"Sometimes if you do the job badly enough, you don't get asked to do it again." —Bill Watterson

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I'm sitting behind the security desk at Theatre Row, which has got to be my third least favorite place in the world to sit. (The first two are the dentist's chair and next to a fat, sweaty guy on the subway.) The problem is that the security is more chock full of mindless beeping blinking gizmos than a 1950's science fiction lab, and I can't figure out any of them. First off, there's this intercom system that not only sounds like it's from the fifties but looks the part, too. When it beeps, I've gotta push the button above the blinking light, then push the black button to the left of the blinking light, and then push the buzzer for the studio, theatre, or hallway door depending on which light is blinking. This unlocks the appropriate door about ninety percent of time, meaning that ten percent of the time, I look like a complete dunderhead who can't push a button, like it's my damn fault that this ancient obscure door-opening system isn't working.

And there's an elevator that dings every now and then, which wouldn't be so bad except that I'm hyper-aware of all manner of alert noises. I've gotta jump up in my seat every time the bell goes off — Quick, what am I supposed to do?! Oh, nothing, the elevator's smart enough to handle itself. Not like this lame-ass intercom.

But the absolute goddamn worst is this frickin' mutant uber-telephone they've got sitting here. It's like the fucking phone from hell. First of all, it's got like ninety buttons, which to be honest, is seventy-eight more than a phone really needs. And everybody in the office acts like it's the simplest thing in the world: Okay, to transfer a call, let's say a call is coming in on line three, now you don't put them on hold, you push transfer and then the extension, it's 204 for Adam and 206 for Peter, 222 for the box office, but they don't like talking to people. Now, for the voice mail, that's a bit more complicated, you've gotta dial pound-407 then the extension then pound again. Now, you can use a computer, so I'm sure you can figure out the phone.

Okay, let's first forget about the plain and simple fact that I have absolutely no idea what's going on at this theatre — out of eight phone calls so far and three in-person visitors, I was only helpful with one: "where are you located". And let's forget about the fact that I have no phone manner whatsoever, I despise the telephone like most people despise skunk musk. I hate the ettiquite of the phone, I hate not being able to see whoever I'm talking to, I hate not knowing who I'm talking to. Well, if you forget all that stuff, then I guess I'm fine back here behind the security desk, cause those are my only gripes with the position.

This is what the psychologists call classical conditioning, learning to fear the beep of an odd corporatized giant telephone. Pretty soon, I'll run away and hide under the sink whenever anything beeps: the microwave oven, a contestant buzzing in on Jeopardy!.... what a way to live.

Or I suppose I could look at this as an opportunity to improve my phone skills. Hah! I'm funny!