Illustration by Lars Leetaru
Why doesn’t anyone know that the world-famous Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles was named for H. Gaylord Wilshire, who grew up in Cincinnati and graduated from Woodward High School? He was wealthy and influential, but he’s never on a list of famous Cincinnati natives. How come? —WHY WON’T WILSHIRE
DEAR WON’T:
The Doctor’s Word of the Month is Ionaco. That was the electric belt whose tingles supposedly cured several medical maladies, invented in the 1920s by Henry Gaylord Wilshire. It was quickly debunked. Cincinnati’s snub of Mr. Wilshire’s origins, however, can’t be blamed on this single disreputable product. It was but one of his numerous failures.
He moved to California, where he also published magazines, gave lectures, and led political campaigns promoting his other brilliant passion: socialism. Mr. Wilshire came from a fabulously wealthy Cincinnati family, but he thoroughly enjoyed throwing enormous amounts of Daddy’s money into destroying the capitalist system. You may notice that this also failed.
Even today’s Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles owes little to Mr. Wilshire himself. The road he built was just four blocks long. Only later did it extend through the famous park where a much-more-famous “someone” left the cake out in the rain, and it ultimately grew into America’s poster child for traffic congestion and pollution. As a Cincinnati native, Gaylord Wilshire may not deserve being ghosted quite as much as, say, Charles Manson, but he’s still rather embarrassing.
When I jog along Wasson Way in Norwood, I see shiny steel columns at the street intersections. Some of them have odd-shaped tabs on the top that flip up. What are those tabs for? Securing a dog? Hanging a backpack? Aiming a slingshot? Seriously, why are they there? —KEEPING TABS
DEAR KEEPING:
The Doctor’s New Word of the Month is bollard. Bollards are any row of steel poles, boulders, planters, or flying pig sculptures that block vehicles from pedestrian areas. Along Wasson Way’s miles of greenery and urbanity, handsome steel bollards stand guard at various street intersections. They are about three feet tall and spaced four feet apart, allowing humans to easily fit between them while keeping cars at bay from the Way.
Sometimes, however, a bollard needs to get out of the Way’s way for a city vehicle. Trucks must deliver mowers. Arborists must tend to the young trees that were planted when the Way was underway. Aha, those tabs! Flip one up, and you have a convenient handle for lifting out a bollard.
Well, not you; various safeguards prevent riffraff like you from popping out a pair and using them as barbells. Don’t get any ideas. A much better idea is to donate to Wasson Way’s further development, bringing Cincinnati even more pedestrian enjoyment, more healthy exercise, and more bollards.
I take State Avenue most days to the Western Hills Viaduct. On the way I pass a corner that says Liberty Street, but there’s no actual street, just a short rump of empty asphalt. I assume this was somehow connected to the real Liberty Street across the Mill Creek? I hope there’s a good story. —GIVE ME LIBERTY
DEAR GIVE:
The Doctor’s Even Newer Word of the Month is boondoggle. It’s only a good story because it’s so laughably bad. The Liberty Street Viaduct connected Cincinnati’s east and west sides, which was perfect for 1890 but useless every year thereafter. It wasn’t wide enough to handle those new-fangled electric streetcars alongside those newer-fangled automobiles. Only horses, wagons, and old-fangled pedestrians could use it. Streetcar tracks were added later, but worries about the weight of a 6-ton streetcar, combined with several transit companies fighting over access, kept traffic minimal.
Also, the viaduct ended at the very bottom of Price Hill—not a welcome sight for those pedestrians, horses, streetcars, or even automobiles. Within a few years the thing was barely used or maintained, even after extensions to Liberty Street were built. The viaduct that “ran from no place to nowhere” was finally torn down in 1929, though the city still had five years to go in paying for it. The Doctor will look into getting your tiny rump of Liberty Street changed to Boondoggle Street.
Dr. Know is Jay Gilbert, radio personality and advertising prankster. Submit your questions about the city’s peculiarities here.
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