Oh the parking garage.

Let me start by saying that I very much appreciate that my work pays for my parking. I would hate to have to pay ridiculous daily parking rates in downtown. And by "hate to" I mean I wouldn't be able to afford it and I'd have to hitchhike to work everyday and mingle with the good samaritans who offered me rides. And by good samaritans I mean creeps.

So my parking garage. It's old. Very old. I'm talking elevators you have to open a huge metal door to get into. I'm talking lime that leaks from the ceilings--to the extent that lime stalagtites dance off the ceiling, and their counterparts, the lime stalagmites, rise from the cracked, broken, pot-hole filled floor.

And the smell. It smells like the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland. That kind of musty, motor-oil scented, old breathy smell.

Family fun for all ages.

You'd think the shattered windows on each level would release some of this stank. Not so.

There are 7 floors of this. The first is useless. The second and third are valet parking for a nearby hotel. Four is ok, but always full by the time I get here. Five and Six are under construction--that's right. The building is falling apart so I'm greeted each morning by the soothing sound of jackhammers...digging up around the support beams, and the smell of fresh asphalt filling the holes back up. Maybe it's just me but if there is not enough support, should I really be parking there?

And floor seven. The roof. Fine during the day. A dark, light-flickering, lamp-buzzing, watch-your-back, thrills-around-each-corner adventure at night.

But hark--look what I found on that tharrr roof! Art! Urban art!

And not just some art---a t-rex. An effing tyrannosaurus rex! With smoke plumes out da mouth! Plumes I say!
Fine parking garage. I kind of don't hate you today.