Ms. Butterfingers faces phone registration
Story by Nancy Neukirchner
It’s the first day of classes,
Spring 1987. I am happy and
refreshed from my month-long
vacation and ready for anything
this school can throw my way.
Well, almost.
I go to my first class — sup
posedly English 325, creative
writing. At first it seems odd that
the class meets in the old
Chemistry building, but then I
remember the semester I had
statistics in the Animal Indus
tries building and chalk another
one up to university classroom
logistics.
As I side-step my way
through a row of seats, carefully
avoiding sensible shoes and
briefcases, I nervously notice
quite a few calculators and me
chanical pencils neatly arranged
on top of graph paper.
Being a liberal arts major, I
am rarely required to carry
these items and I begin to won
der why we would need these
things to write creatively.
Maybe the class is a require
ment for engineering majors.
I find a seat next to a girl who
has six perfectly sharpened
pencils lined up across her desk,
easily accessible if she breaks
the point on the one in her
poised hand. As the teacher en
ters the room, the girl furiously
begins taking notes.
Without saying a word, the
professor sets down his brief
case, walks over to the black
board and writes the name of
the class on the black slate.
The words SEMINAR IN
QUANTUM MECHANICAL
ASTROPHYSICS AND ELEC
TROMAGNETIC FIELD THE
ORY jump out at me, startling
my body into near shock. As
my potential energy is con
verted into kinetic energy, I
grab my backpack and flee
from the room, barely escaping
a semester of nuclear fallout.
After my heart rate returns to
normal, I wonder how an error
of this immensity could have
occurred.
All of a sudden, it hits me.
Phone registration! I must have
dialed a wrong digit.
I vividly recall that day in No
vember when I registered for
my spring classes right from my
dorm room. I thought it was a
great idea at the time. No more
lines to see busy advisors and
no more registration lines. The
only thing I had to worry about
was crowded phone lines.
My roommate and I were as
tounded. You could Dial-A-
Joke, Dial-A-Prayer and now
you, yes you, could Dial-A-
Class.
Well, perhaps dial is the
wrong word. Now you could
T ouch-T one-A-Class.
I began to follow the step-by-
step instructions provided in my
class schedule book. I thought I
was doing fine, but about the
time I was registering for my
third class, someone answered
the phone.
"Hello.”
“What do you mean, hello?
I’m not done.”
"You’re not done what?”
"Registering for 627-310-
500.”
"What are you talking
about?”
“What’s the number I dial to
terminate a request?”
"Who is this?”
“This is personal identifica
tion number 06-17-65. Who is
this?
"This is Marge in Juneau. ”
"Is Juneau in Texas?”
"No, Juneau is in Alaska. ”
Click.
A little shaken after nearly di
aling my bank account away, I
tried again. This time class regis
tration was successful. But I
wondered when the person
with a Social Security number
one digit away from mine
would find out that he was reg
istered for journalism curricula.
The third time, I correctly
registered for my classes, but I
had some problems with the fee
options. I accidentally signed up
for three meals, two dorm
rooms and a shuttle bus pass.
While attempting to drop my
extra options, I dropped two
classes and by the time I re-reg
istered for those classes they
were full. Just my luck.
At this point, I decided that
dropping out of school would
be my best option, until I
learned that I had to call back
and dial a number with 67 digits
to do it.
Modern technology is as
tounding.
What’s next? Maybe Dial-A-
Lecture. Why bother getting up
and going to class? Just dial the
subject number, course number
and section number of your
classes and listen to the lecture
over the phone.
If the professor insists on tak
ing role, students just dial their
Social Security numbers and
personal identification num
bers. An advanced voice-check
system will identify the students
in case they try to get their
roommates to call. And if they
hang up the phone mid-lecture,
a beep will sound alerting the
professor. Then the whole class
will wait while he re-engages
the rude student with the help
of a tracing system.
Or maybe Dial-A-Football
Game. Instead of enduring the
trek to third deck and the hot
sun of the earlier games, stu
dents could call a number to lis
ten to a game. 845-KYLE per
haps.
But here’s what I really want
to know: if we register like this
again in the fall, will they figure
out a way to take ID pictures
over the phone?