Page 2/The Battalion/Thursday, January 21, 1988
Gucci checkbooks
and serious banks
A Chicago bank
has hired a crea
ture named Gucci
to design arty new
checks and check
books.
Gucci, who is fa
mous for design
ing women’s shoes
and purses, has
created checks
with swans, dai-
s i e s , m i s t -
Mike
JRo^ko^
shrouded trees, rippling water, a sun
rise and even a seagull against a laven
der background. Gucci is not the hairy-
chested type.
The bank thinks this will attract new
customers. Maybe it will, but I won’t be
one of them.
Banks should be serious. My attitude
toward them is the same as that of Mrs.
Grobnik, who was Slats Grobnik’s
mother. “A good bank, ” she always
said, “should look like a jail, except the
bank’s walls should be thicker/’
Whenever she made a deposit — and
she never made withdrawals — Mrs.
Grobnik would walk around the lobby
to see if they had hired any new guards.
If she found one, she would ask him:
“Are you a good shot?”
They always said yes, so she’d ask:
“How many people have you shot?”
If they hadn’t shot anybody, she
would go to the chief cashier and ask
why they were hiring inexperienced
people.
Sometimes she would purposely in
clude a half-dollar in her deposit. If the
cashier didn’t bite it, she would tri
umphantly report him to the vice presi
dent.
Once in a while, she would set the
alarm clock for 1 a.m. Then she’d get up
and walk to the bank and rap on the
door. When the night guard peered out,
she’d say: “Remember, no sleeping.”
After using the same bank for 24
years, she abruptly closed her account
and put her money somewhere else.
The reason was that a cashier had
grown a mustache.
“The next thing,” she said, “is he will
take my money and run away to Las Ve-
gas.
I’m sure that Mrs. Grobnik would not
have felt comfortable with Gucci’s
checkbooks. In fact, she never in her life
used a checkbook. She thought that any
body who would put their money in a
bank, then immediately spend a nickel
writing a check to get some of it out,
should be put away by his relatives for
his own good.
Copyright 1987, Tribune Media Services, Inc.
Mail Call
An ignored holiday
EDITOR:
It has long amazed me that even the finest institutions in our great nation
have difficulty recognizing certain important events and the appropriate way
of honoring those events. Occasionally, the event to be honored is a person’s
life. If this person were influential enough, a day is recognized as a national
holiday.
Not too long ago a man of great influence received a national holiday in
his name. Tfiis man spent his life working for the good of the people of this
nation, not just one minority, as many people try to see his work. If his ac
complishments were not of the caliber to be celebrated, would there be a na
tional holiday in his name?
On January 18, 1988, classes began for the spring semester here at Texas
A&M. I realize that the low number of minority students on this campus al
lowed the majority to overlook this important day. I was in shock at the ac
tions of this honorable, tradition-filled university. Why do w r e not observe the
day that honors a man that did so much for not only blacks but for all people
that are oppressed?
I beg this university not to overlook the birthday of Dr. Martin Luther
King, Jr. anymore. Denial of this and any other national holidays is a disgrace
to this or any other institution that follows the same policy.
J. Frank Hernandez ’91
Editor’s note: In Wednesday’s Battalion, a letter was credited to Perry A. Lis
ter II. The name should have read Perry A. Liston II.
Letters to the editor should not exceed 300 words in length. The editorial staff reserves the right to edit letters
for style and length, but will make every effort to maintain the author’s intent. Each letter must be signed and
must include the classification, address and telephone number of the writer.
The Battalion
(USPS 045 360)
Member of
Texas Press Association
Southwest Journalism Conference
The Battalion Editorial Board
Sue Krenek, Editor
Daniel A. LaBry, Managing Editor
Mark Nair, Opinion Page Editor
Amy Couvillon, City Editor
Robbyn L. Lister and
Becky Weisenfels,
News Editors
Loyd Brumfield, Sports Editor
Sam B. Myers, Photo Editor
Editorial Policy
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A&M and Bryan-College Station.
Opinions expressed in The Battalion are those of
the editorial board or the author, and do not nec
essarily represent the opinions of Texas A&M admin
istrators, faculty or the Board of Regents.
The Battalion also serves as a laboratory newspa
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phy classes within the Department of Journalism.
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Opinion
Mrs. Grobnik finally stopped dealing
with banks entirely when she found out
that they loaned money. She had always
thought they just stored it away. It was
her opinion that anybody who bor
rowed money did so because they didn’t
have enough of their own, which means
they were bums. And she didn’t want to
trust her money to an institution that
would loan it out to bums.
I’m not quite as conservative as Mrs.
Grobnik about such matters, but the
business of the Gucci checks would
make me nervous.
For one thing, his name isn’t just
plain Gucci. No Italian mother is going
to send a boy into the world with no
more of a handle than “Gucci.” Would
an Italian priest baptize a baby as plain
“Gucci?”
Yet, when I called the bank and asked
them what Gucci’s full name was, they
said they didn’t know.
Maybe being just Gucci is enough for
the fashion circles in New York, but a
bank ought to get a guy’s full name be
fore they do any kind of business with
him. If they hire somebody who goes
around saying, “I am Gucci,” they might
decide to lend money to people who
walk in and say, “I am Smith — give me
a thou.”
I am not opposed to adding a little art
to checks. But it should be something se
rious. When a person writes a check he
shouldn’t think about daisies, seagulls,
rippling waters, sunrises, trees and
other pleasant things. He is spending
money, and he should think dark
thoughts.
If there are going to be daises on the
check, they should be surrounding a
gravestone with his name on it. If there
are going to be rippling waters, a hand
should be sticking out of the water. If
there is a tree, it should have a noosed
rope attached to a limb.
I’d like to see checkbooks with pic
tures of a turnip, with a drop or two of
blood oozing out of it.
Many men would like checks for their
wives that would bear a drawing of a
widow in black, sitting at a lawyer’s desk,
with the lawyer saying: “Well, you can
always sell the furniture.”
Or maybe a bleak, rickety old build
ing with a sign over the door that says:
“Poor House.”
Married men could use personalized
checks with a snappy slogan across the
top. Maybe something like: “Bartender:
Please don’t cash this. Signed, His chil
dren.”
Black Americans
are, as close as
they*re gonna get
to the ideal of
equality
Enter an action code
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You know it will
happen sometime.
If at first you don’t
succeed, try, try
again, right? So
you cross your fin
gers and keep try
ing. And trying.
And trying.
Seven, eight,
nine times . . . still
you can’t give up.
Minutes are tick-
ing away. 1 he suspense has tied your
stomach into a square knot. The tip of
your right index finger is numb, your
Tracy
Staton
left hand is cramped, and your bottom
lip is almost bitten through. But it’s im
possible to stop. You can’t do it. You
long to hear the electronic musical
sound of a voice saying the magic
words:
Welcome to the Texas A&M Univer
sity System. Enter an action code —
NOW.
You know it’s a fantasy of Utopian
proportions. But the lust of a student
desperate for classes has claimed you.
At night you dream about picking up
the phone, dialing it, and reaching the
registration system on the FIRST TRY.
You attempt to remain calm, fearing
your friends will laugh when you con
fess your fantasies. Then they catch the
dial-a-class disease (scientifically termed
subphonal educatological coursic syn
drome).
One of your more outgoing chums
has an add/drop party — BYOCP (bring
your own cordless phone). The thought
of an orgy of students all dialing 260-
3213 at once overwhelms you. You
choose to spend a quiet evening at
home, just you, your Snoopy telephone,
and a registration booklet. The hostess
calls you the next day and admits that
the party was “uncontrollably wild.”
“But someone got through!” she ex
claims triumphantly. “Too bad all the
classes were full. We were all excited
anyway, though.”
Panic grips your throat. You can
barely finish the conversation. It had
never crossed your mind that the ulti
mate object of your quest — adding
twelve hours to your meager course
load of a one-hour P.E. class — might be
beyond your reach once you began your
electronic conversation with Mr. Com
puter. You thought he held the keys to
the universe, or at least to class rosters.
You leave your dorm in a daze. You
ask everyone you meet if they are en
rolled in more than three hours. Four
out of five students surveyed recom
mended executing Mr. Computer for
withholding class hours from needy
scholars.
You don’t believe it. Someone is play
ing a cruel joke on you for skipping the
phone fest. So you go back to your room
and resume dialing.
After a half-hour of strenuous but
ton-pushing, you hear a ringing noise
when you finish dialing the number.
You almost drop the receiver. You fum
ble for your schedule book, shakily in
put your student LD. number and make
your first course request.
The class you have requested is full.
No other sections of this class are avail
able. Please enter your next request —
rtow.
You enter your next selection. Mr.
Computer seems to chuckle spitef ully as
he repeats:
The class you have requested is full.
No other sections of this class are avail
able. Please enter your next request —
NOW.
You awake f rom unconsciousness
several minutes later, the gnawed and
mutilated phone cord between your
teeth.
“It’s true!” you scream. “I’ll never be
able to get twelve hours! I might as well
drop my P.E. class too!
AUGGGHHHHHH!!!!”
Then Devious Plan sticks his head out
of a tiny niche in your brain. “Hey, I’ve
got a better idea,” he says.
“What?” you ask, your finger already
poised to drop your class.
“Let’s sneak into registration head
quarters and strangle Mr. Computer.
Everyone already thinks he should be
executed, anyway. We’ll be doing stu
dents a favor.”
You raise your eyebrows.
“Hmmmm.”
You unhook your phone cr
stuf f it surreptitiously into youi§|
shirt. Glancing furtively down's
of your dorm, you steal outside:
to look normal.
1 he closer vou get to the Pavi§MAUS
more excited vou become. CaujiGov. H
wave of anticipation, you breahchnosii
run. Devious Plan gives vou a ’-H'
while you jog.
st;
rism m
Isn t a university s purposetiwB-j| 1C
mil knowledge t<> its students''! ret-o u
tells you. “Aren’t you just like ill o¥a pi
sumer of any product, and tl>t|® m<K
like a supplier, and professors jwT’M
tributors? Wouldn't the iinwljlr’
nothing without its students?Huff t ' ) '"
Didn t we learn in economic'* ].I t mi
mester that when demand is if for at
than supply, excess demandexiaaivert
suppliers should increase produjj ,
accommodate demand?
says.“So we’ll just send a messapfu^Tj^j!
class market that it's got to adrii
can’t take this abuse any londjft
can't pist sit back with out phone
hands, letting students remain I
mercy of Mr. Computer. RICH
“RIGHT!” you shout as you*
up the steps to the Pavilion. Vo-W
open the door; it’s locked. Wm
your f ists on the glass, screiF
“DEATH TO MR COMF1
STRANGLE MR. COMPUTi
I HE NAME OF CLASS ATlD
CE!”
You throw a rock at the door
the glass, and somehow wormy®
inside the building. You arearre
the University Police, still holdi
cord menacingly in f ront of Mi
puter.
1 wo days later, you are in a)
awaiting trial on charges of asst
a deadly telephone cord. Your*
can’t visit you because they are
trying to add or drop classes.! 1 '
Plan is strangely silent. Desper^
alone, you vow to transfer to ai
sity with adequate numbers off
tions.
Tracy Staton is a senior journals
jor, a staff writer and a coluW
The Battalion.
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