During that first semester on the air, doing news at seven o'clock in the morning and pretending to enjoy now being a morning person, I was under the direction of the station's news director. Like most other station leadership positions, a student filled the role of news director; that semester it was Troy Meadows. I don't remember much now about Troy all these years later except that he took the news business fairly serious. That is, he expected something newsworthy to come from our brief newscast but wasn't gung-ho enough to require us going out and delving into anything local. And he was tall – sort of looked like Jim Gaffigan. I don't think it was the same guy. (It wasn’t. Sorry.)
The "newsroom" was the term usually used to refer to one of two rooms in the building. One room was mainly geared toward putting together the newscasts for the television station, but radio staff was allowed to work there. Even all these years later that seems like a trivial point – that students from two different mediums were permitted to use a common room for a common purpose – but I recall during my sophomore stint in news that the television people were a bit touchy about non-television people using the room. Arrogance was at fault, mostly, as was stupidity – seeing how it was often the same students.
There was nothing really newsworthy about this room, except that it still had an AP wire machine in a back closet (frankly, that isn't newsworthy either). The closet was large enough to house the printer (on an ugly faux-Victorian stand without a doily) and that was it – maybe a box of paper could be edged in the back if you propped it just so. During my freshman year the closet was unlocked and the wire service was used; in my later years the door was always locked and was the topic of occasional conversation. I remember getting some strange looks once when I told some people what was in there. At another point, a student was all but sure there was a ghost haunting that end of the building, near the newsroom and by Ms. Ganslape’s office. Perhaps it was just the AP machine, long empty of ink and paper but still able to receive the day's news.
I don't know what purpose the room had been created for – it was too small to act as a classroom, and was too large to be an office for one person. Perhaps in the original plans it was designated as a true "newsroom." It looked more like the surplus room, as excess full-size desks and file cabinets (none matching anything else) were dropped off over the years, leaving certain (television) students to appropriate their "area." There was also a beat-up, yet usable, television in the room that usually was able to only receive the stations you didn’t want to watch at that moment (someone once called it a “Zenith knock-off” but I can’t say).
In my later years, after those students who felt they had sole ownership of the room graduated (or had at least disappeared through other means), the room was used by radio and television staff without incident and almost became sort of a pseudo-lounge for students. During the day you could often find someone catching up on reading, studying, or picking apart something for lunch; after hours, when students reserved video bays for overnight editing, the “newsroom” truly became a place to relax, take a break, and catch some sort of late night television (Tom Snyder being a frequent choice).
There was another room in the building dubbed the “newsroom,” but it’s down the hall and I don’t want to walk that far right now. We’ll hit it up later. I’m goin’ to crash here – catch some ESPN or somethin’.
Later.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
The Newsroom 7:00 P.M.
(Newman)
Randy Newman
From the original motion picture soundtrack Paper
1994
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
My head is spinning round+round you pick me up then push me right back down
Sitting somewhat between the College Memorial Library and Bowman-Oates Hall was the Communication Building, constructed at some point between the 1970s and 1980s. It was just over a decade old by the time I arrived (approaching fifteen years, maybe) and therefore in certain nooks and crannies still had that new building smell. As time went by, the building went from being a strictly classroom building to one where I – as well as a handful of other students – lived, worked, ate, and, once, slept. I don't recommend sleeping in a classroom building.
The Communication Building was constructed on the site of the old Eleemosynary Building. A boxy, cream-yellow brick building, it was unclear whether the Eleemosynary Building name was colloquial or official, but it was the only name the building was remembered by in the 1990s. Don’t for a minute think that the building was remembered fondly a decade after its removal – it wasn’t. It remained in memory only because there was an aerial photograph of the old quadrangle in the foyer of the Communication Building with a note explaining what had since been removed. The old Eleemosynary Building was demolished during a time that the administration discovered they had a lot of aging, sagging, and weary looking structures and presumably decided to put them out of their misery. Once most of the historic and beautiful eyesores were removed, empty lots were created on most of the property, with the unusual decision to build something at the southern end – and thus the foundation was set for the Communication Building.
Inhabitants of the building during my time liked to point out the ironic lack of communication between the instructors, the classes, and the competing programs housed within the building (i.e. the Communication and Journalism programs). Early inhabitants, however, had their own tale to tell, specifically the lack of communication in getting the building off the ground, or at least out of the ground. The original four walls each was built and then rebuilt at least twice because of a combination of faulty supplies, air pockets in the concrete, and someone's insistence to not use a straightedge. Assembly continued once the walls were constructed properly and sat perfectly perpendicular.
Let's take a walk around inside, shall we?
Broadcast studios for both the radio and television station were located prominently on the ground floor of the building, easily noticeable and accessible when you walked in the north entrance. As a freshman, this would be my first time around a radio station. Prior to this I only had listened to radio stations, had seen pictures of radio stations, and watched bits of pieces of some radio stations on television programs. But I had never actually seen a radio station up close and personal and likewise never set foot inside one. Therefore my introduction to the control room was a little daunting – while it was a little exciting to see one working up-close at the same time it was a little nerve-racking to know that students were responsible for everything that went over the air. And I was a student.
From that north entrance clockwise along the outer wall (following the trail of two-tone Berber carpet) were faculty offices, the mid-sized television studio, a staircase to the second floor, the small-sized television studio, a seldom used "production room," the elevator, and then a deep closet of electrical equipment few students ever saw. Turning a corner and down a long, dim hall were the first of four small audio production rooms along the eastern wall, a small classroom, and something called the "newsroom." Turning the corner again into a shorter hallway along the south wall were three or four faculty offices. This exited out into another long hall: one direction took to you to more stairs and more faculty offices, including the department head, and the other took your back to the north entrance. The western edge of the building housed the large television studio, which was more or less home to all the programs on Community Channel Seven.
The radio station, then, was in an island of smaller rooms and offices in the center of the floor. FM 89's main studio had two large glass windows looking out to the north and west; to its immediate south was something else called the "newsroom," and the aforementioned Music Library (see It's like you're always stuck in second gear). The rest of the "island" had production rooms or offices, accessible from either the main western or eastern hallway.
It was the main studio that was really where it was at. It grabbed your attention with the two panes of glass, drawing your gaze inward at the DJ on duty, sitting amongst all the various equipment – a cartridge machine, some CD players, two turntables, and a microphone. Just clap your hands, clap your hands.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Communication
(Jeff Ott)
Fifteen
From the album Choice of a New Generation
1994
Where have all the good times gone, when we were together, and life was fun
I wanted to give you the Moon and the Sun, and share my life with someone
I didn't want to change your life, I just wanted affection, not a wife
I didn't want to steal your individuality, and it wasn't just about sexuality
I used to think of your smile to myself
But now my life's a guessing game
Communications, broken down, Communications, broken down
My head is spinning round+round you pick me up then push me right back down
I just wish things could be the same, I know they can't go on this way
Sitting here on my birthday, wondering what can I do or say
To bring your friendship back my way, A million times I want to say
If you didn't feel so far away: I'd be picking flowers for you again today
But if you leave me in the dark today: I'll just have to be on my way
Hoping, you'll follow, my trail of tears, to work things out someway
The Communication Building was constructed on the site of the old Eleemosynary Building. A boxy, cream-yellow brick building, it was unclear whether the Eleemosynary Building name was colloquial or official, but it was the only name the building was remembered by in the 1990s. Don’t for a minute think that the building was remembered fondly a decade after its removal – it wasn’t. It remained in memory only because there was an aerial photograph of the old quadrangle in the foyer of the Communication Building with a note explaining what had since been removed. The old Eleemosynary Building was demolished during a time that the administration discovered they had a lot of aging, sagging, and weary looking structures and presumably decided to put them out of their misery. Once most of the historic and beautiful eyesores were removed, empty lots were created on most of the property, with the unusual decision to build something at the southern end – and thus the foundation was set for the Communication Building.
Inhabitants of the building during my time liked to point out the ironic lack of communication between the instructors, the classes, and the competing programs housed within the building (i.e. the Communication and Journalism programs). Early inhabitants, however, had their own tale to tell, specifically the lack of communication in getting the building off the ground, or at least out of the ground. The original four walls each was built and then rebuilt at least twice because of a combination of faulty supplies, air pockets in the concrete, and someone's insistence to not use a straightedge. Assembly continued once the walls were constructed properly and sat perfectly perpendicular.
Let's take a walk around inside, shall we?
Broadcast studios for both the radio and television station were located prominently on the ground floor of the building, easily noticeable and accessible when you walked in the north entrance. As a freshman, this would be my first time around a radio station. Prior to this I only had listened to radio stations, had seen pictures of radio stations, and watched bits of pieces of some radio stations on television programs. But I had never actually seen a radio station up close and personal and likewise never set foot inside one. Therefore my introduction to the control room was a little daunting – while it was a little exciting to see one working up-close at the same time it was a little nerve-racking to know that students were responsible for everything that went over the air. And I was a student.
From that north entrance clockwise along the outer wall (following the trail of two-tone Berber carpet) were faculty offices, the mid-sized television studio, a staircase to the second floor, the small-sized television studio, a seldom used "production room," the elevator, and then a deep closet of electrical equipment few students ever saw. Turning a corner and down a long, dim hall were the first of four small audio production rooms along the eastern wall, a small classroom, and something called the "newsroom." Turning the corner again into a shorter hallway along the south wall were three or four faculty offices. This exited out into another long hall: one direction took to you to more stairs and more faculty offices, including the department head, and the other took your back to the north entrance. The western edge of the building housed the large television studio, which was more or less home to all the programs on Community Channel Seven.
The radio station, then, was in an island of smaller rooms and offices in the center of the floor. FM 89's main studio had two large glass windows looking out to the north and west; to its immediate south was something else called the "newsroom," and the aforementioned Music Library (see It's like you're always stuck in second gear). The rest of the "island" had production rooms or offices, accessible from either the main western or eastern hallway.
It was the main studio that was really where it was at. It grabbed your attention with the two panes of glass, drawing your gaze inward at the DJ on duty, sitting amongst all the various equipment – a cartridge machine, some CD players, two turntables, and a microphone. Just clap your hands, clap your hands.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Communication
(Jeff Ott)
Fifteen
From the album Choice of a New Generation
1994
Where have all the good times gone, when we were together, and life was fun
I wanted to give you the Moon and the Sun, and share my life with someone
I didn't want to change your life, I just wanted affection, not a wife
I didn't want to steal your individuality, and it wasn't just about sexuality
I used to think of your smile to myself
But now my life's a guessing game
Communications, broken down, Communications, broken down
My head is spinning round+round you pick me up then push me right back down
I just wish things could be the same, I know they can't go on this way
Sitting here on my birthday, wondering what can I do or say
To bring your friendship back my way, A million times I want to say
If you didn't feel so far away: I'd be picking flowers for you again today
But if you leave me in the dark today: I'll just have to be on my way
Hoping, you'll follow, my trail of tears, to work things out someway
Sunday, January 13, 2008
There are no box seats in the library
Due south of the Communication Building was a tiny, architectural wonder called College Memorial Library. With such a generic name came the assumption that it was a generic building. Those beliefs were not far from the truth, as during my time on campus it did little to attract attention. It actually was a very interesting structure, though it did look like a miniature sandstone-colored gumdrop, composed of a rotunda with some wistfully unfinished appendages.
It was famously built in 1899, with “modest additions” hurriedly completed over the next two years. These additions were necessities because the then-president (an odd duck named Caldwell) realized that the century would be over shortly and he wished for another building on his fledgling campus; in short, what would end up as the last building built in the nineteenth century. Why not a separate library, he asked? Why not, was the reply. Plans were scraped together in the tenth hour and a wandering artist – some sort of woodcarver, sculptor, or what have you – was engaged to cobble together Caldwell’s wishes. Old tales were told that this nameless artist (later called “Quistopher” in unofficial texts) used some sort of black magic to complete his project, but these are conjecture and no one believes in magic anyway (let us not be silly). In actuality, Quis only completed the shell of the new library, thus fulfilling Caldwell’s wish to have “another building on his fledgling campus” before the end of the year. It was officially dedicated in 1899, though Caldwell vehemently denied the governing board access inside, claiming it was not “a public facility.”
Following the ceremony, the early months of 1900 were spent figuring out how to construct an interior to match the grandiose exterior. When through, College Library re-opened in 1901 and continued in its designated role until the early 1920s, when the larger replacement library opened on the north end of the quadrangle. Maintaining the name “College Library” on the outer wall of the building, the original college library went through a series of uses that had little to do with Caldwell's intended use: general classroom space, random administrative offices, unwanted equipment storage, unsavory dining hall, improperly-ventilated science laboratory, undersized performance space for the newly created drama department, over-sized gallery space for the uninspired art department, and, by the 1970s, the first broadcast studio space for the campus radio and television stations.
Purportedly the rotunda room of the library had great acoustics to make for studio space. I don’t know: I only visited the library a few times during a history tour, long after the Communication Building had been built and the library building had somehow returned to its original usage, now a "special collections" holding area. It was hard envisioning the building as anything other than a library, much like President Caldwell would have had he lived that long.
One of the undergraduate instructors, a scatterbrained woman named Mrs. Mavis Ganslape, had taught some of the ancestral communication courses in the library, back when the courses were part of some other curriculum (like drama or theater or...). This was odd, since some people said she looked older than the library. I kid, but so went the criticisms of my peers. Back in her heydays, the radio station she supposedly help staff was nothing more than a low-watt studio stuck in mere closet-sized space. Student DJs reportedly sat in bucket seats and played nothing more than scratchy warped pieces of vinyl featuring classical, jazz, and prototypical rock...and it’s anyone’s guess how the audience took to it. Evidently Ganslape thought little of the jazz, rock, and other popular styles back then, based on her annoyed reactions to the current jaw-weary shams in all the different varieties during my time on campus.
Anyway, I first encountered this mysterious blue-haired woman my freshman year and was admittedly somewhat nervous of her omnipresent wrinkly scowl, pointed features, and prickled voice. I didn’t know what she did in the Communication Building, other than appear out of nowhere at the most inopportune times – such as stepping out of her shadowy office at one end of a darkened hall just as I entered from the opposite end. Her saggy eyes, vividly shown through her crystal clear glasses, crossly examined me as our paths briefly crossed. When I asked around, I was told she taught the Media Presentation course, a second-year class that was more known for being outlandishly outdated than anything else.
Outdated and outlandish as the library where she originally taught, no doubt. So that was what I had to look forward to. I couldn’t wait....
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Library Nation
(the evil tambourines/Al Larsen)
The Evil Tambourines
From the album Library Nation
1999
It was famously built in 1899, with “modest additions” hurriedly completed over the next two years. These additions were necessities because the then-president (an odd duck named Caldwell) realized that the century would be over shortly and he wished for another building on his fledgling campus; in short, what would end up as the last building built in the nineteenth century. Why not a separate library, he asked? Why not, was the reply. Plans were scraped together in the tenth hour and a wandering artist – some sort of woodcarver, sculptor, or what have you – was engaged to cobble together Caldwell’s wishes. Old tales were told that this nameless artist (later called “Quistopher” in unofficial texts) used some sort of black magic to complete his project, but these are conjecture and no one believes in magic anyway (let us not be silly). In actuality, Quis only completed the shell of the new library, thus fulfilling Caldwell’s wish to have “another building on his fledgling campus” before the end of the year. It was officially dedicated in 1899, though Caldwell vehemently denied the governing board access inside, claiming it was not “a public facility.”
Following the ceremony, the early months of 1900 were spent figuring out how to construct an interior to match the grandiose exterior. When through, College Library re-opened in 1901 and continued in its designated role until the early 1920s, when the larger replacement library opened on the north end of the quadrangle. Maintaining the name “College Library” on the outer wall of the building, the original college library went through a series of uses that had little to do with Caldwell's intended use: general classroom space, random administrative offices, unwanted equipment storage, unsavory dining hall, improperly-ventilated science laboratory, undersized performance space for the newly created drama department, over-sized gallery space for the uninspired art department, and, by the 1970s, the first broadcast studio space for the campus radio and television stations.
Purportedly the rotunda room of the library had great acoustics to make for studio space. I don’t know: I only visited the library a few times during a history tour, long after the Communication Building had been built and the library building had somehow returned to its original usage, now a "special collections" holding area. It was hard envisioning the building as anything other than a library, much like President Caldwell would have had he lived that long.
One of the undergraduate instructors, a scatterbrained woman named Mrs. Mavis Ganslape, had taught some of the ancestral communication courses in the library, back when the courses were part of some other curriculum (like drama or theater or...). This was odd, since some people said she looked older than the library. I kid, but so went the criticisms of my peers. Back in her heydays, the radio station she supposedly help staff was nothing more than a low-watt studio stuck in mere closet-sized space. Student DJs reportedly sat in bucket seats and played nothing more than scratchy warped pieces of vinyl featuring classical, jazz, and prototypical rock...and it’s anyone’s guess how the audience took to it. Evidently Ganslape thought little of the jazz, rock, and other popular styles back then, based on her annoyed reactions to the current jaw-weary shams in all the different varieties during my time on campus.
Anyway, I first encountered this mysterious blue-haired woman my freshman year and was admittedly somewhat nervous of her omnipresent wrinkly scowl, pointed features, and prickled voice. I didn’t know what she did in the Communication Building, other than appear out of nowhere at the most inopportune times – such as stepping out of her shadowy office at one end of a darkened hall just as I entered from the opposite end. Her saggy eyes, vividly shown through her crystal clear glasses, crossly examined me as our paths briefly crossed. When I asked around, I was told she taught the Media Presentation course, a second-year class that was more known for being outlandishly outdated than anything else.
Outdated and outlandish as the library where she originally taught, no doubt. So that was what I had to look forward to. I couldn’t wait....
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Library Nation
(the evil tambourines/Al Larsen)
The Evil Tambourines
From the album Library Nation
1999
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Broken hearts and broken bones, this is where we used to live
Bowman-Oates Hall, a dorm that sat a mile or so north of the downtown area, was completed in 1968 but originally began under much duress in the early throes of the twentieth century. That said, it was an interesting place to live, to watch people and the world go by, and to be amazed at how various interpretations of architecture and housing requirements, from just as many numerous university administrators over the years, could seamlessly fit together into what generally could be a very depressing place to live.
The dormitory was originally a wooden frame building built with money and labor from men students on the site of the former Bucket Boarding House. This non-descript boarding house was burnt to the ground after a bonfire, started by many of the same students to - ironically - celebrate homecoming, got terribly out of hand. While conceived as a temporary replacement, the new building remained standing longer than expected and eventually earned "eyesore status" after a mere eight years.
It wasn't until 1912 that famed architect and visiting professor Magnus "Dass" Paulsson (who had famously referred to the building as the "Bucket of Drit House" during a graduation ceremony) designed plans to replace it with a more permanent brick structure. Financial shortcomings prevailed, however, and the university was only able to encase the one-story wooden building within a wall of brick and mortar. The 1911 senior class donated money for a bulbous cupola, installed by 1916.
The fledging alumni association sought to increase awareness of what was now being called the "Men's Dorm" by beginning a Buy-a-Brick program in the early 1920's. For every donation to the program, former students could have a message engraved on the bricks being used to strengthen the foundation (university archives have two such bricks that were part of the program on display). So great was the interest that the university was able to add a second floor – once the cupola was removed.
Little work was done of the dormitory in the years leading up to the Great Depression, as the administration wrestled internally with what to do with the cupola – replace it atop the two-story building or delay installation. Now bearing classical Greek overtones, the building sported five columns that represented the university's then-five schools (now colleges), and some of the eeriest graffiti this side of the Mississippi.
Once the decision to replace the cupola was made, President Bowman resigned and returned to active duty with the United States Air Force. Following his death overseas, the university renamed the residence Bowman Hall, with plans to double the occupancy. Due to a misunderstanding with the building contractor, the third and fourth floors were constructed adjacent to the first and second floors. The pedestrian walkway between the two halves was covered in the mid-1950s, shortly before the "second half" won the honorary name Oates Hall in a raffle.
By 1961, the need for more housing prompted the university to try again with the additional floor space. There was just cause for celebration when the building blossomed into a four-story dormitory, though restricted entirely to female students. Modifications during this time included, externally, the addition of a gaudy amount of aluminum trim and the bricking up of dormer windows, as well as the realization that most of the area on the third floor of Bowman Hall was taken up by the cupola. It was eventually wedged out a window as a protest to the war in Viet Nam, student service fees, and other what not. Bowman-Oates Hall went coed by the 70s, prompting streaking and Oates Hall to sprout a wing of rooms on a truncated fifth floor, dubbed the Pentahouse. (No reason was given as to why Bowman Hall remained four stories.)
Anyway, by my time on campus, the university had grown up and out around the old residence – one of the two streets it sat adjacent to was redeveloped into a mall area that straddled the line between progressive academic buildings (like the neighboring Communication Building) and chintzy, kitschy post-WWII era schlock (the over-remodeled residential areas between downtown and campus). Across the other street (now a delivery zone terminus) was the rear of the Communication Building and the skeletal radio tower. This tower stood out like a sore thumb for a few reasons, the main one being its height (approximately 200-feet tall). There was a certain architectural charm to it, too, as it was a modern convenience on a horizon surrounded by mostly 80-to-90-year-old buildings.
Not long into my freshman year I heard the urban legend about certain rooms of Bowman-Oates Hall being able to pick up the radio station. That's right - due to the proximity of the tower, people said they were actually able to hear the radio station in the aluminum siding, window frames, and air conditioner units in rooms facing the Communication Building. I never knew how clearly these people could hear the station – apparently noticeable enough to perceive sound – or if there were atmospheric conditions that allowed this, but it was one of those odd stories that popped into my mind from time to time. I wondered then where else could you hear the station? The tiny metal cylinder on the end of pencils? The braces on your teeth? The metal chairs in the lobby? In my later years during a music shift, I related the story and dedicated an hour’s worth of music to those listening across the street; I’m sure it must have sounded strange and I wondered if the audience envisioned students with their ears to the wall.
There was little celebration of the old apartment building’s 100th year – or at least the centennial of when the original section of the building was constructed. I don’t think much noise was made when the building was finally leveled a number of years after I graduated, either.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
The Old Apartment
(Steven Page/Ed Robertson)
Barenaked Ladies
From the album Born on a Pirate Ship
1996
Broke into the old apartment
This is where we used to live
Broken glass, broke and hungry
Broken hearts and broken bones
This is where we used to live
Why did you paint the walls?
Why did you clean the floor?
Why did you plaster over the hole I punched in the door?
This is where we used to live
Why did you keep the mousetrap?
Why did you keep the dishrack?
These things used to be mine
I guess they still are, I want them back
Broke into the old apartment
Forty-two stairs from the street
Crooked landing, crooked landlord
Narrow laneway filled with crooks.
This is where we used to live.
Why did they pave the lawn?
Why did they change the locks?
Why did I have to break it, I only came here to talk
This is where we used to live
How is the neighbor downstairs?
How is her temper this year?
I turned up your tv and stomped on the floor just for fun
I know we dont live here anymore
We bought an old house on the danforth
She loves me and her body keeps me warm
Im happy here
But this is where we used to live
Broke into the old apartment
Tore the phone out of the wall
Only memories, fading memories
Blending into dull tableaux
I want them back
I want them back
The dormitory was originally a wooden frame building built with money and labor from men students on the site of the former Bucket Boarding House. This non-descript boarding house was burnt to the ground after a bonfire, started by many of the same students to - ironically - celebrate homecoming, got terribly out of hand. While conceived as a temporary replacement, the new building remained standing longer than expected and eventually earned "eyesore status" after a mere eight years.
It wasn't until 1912 that famed architect and visiting professor Magnus "Dass" Paulsson (who had famously referred to the building as the "Bucket of Drit House" during a graduation ceremony) designed plans to replace it with a more permanent brick structure. Financial shortcomings prevailed, however, and the university was only able to encase the one-story wooden building within a wall of brick and mortar. The 1911 senior class donated money for a bulbous cupola, installed by 1916.
The fledging alumni association sought to increase awareness of what was now being called the "Men's Dorm" by beginning a Buy-a-Brick program in the early 1920's. For every donation to the program, former students could have a message engraved on the bricks being used to strengthen the foundation (university archives have two such bricks that were part of the program on display). So great was the interest that the university was able to add a second floor – once the cupola was removed.
Little work was done of the dormitory in the years leading up to the Great Depression, as the administration wrestled internally with what to do with the cupola – replace it atop the two-story building or delay installation. Now bearing classical Greek overtones, the building sported five columns that represented the university's then-five schools (now colleges), and some of the eeriest graffiti this side of the Mississippi.
Once the decision to replace the cupola was made, President Bowman resigned and returned to active duty with the United States Air Force. Following his death overseas, the university renamed the residence Bowman Hall, with plans to double the occupancy. Due to a misunderstanding with the building contractor, the third and fourth floors were constructed adjacent to the first and second floors. The pedestrian walkway between the two halves was covered in the mid-1950s, shortly before the "second half" won the honorary name Oates Hall in a raffle.
By 1961, the need for more housing prompted the university to try again with the additional floor space. There was just cause for celebration when the building blossomed into a four-story dormitory, though restricted entirely to female students. Modifications during this time included, externally, the addition of a gaudy amount of aluminum trim and the bricking up of dormer windows, as well as the realization that most of the area on the third floor of Bowman Hall was taken up by the cupola. It was eventually wedged out a window as a protest to the war in Viet Nam, student service fees, and other what not. Bowman-Oates Hall went coed by the 70s, prompting streaking and Oates Hall to sprout a wing of rooms on a truncated fifth floor, dubbed the Pentahouse. (No reason was given as to why Bowman Hall remained four stories.)
Anyway, by my time on campus, the university had grown up and out around the old residence – one of the two streets it sat adjacent to was redeveloped into a mall area that straddled the line between progressive academic buildings (like the neighboring Communication Building) and chintzy, kitschy post-WWII era schlock (the over-remodeled residential areas between downtown and campus). Across the other street (now a delivery zone terminus) was the rear of the Communication Building and the skeletal radio tower. This tower stood out like a sore thumb for a few reasons, the main one being its height (approximately 200-feet tall). There was a certain architectural charm to it, too, as it was a modern convenience on a horizon surrounded by mostly 80-to-90-year-old buildings.
Not long into my freshman year I heard the urban legend about certain rooms of Bowman-Oates Hall being able to pick up the radio station. That's right - due to the proximity of the tower, people said they were actually able to hear the radio station in the aluminum siding, window frames, and air conditioner units in rooms facing the Communication Building. I never knew how clearly these people could hear the station – apparently noticeable enough to perceive sound – or if there were atmospheric conditions that allowed this, but it was one of those odd stories that popped into my mind from time to time. I wondered then where else could you hear the station? The tiny metal cylinder on the end of pencils? The braces on your teeth? The metal chairs in the lobby? In my later years during a music shift, I related the story and dedicated an hour’s worth of music to those listening across the street; I’m sure it must have sounded strange and I wondered if the audience envisioned students with their ears to the wall.
There was little celebration of the old apartment building’s 100th year – or at least the centennial of when the original section of the building was constructed. I don’t think much noise was made when the building was finally leveled a number of years after I graduated, either.
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The Old Apartment
(Steven Page/Ed Robertson)
Barenaked Ladies
From the album Born on a Pirate Ship
1996
Broke into the old apartment
This is where we used to live
Broken glass, broke and hungry
Broken hearts and broken bones
This is where we used to live
Why did you paint the walls?
Why did you clean the floor?
Why did you plaster over the hole I punched in the door?
This is where we used to live
Why did you keep the mousetrap?
Why did you keep the dishrack?
These things used to be mine
I guess they still are, I want them back
Broke into the old apartment
Forty-two stairs from the street
Crooked landing, crooked landlord
Narrow laneway filled with crooks.
This is where we used to live.
Why did they pave the lawn?
Why did they change the locks?
Why did I have to break it, I only came here to talk
This is where we used to live
How is the neighbor downstairs?
How is her temper this year?
I turned up your tv and stomped on the floor just for fun
I know we dont live here anymore
We bought an old house on the danforth
She loves me and her body keeps me warm
Im happy here
But this is where we used to live
Broke into the old apartment
Tore the phone out of the wall
Only memories, fading memories
Blending into dull tableaux
I want them back
I want them back
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