Spotify Killed the Video Star

In 2007, I was an intern at Magnum Broadcasting in State College, PA. That experience was wonderful and I still have lifelong friends from the experience. I learned a LOT about business, digestible media, and how commerce can be strange bedfellows with neighborhoods & citizenship. I can say, with certainty, that experience with Magnum Broadcasting put me on the path to do the things I’ve done, & I’m grateful.

Blame it on the neurodivergence, but I need a specific type of music in my ear while I’m working, to get the most out of my work day. I’m a kid, hardly twenty-one years old, I’ve got a cheap MP3 player I bought from winnings on a scratch-off, & I am working away. The General Manager, Diana (who looks remarkably like a young Linda Hamilton) comes into the room I was working in, & she’s not happy. She points out how bad it would look if an advertiser were to come in and see me listening to anything other than what the company is putting out on the air. As soon as she said it, it made perfect sense. I wouldn’t have had the first clue before that. That’s the kind of common sense I learned that has taken me places in business.

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Story Time:  a Prayer to the Gray Man

September 2018 — Wilmington, North Carolina

In another life, I looked after houses for other people, and looked after the day-to-day minutiae of keeping the houses making money. That responsibility comes with a few burdens: when the home needed repair, I found the solutions for repair; when the homes were empty, I rallied the troops to make them appealing to rent; when disaster was impending, I did what I could to hedge the odds the bad moon rising would shine on someone else’s home.

When a hurricane is impending, you may be fortunate enough to have a week’s notice. The seven days between the storm brewing out in the office and stepping foot on the coast is spent chewing on nails while you wait to find out how bad the storm will be. The locals boast about the storms they’d endured, how they had no plans of leaving their homesteads, and would give the mercy of telling the transplants they had nothing to worry about. In the world of obtaining bids to replace roofs and knowing what mold smells like as soon as you walk in the door, there is no room for such mercy.

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Imposter Syndrome: Not Just a Great Name for a Band!

If I’m being honest with myself, if I saw a band with the name Imposter Syndrome on a flyer at my favorite local show venue (big love to Reggie’s on 42nd Street in Wilmington, NC!), I’d go see them. The name kind of gives some post-nu-metal rap fusion vibes, but I’d put down the cover to see them.

Imposter Syndrome, in a context fit for an author’s blog, is the phenomenon when an author feels like a fraud, and has an overwhelming conviction of such to the point they undermine the validity of their body of work. Hi, my name is A.P. Miller, and I have Imposter Syndrome. 

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A Diet of Dummy-Books: How Comic Books & Graphic Novels Ignited My Love for Reading

1995-1996

Moshannon Valley Elementary School – Madera, Pennsylvania

My fifth-grade teacher (who will not be named in this blog in fear of summoning the demon that occupied her flesh) gave us a writing assignment for our composition books: write a story. Obviously, this woman was packed to the brim with inspiration & vision, right? We could write a story about whatever we wanted, so I did. I never claimed to be a usual child, I had a wild imagination, and wanted everyone to be excited about it. In that tan-and-red composition book I penned a tale about a child that goes to the doctor to get something out of his eye, and the doctor turns out to be an alien cyborg whose head walked around on metal octopus ears. The doctor would shoot tendrils—long string like appendages, often found on plants—to grab things. Mrs. “I look too much like my brother for anyone to be comfortable about it” says to me: “I don’t even know what that word means.”

This woman was an educator. An educator was giving me shit about using a big word that exceeded her understanding.

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Confessions of an Edgelord (A Blog In F-U Major)

Recently I was reminded that I used to be an idiot. Not just an idiot, but a cringey edgelord. If you look at my yearbook for senior year, you’ll see that it wasn’t signed by anyone. It’s not that people wouldn’t have signed it, I just didn’t have the desire to ask. I signed a few and someone reminded me of how I signed theirs. Please see the image below.

The signature reads “[Friend], Ever notice how pages like these get filled with crap because people are trying to justify bad high school memories with fake wishes and hopeless ambitions for the future? I would wish you luck, if I believed in it, and thought it would do any good. [Government Name Redacted] Miller.”

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