something. I guess it's something about the climate controlled, relatively public structures that they find so appealing.

Oh, and those supposed young professionals? They are all secretly nourishing their desires to participate in their country demolition derbies by practicing on my innocent car. Every day I come home with a new door ding, a newly configured license plate, or mysterious scuff marks upon my bumper. They add character, right? I guess that's what happens when you pay only $2 a day to park in relative proximity to downtown in a parking lot that looks like the military tested artillery shells there during World War II and have since left it to distenigrate.

I've honestly given up on enjoying a leisurely lunch in the quaint park complete with a manmade babbling brook. Daily I am accosted by strange requests to model, dine, or otherwise occupy my time with very strange strangers. Those are the days I thank the lord for the park's near constant police presence. Can someone please make me a sign that says the following, "No, I don't want to buy your heroin/crappy artwork/mix tape of unoriginal rap beats". Sorry, your business card may proclaim you as a professional photographer but that doesn't mean you can make nude artwork out of me.