During my short tenure as a college student, I knew a guy that lived a few dorms down from me. We became minor friends and I soon learned he grew up on NW 16th back when the Plaza District was just a bloodshot glimmer in a crack addict’s eye.
I went over to his former house one evening to help him grab a few boxes when, in the middle of the dining room, there was a life-size Sinclair dinosaur, a former gas station mascot that, apparently, used to sit in front of one of their stores. When asked about it, he told me of a high school prank that got out of hand.
Even though that was some twenty or so years ago, the why’s and how’s of stealing a large plaster dinosaur has always intrigued and astounded me, like a Flintstonian theft of stone age art that should continue to be explored. Every time I go past that house, part of me wonders if it’s still in there, though I seriously doubt it.