In January 2012, I toured Los Angeles, California, stopping first at the Hollywood Bowl for a water display created and produced by LACoFD Truck Company 8. After that memorable experience, I headed south on Highland Blvd. through old "Hollywood 28". After postal Zip Codes came into use, that designation changed to Hollywood 90028. Even today, the cognoscenti are aware that real Hollywood resides within that one postal designation. Nearby areas pretend to be Hollywood , yet no other Zip Code can legitimately make that claim. At Sunset Blvd., I turned west and then turned south again to 709 North La Brea Ave. There I stopped for lunch.

For readers who do not know that address, it is the location of Pink’s Hot Dogs. As the Great Depression wore on in 1939, Paul and Betty Pink bought a rickety pushcart and went into business selling hot dogs. At the time, a Hoffy brand hotdog “made special for Pink’s”, served in a long split roll and ensconced in cardboard boat lined with an under-sheet of wax paper, cost ten cents. If lunch at Pink's was then ten cents, was coffee a nickel?

The Pink family built, or possibly remodeled the current building in 1946. In a nod to the diverse neighborhood in which it stands, one half of Paul Pink’s contiguous building still houses the Things-Antiques store. In 1939, when Paul Pink purchased his pushcart, my father was fourteen years old and living in L.A.'s Fairfax District. Each weekend, he would travel between his father's home in Los Angeles and Sunland California, where his mother and stepfather lived. In researching this article, I asked if he had any memories of Paul Pink’s that he might share. Here is what he had to say.

Dr. Loron N. (Duke) McGillis: “Each Sunday, we would travel through Cahuenga Pass and then would navigate to the corner of Melrose Ave. and La Brea Blvd. On the northwest corner of the intersection, there was a station. Next door, at 709 North La Brea Ave. stood a pushcart where a man sold hotdogs. I do not remember if a hotdog cost a dime, but a Hershey bar or a Coke was only a nickel, so that sounds right. In those prewar days, there was no discernible smog in Los Angeles. With help from Google Street View, I can still see that cart, shining in the sun. It stood on the parkway or sidewalk, right where people still stand in line for a hotdog. His hotdogs were so great that Paul Pink's became our regular Sunday stop.”

On La Brea Ave., three blocks south of Pink’s is the local branch of the Bank of America (BofA). As Paul’s son told the story in a recent BofA Television ad, Paul Pink strode into the BofA branch one day and asked for a loan. The granting of that loan led to Pink's new location in 1946 and to an enduring business relationship.

In July 2011, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridgee made headlines with their visit to Los Angeles, and to legendary L.A. eatery Paul Pink's Hot Dogs. Although no one so famous as they were present in the Hollywood crowd, I noticed Spokesmodel Carrie McCoy,waiting patiently in line.

“I’m having a chili dog and a Coke", Carrie stated. "What will you have?”

“I’ll have the same, thank you”, I replied with a smile. We had places to go and things to see, so this was no time for a complicated order.

As we wended our way through the slow shuffle of the line, I asked Carrie why she came to Pink’s Hot Dogs on that day. “For me”, she said, “it is all about Paul Pink. He was such a beautiful man”.

“So, you knew Paul Pink personally”, I asked, somewhat surprised.

“Yes. I was born nearby, at the Queen of Angles Hospital. My early childhood, I spent here in Hollywood. Later, in the 1980s, I worked at the BofA, here on La Brea Ave. Paul Pink would come in to deposit his cash receipts at our branch. I remember that he was happy and friendly to everyone he met. Almost daily, he would travel the three blocks from his store to the bank. Sometimes, he would bring hot dogs for everyone. It was always a treat to see Paul Pink. To me, 'Paul Pink’s' is the proper name for this place".

After several minutes, our simple order of two chili dogs received top priority from the staff. Soon, Carrie McCoy and I were sitting out back in the patio area. It was late January in Los Angeles and we were out there having fun in the warm California sun. The food was so good that we finished eating in a matter of minutes. Although each of our meals cost more than ten cents, I must say that for me it really hit the spot.

Thank you to Los Angeles native, Carrie McCoy for dining with us at Paul Pink’s. Her personal story added greatly to an authentic Hollywood experience, even if we were in Hollywood 90038.

Email James McGillis

LA County Fire Department Aerial Truck 8 at the Hollywood Bowl

When I was growing up, every boy wanted to be either a “fireman” or a “policeman”. Today, every child, regardless of gender can aspire to be a firefighter or a police officer. Still, the little boy in me stopped and stared when I saw Los Angeles County Fire Department Truck 8, which is an immense “tillered ladder”, with separate rear wheel steering. Also called a tractor-drawn aerial (TDA) or hook-and-ladder truck, it featured a turntable ladder mounted on a semi-trailer "lorry", as the British might say.
 
In motion, it would have two drivers, each with separate steering wheels for the front and rear wheels. The fifth-wheel articulating design provides a short turning radius and high maneuverability. Rear trailer steering allows the “tiller driver” to negotiate tight corners and congested streets in and around its West Hollywood home base.
 
With research, I discovered that Truck 8 is A Quint truck is both a pumper and a ladder truck. A "Quint" has: 1. a pump, 2. hose, 3. a water tank, 4. ground ladders, and 5. an aerial ladder. Truck 8 has a 1000-gpm pump, and carries 300 gallons of water, and 25 gallons of foam, delivered through a pre-piped aerial waterway. Truck 8 carries 218 ft. of ground ladders, an Amkus Rescue System and seven air bags. With only 300 gallons of water onboard, Truck/Quint 8 supplements available resources rather than acting as an engine/truck combination.
 
Truck 8 was immaculate, from bow to tiller. There was no grease, grime or even dust on its traditional high-lacquer red finish. With its pristine look, I would not have guessed that the truck had already seen fourteen years of service. To me, it was timeless, as were my wishes to fight fires and save lives. Growing up in Los Angeles in mid-century, I watched the TV show “Rescue 8” and the later TV show, called “Emergency”. Both shows featured LACoFD Station 8, where Truck 8 stands ready today.
 
On the front bumper of the aerial truck was a large black and white sticker featuring the old Route 66 logo. Seeing the distinctive logo, I recalled that nearby Interstate I-10 (the Santa Monica Freeway) was the replacement road for Old-66 through Los Angeles. During a recent spate of arson fires in and around Hollywood, Truck 8 responded to the multiday fire-related disaster.
 
After recovering from my daydreams of being the tiller driver on Truck 8, I spotted members of LACoFD Station 8 conducting a live firefighting drill in the parking lot. As their water source, they employed Engine 8, which operates a 1995 KME 1000-gpm engine. Wearing yellow waterproof gear, Firefighter Darney, trained a powerful water hose skyward, casting an arc of water gently across the sky. On first look, it looked like a waste of water. Stepping closer, I saw that he directed the stream of water into the extensive landscaping throughout the terraced parking lot.
 
With the old Pilgrimage Theater cross standing on the far hillside and the sun at his back, the firefighter trained the powerful stream of water back and forth across the landscape. As he did so, the cascade of falling water created a rainbow all around him. It was a glorious sight on a clear winter day in the City of the Angels. Later, I realized that Coney the Traffic Cone had sidled up close to the firefighter, to take in all the action.

Email James McGillis

A Summer Thunderstorm in the Tonopah Desert, Arizona

Email James McGillis

A Visit With Lizard Man, The Spirit of Pueblo Bonito

When I arrived at Chaco Canyon in May 2011, it had been two years since my previous visit. That two-year hiatus represented one five-hundredth of the time since the crash of Chaco’s Pre-Puebloan culture. From the perspective of Chaco Canyon history, my time away was insignificant.

Arriving at the park after nightfall, I had searched the visitor’s area for water to fill the tank on my RV. To my chagrin, the old water tap lay capped-off and hidden behind the temporary park headquarters. After searching for a while, I found the new water tap in a far corner of the parking lot. Whoever placed it there was not thinking about RV service. The only way to use the faucet was to fill containers and then transport them by hand. The new manual system encouraged conservation, but mainly through inconvenience.

After investigating Gallo Campground, I visited a large yurt that serves as the temporary visitor’s center. Across the parking lot, the old center had disappeared, almost without a trace. Early that morning, I had seen a large cement truck rolling in. Where the old center had stood, construction workers were busy pouring a concrete slab for the new one. Based on the remoteness of the worksite and progress to date, I estimated summer of 2012 for the opening of the new center.

After paying my park entry fee, I purchased the book, “ Finders Keepers: A Tale of Archaeological Plunder and Obsession”, by author and naturalist Craig Childs. Early twentieth century archeological exploitation at Chaco Canyon had left it barren of in-situ artifacts. In the name of twentieth century archeological science, every human-made object found at Chaco Canyon disappeared into private or institutional collections. Today, many of those treasures linger on dusty shelves at various museums and universities. That void leaves Chaco Canyon as a place with insufficient context. For current visitors, putting the ancient puzzle together from only its architectural ruins can be daunting.

At the northwest end of Chaco Canyon lies Pueblo Bonito, the largest and most elaborate of the park’s great houses. At its zenith, as a gathering place of the ancient world, Pueblo Bonito was still centuries away from European contact. Seeing its similarity to historical Hopi, Zuni and Pueblo Indian dwellings, early Spanish visitors named it as such.

Early European visitors found Chaco Canyon deserted and destroyed by its ancient inhabitants. It was that event, about 1100 CE that we now call the Great Disappearance. Within less than one hundred years, Chaco Canyon, Hovenweep and Mesa Verde all fell to disuse and abandonment. Until the ancestral Navajos arrived centuries later, most of the Colorado Plateau remained uninhabited.

Why did the Pre-Puebloan residents of Chaco Canyon build their grandest structure in the shadow of “Threatening Rock”, or tse biyaa anii'ahi (leaning rock gap) in Navajo? Archeologists say that early reinforcement of that fractured sandstone slab indicates ancient knowledge of its peril. Was their choice of location an example of ancient risk-taking behavior, or was something else involved?

Seeking answers to this ancient mystery, we may wish to look at contemporary human behavior. If you visit Pueblo Bonito in the late afternoon, you will find others awaiting sundown from within its walls. With few exceptions, those pilgrims wait in reverent silence. Was ancient Pueblo Bonito also a place of silence? Once twentieth century archeologists began studying and excavating the ruins at Chaco Canyon, automobile traffic became ubiquitous in that area. Accompanying those vehicles were new and louder sonic vibrations, thus ending one thousand years of silence in that place.

In January 1941, Threatening Rock, which stood 97 feet (30 m) high and weighed approximately 30,000 tons crumbled on to the northern section of Pueblo Bonito. As it fell, the once intact slab broke into untold numbers of jagged boulders, both large and small. Like a flood of stone fragments, the rock fall released its energy over a large part of the great house ruin. Since the fallen rock and the building blocks of the great house are similar in color and texture, only their haphazard angles of repose help an observer to differentiate the natural elements from the constructed ones.

Threatening Rock stood both before, during, and for a millennium after habitation at Pueblo Bonito. Why, within forty years of modern rediscovery did the great stone slab crash down upon the ruin? Did the sound of human voices, the vibrations from their machines, or time alone topple and shatter that monolith?

During my recent visit to Pueblo Bonito, I made a clockwise circuit of the ruins, observing in turn, the south, west, north (rock fall area) and finally the east. Although there is much to see and feel within the walls of the great house, I was intent upon finding and visiting with an old friend that day. With any luck, I would find him hiding among the broken boulders of the rock fall. Was he still there, or had he vanished in the two years since my last visit?

As I walked along the path leading to the rock fall, there was no trace of my friend. Then, at a sharp left turn, I saw him under the overhang of a large boulder. He stood in profile, as if part of a natural frieze, sculpted and then released from ageless bondage in stone. Freed from his bondage in stone after one thousand years of silence, I offered my silent words of greeting to Lizard Man, the spirit of Pueblo Bonito. Although his wise countenance stared back at me, he remained silent.

It was not until I edited the photos that accompany this article that I noticed a vertical slab of stone framed in my first photo of Lizard Man. In the gap between boulders, behind where he stands a tall fin of sandstone stands away from the canyon wall. Was Lizard Man nonchalantly asking us to observe more of this scene than just him? Indirectly, was he pointing to the new Threatening Rock?

After taking several photos of my friend, I continued on my circuit of Pueblo Bonito. While taking the longer, temporary path to the parking area, I turned to look back. From there I could see the wavelike pattern of broken stone left by the 1941 rock fall. Turning my gaze to the canyon wall, I realized that I was now on the far side of the rock fin that Lizard Man had pointed out to me. It was indeed a new Threatening Rock, which had sliced away from the canyon wall. Narrow at the bottom and wide at the top, this slab was far smaller than the original Threatening Rock. How much longer that second Pillar of Hercules might stand, I cannot say. Only Lizard Man knows, but he is not talking.

Email James McGillis