It was light dusk as I left home to fetch my daughter from the movies in south Minneapolis. As I approached Broadway south, from Irving, I saw a guy, about 6 feet 2, peeing against a building. A second guy, about 5 feet 8, was waiting nearby. They were in a good mood.

I slowed next to them, lowered my passenger window and said: "Guys, peeing in public is illegal. You really shouldn't be doing that."

The big guy, the pee-er, bent at the waist and glared at me as he walked.

"What you say bitch? You talkin' to me?" he asked.

"Yes, I am talking to you and I'm saying that I saw you pissing on the wall, on busy West Broadway, and that is illegal. You shouldn't do that."

"M.F.," he said, "you got to be crazy. You can't be talking' to me. What you go'n do, M.F.?" His head was now inside the car. "Call 911?"

"Don't worry about 911. I'm talking to you right here and saying you can't do that in public."

"You can't be talking to us, B'. Get the f' outta here before you get your f'ing ass kicked, M.F."

Now this is where my street outrage and savvy kicked into overdrive. I bucked to a halt and jumped out of the car, but stayed in the relative safety between my door and the car.

"You're gonna do what?" I asked. "Did you say you were going to kick my a'? Well, here I am. Come on over here and show me how you're going to do this."

He moved around to my side of the car, but halted just in front of my left headlight. I could see his wheels turning, and I knew I had the upper hand.

"You got to have a piece. I just know you got to have a piece. You couldn't be that crazy, get'n outta that car, knowing you go'n get an ass whuppin,' if you didn't."

I have been at this point many times in urban confrontations and I knew I was in control. "Don't worry about a gun," I said. "You're there and I'm here -- now, what's your plan"?

Just then, I noticed a wry approving smile across his face. He was looking at the smaller man, who was at the passenger side of my car. I kept my focus on the big guy. But I knew something was getting out of control.

Quickly, the short man moved toward the big guy and they both ran forward, laughing, through the parking lot of KFC and into the night. Puzzled, I ducked into the car and followed for a few yards, but I stopped short and began to inspect the car. The window had been open from our initial exchange, and I figured he had spit into the seat. Cautiously I searched for the sight of foam and phlegm.

Then it dawned on me. My iPhone had been on the seat. It was gone. I'd been chumped. I had just recently lost my office phone, and now my personal phone was stolen. Frustration and embarrassment enveloped me.

I raced home and called the cops and returned to the scene, all the while using my wife's phone in a vain attempt to activate the "Find My IPhone" app. Thirty minutes later, officers Chris Smith and Jeff Sworski arrived. They took a statement and gave me a blue card. They promised to return if my "find" feature ever located the phone. I have no idea if they knew I was a City Council member.

I hurried to retrieve my daughter, and an hour later returned to the task of activating Find My iPhone. After another 30 minutes and finally getting the right password, the miracle began, and the night switched from a gritty urban tragedy to a story of tech magic and reclamation.

Right there on the screen of my wife's iPhone was the white graphic of my white iPhone floating at the curb of a precise home in the 1400 block of a North Side avenue, on a crystal-clear satellite picture. The foliage and roof configurations were plain to see.

I jumped in my car, hurried to the Fourth Precinct and asked for Smith and Sworski. They were notified, and I cruised back home to await their arrival. But I just had to drive by to see the house for myself. The hair stood up on the back of my neck as I half expected to see a dozen tough dudes hanging out front, but the house was silent. I looked at my graphic again and discovered that the phone had moved into the house. Modern technology was magical.

Many minutes later, our doorbell rang. I excitedly showed the graphic to the two cops, and we counted off houses from the corner to positively identify the house. They would drive to the house and call me when they got there, then I would remotely activate the "find" alarm on the stolen phone.

Five minutes later, they called, and I activated the alarm repeatedly. It turns out this was a fourplex, so they had to go door to door. But within 10 minutes, right before my eyes, "find" indicated that my phone had moved from the house to the middle of the street.

I woke my wife excitedly, "Honey, I think the cops have the phone. It's now in the middle of the street."

Immediately, the phone rang, and the next six words sent chills down my spine. "Hello, sir. We have your phone."