On my first day of graduate school (I had but one class), I expected to feel much like I did in the orientations.  Introspective and paranoid like I didn't belong, like it wouldn't be long before they discovered that some mistake was made in the office that allowed me to slip in.  Some huge, heinous mistake.

They call this "impostor syndrome" and while I am sure I will feel this way many, many more times throughout my academic career, after my first day of graduate school, in my one class, I couldn't have felt like I belonged to a group of people more.

First up was TV Theory, which will likely be my favorite class of the semester. After the obligatory syllabus chat, not in a classroom but around a conference table, our young but accomplished professor, talked to us about his experiences studying with some of the early TV scholars - before the field was really born or accepted.  People I admit to knowing nothing about - call me ze impostor.

Of particular interest to me was the discussion of one John Fiske, who approached his studies not from the stance of the medium itself, but the importance of the context of Television - how you watch it, who you're with, where you're at, etc. TV not as a "monolithic icon" to be studied at, but studied with.

But, I think it was when the professor brought up his dissertation topic, spy shows during the Cold War, that I experienced a sort of unbridled enthusiasm I've haven't felt in a long time - the kind where I have to physically stop myself from giggling and waving my arms uncontrollably.  Occasionally, I refer to this as a "gay attack."  And yes, that is something my mother would be very embarrassed to read, but something she would likely know all too well.

The class was fabulous enough that I caught myself jotting down quotations (I'm an over-zealous note-taker). Things like, "I hesitate to say this, but you'll learn to triage your readings."

"If you miss a paper, I'm not going to take away your birthday or something."

And when the conversation about leading those class discussions that digress so nothing gets accomplished, "All of a sudden it's like a U.N. conference!"

On being too stringent like the academic, Adorno (who I've never read) , "I don't really want to die on that hill."

To which a Ph.D. student in the room responded, "One of my professors always said, 'A day without Adorno is like a day WITH sunshine.'"

Part of the fun of being a Media Studies student in the department of Radio, TV and Film is that my classes have screenings - we watch works that relate specifically to the texts - works that include shows like, Glee, 30 Rock, The Sopranos, 6 Feet Under, ER, Friends, CSI, Extreme Home Makeover, Mad Men and various soap operas (all of which are on the syllabus).

Then prompted the introductions - a part of syllabus day that I usually find awfully boring - but they were somehow incredibly stimulating.  I was one of the last to speak, and by the time it got to me, and everyone was looking at me, and waiting to hear what I had to say - all these incredibly interesting people, I HAD to preface:

"I'm Taylor Miller, from Kansas.  Toto jokes welcome.  I am an overly enthusiastic person, and I think if I were an 'artist-formerly-known-as' my symbol would be an exclamation mark.  Apologies in advance."

Then, I went on to talk about my interests in the intersections of sexuality and heroification on TV saying that, even though I was a Spanish major - I managed to sneak Xena into my capstone paper, and you'll more than likely find True Blood in my thesis.

The professor responded positively mentioning that he had removed the "camp" section from the syllabus, but, citing all the obvious fans of campy-TV sitting bright-eyed and bushy-tailed around the table, he would be considering bringing it back.  At this point, I stopped myself from spontaneous clapping.

This is going to be a fun class - this is going to be an awesome career.  Occasionally I feel like I am an impostor - what have I done quitting a perfectly good job in this economy - especially when I hear all the naysayers and eyebrow-lifters who think academia is a waste of time.  But to those people I say, I'm going to live a life of constant learning, constant reinvention, and stimulating conversation - I know what I'm doing.  And, although I realize that I am right where I'm meant to be, WHEN I'm meant to be, part of me is sour I didn't arrive sooner.

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At our Meet and Greet, in the icebreaker, when one of our professors had to state an "interesting fact," she said, "I'm having trouble with True Blood right now, and if you want to know why, come and talk to me."  I INSTANTLY knew what she was talking about - shuffled over and had a very pleasant, intriguing conversation!  But more on that, soon.

I can never believe the looks of shock and disgust I receive when I tell people I used to work for a cable company. The problem is only exacerbated when the people I tell live in a city, where, like Lawrence, the service is merrily provided in an untimely, overpriced and monopolistic manner that ultimately results in frustration of orgasmic proportions. So, pretty much everyone.

This horrified expression is often chased with personal accounts of people's great battles against their local cable companies, and often in a matter-of-fact, even accusatory manner:

Stories of long wait times with anywhere from insipid to grating music playing ad nauseum interluded only with the promise of a service agent that would never come, but please check out our website because that's possible when your internet doesn't work.

Stories of malfunctioning field agents who commit to arriving only within a five hour timeframe, but stumble in more than acceptably late, and often, missing relevant parts.

And my favorite, stories of customer service agents who can't speak English, so how did they ever get a job where the single most important characteristic they should possess is that they should be easily understood over a phone?

Often, these anecdotes are hilarious, even when they're not intended to be. And as the story-tellers detail their struggles, you can almost picture them, sitting on the phone, a computer in pieces at their feet, eyebrows furrowed, butt cheeks clinched, clicking a pen or gripping their hair while fuming furiously as the elevator music pumps on a loop through the phone line that was merrily provided to them in an untimely, overpriced and monopolistic manner. And at that moment, that's when you remind them, that you used to work for a cable company. And yeah, man, I agree.

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The following is an e-mail that was posted on emailsfromcrazypeople.com. If you have not visited this website, I suggest you do, but only AFTER you read this HILARIOUS e-mail from a dissatisfied cable customer. Be prepared to pee a lil'.

"Dear Cretins;

I have been an NTL customer since 9th July 2001, when I signed up for your 3-in-one deal for cable TV, cable modem, and telephone.

During this three-month period I have encountered inadequacy of service which I had not previously considered possible, as well as ignorance and stupidity of monolithic proportions.

Please allow me to provide specific details, so that you can either pursue your professional prerogative, and seek to rectify these difficulties – or more likely (I suspect) so that you can have some entertaining reading material as you while away the working day smoking B&H and drinking vendor-coffee on the bog in your office:

My initial installation was cancelled without warning or notice, resulting in my spending an entire Saturday sitting on my behind waiting for your technician to arrive.

When he did not arrive at all, I spent a further 57 minutes listening to your infuriating hold music, and the even more annoying Scottish robot woman telling me to look at your helpful website…. how?

I alleviated the boredom to some small degree by playing solitaire for a few minutes – an activity at which you are no-doubt both familiar and highly adept.

The rescheduled installation then took place some two weeks later, although the technician did forget to bring a number of vital tools – such as a drill-bit, and his cerebrum.

Two weeks later, my cable modem had still not arrived. After several further telephone calls (actually 15 telephone calls over 4 weeks) my modem arrived…

A total of six weeks after I had requested it, and begun to pay for it.

I estimate that the downtime of your internet servers is roughly 35%… these are usually the hours between about 6pm and midnight, Monday to Friday, and most of the useful periods over the weekend.

I am still waiting for my telephone connection. I have made 9 telephone calls on my mobile to your no-help line this week, and have been unhelpfully transferred to a variety of disinterested individuals, who are it seems also highly skilled malarky jugglers.

I have been informed that a telephone line is available (and someone will call me back); that no telephone line is available (and someone will call me back); that I will be transferred to someone who knows whether or not a telephone line is available (and then been cut off); that I will be transferred to someone who knows whether or not a telephone line is available (and then been redirected to an answer machine informing me that your office is closed); that I will be transferred to someone who knows whether or not a telephone line is available (and then been redirected to the irritating Scottish robot woman), and several other variations on this theme.

Doubtless you are no-longer reading this letter, as you have at least a thousand other dissatisfied customers to ignore, and also another one of those crucially important solitaire to attend to. Frankly I don’t care, it’s far more satisfying as a customer to voice my frustrations in print than to shout them at your unending hold music.

Forgive me, therefore, if I continue.

I thought BT were horrible, that they had attained the holy pot of god-awful customer relations, that no-one, anywhere, ever, could be more disinterested, less helpful or more obstructive to delivering service to their customers. That’s why I chose NTL, and because, well, there isn’t anyone else is there? How surprised I therefore was, when I discovered to my considerable dissatisfaction and disappointment what a useless shower of jerks you truly are. You are sputum-filled pieces of distended intestine – incompetents of the highest order. British Telecom – jerks though they are – shine like brilliant beacons of success, in the filthy puss-filled mire of your seemingly limitless inadequacy.

Suffice to say that I have now given up on my futile and foolhardy quest to receive any kind of service from you. I suggest that you do likewise, and cease any potential future attempts to extort payment from me for the services which you have so pointedly and catastrophically failed to deliver – any such activity will be greeted initially with hilarity and disbelief – although these feelings will quickly be replaced by derision, and even perhaps a small measure of bemused rage.

I enclose two small deposits, selected with great care from my cats litter tray, as an expression of my utter and complete contempt for both you and your pointless company. I sincerely hope that they have not become desiccated during transit – they were satisfyingly moist at the time of posting, and I would feel considerable disappointment if you did not experience both their rich aroma and delicate texture. Consider them the very embodiment of my feelings towards NTL, and it’s worthless employees.

Have a nice day – may it be the last in you miserable short life, you irritatingly incompetent and infuriatingly unhelpful bunch of jerks. "

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If he's this bad with the automated phone line, can you imagine all the awful things he must scream at those Grocery Store self-checkout machines?

Did you ever know that I'm your hero? I've got this bad karma crap covered. By this point, I'm pretty sure I'm officially Target A on its action item list, and it's STRUCK AGAIN! The victim this time? My poor left thumb.

Picture it: Monday morning, at work in the break room, washing a mod new vase I bought from Michael's - tickled that I stole away with such a great deal, ha ha ha. Only 10 bucks, who do these people think they're kiddin'? I'm totally thrifty.

The vase is in my hands, the faucet running, we're listening to the laughing nervousness of pre-caffeinated employees and feeling the collective sigh to the early start of a new week. Generally, I avoid venturing to the break room, because I don't do well soaking in all the crazy coffee people vibes - prefering instead, their company after the first cup.

Totally absorbed in all the conversations and illustrations around me, I pay no great attention to my vase washing when before I know it, my thumb pops a hole through the glass of the vase where I'm holding it, slicing through my finger like butter. I drop it, annoyed, searching my thumb.

I see my bone - MY BONE - between two different skin flaps! It's not bleeding at first, but I start looking around frantically for a band-aid. Instead, I grab a wad of paper towels and press them to the cut. But not before carefully removing the vase from the sink in order to be polite and avoid any potential drama from someone who - oh, I don't know - might like to wash their coffee mug.

The publisher of the company, who is present, very calmly suggests that we go to the emergency room for stitches, and goes out of his way to drive me to a clinic. Well, the nurse is sitting at the desk, alright, but the sign informs us that no help will be given until 9 - so we drive on to the Topeka hospital instead.

After a visit with a triage nurse, I'm sent to fill out paperwork because I have never visited the Topeka hospital before. I remember this all too well from my kidney stones days: When I was unable to stop from moaning, unable to sit still, and with the burning urge for the pee that wouldn't come - I sat in waiting room torture, hoping they would call my name before that woman in the wheel chair or that guy over there who probably broke his nose, but I don't want to jump to conclusions.

Kidney stones were way worse, but I'm still squirming in the seat as she asks me her great library of questions: When was my father born? What is my billing address? Is this workman's comp? How bad are my family genes? Am I a regular consumer of alcohol? Can they have my organs in the event of my untimely death?

I think they ask you these questions to stall you long enough to bleed you to the point where organ donation is just one fainting spell away.

At this point, my thumb is starting to throb, as I wait for the very slow woman to hunt-and-peck my information into her it-could-crash-at-any-moment computer. Listen, I consider myself a generally pleasant/polite person - and I know it's just her job - but she was slow as hell, and if I may be frank, a bit bitchy - and so, despite my best efforts, I couldn't help but feel personally affected, once again, by a person who hadn't had a sip of the coffee newly poured into her cup.

GRAPHIC MATERIAL AHEAD. Only ye of strong stomach should dare read on ...

Turns out - the doctor had been waiting on me while I was filling out paperwork. Ain't that a kick in the ass!? After about 20 minutes of Frasier and Regis and Kelly, my manager popped in just in time to see them sew my skin shut. It was so great having her there - I was seriously SO happy to work at Ogden Publications, a place where the people genuinely care. She gave me some Juicy Fruit and distracted me as I stomached the four shots! Youch!

She made sure to ask all the questions I forgot. Frankly, the doctor wasn't much help - other than to tell me that I got four stitches, and that the laceration was about 3 centimeters (call me a size-queen, but it was totally more). My skin's a little funky in the pictures because whatever anti-microbial solution she put on the gauze (which totally hooked to my stitches when I tried to take it off) was brown.

I must admit, trying to capture images of the inside of a thumb that doesn't stretch with my one good hand was one of the greatest photographic challenges of my young adult life! I think the doctor may have been right when he said, "Next time, cut yourself in a more convenient location." BTW: WhoTF says that to a patient!?

I think, perhaps, Karma was so displeased that I was OK with being single on Valentine's Day, it decided to remind me how much singularity sucks when you're trying to bandage your sliced thumb all alone in your house. What's next, choking?

Listen, if you know what's good for you, you'll stay away from me - or buy me a bubble.

My blogging (read: lack thereof) has become kind of ridiculous. I've had several people ask for photos of my new car, which I promise are coming presently.

But, I thought I'd catch you up on some of the new things I'm doing - so over the next week, I'm going to start posting photos of some of the things I've been working on at my job - some designs and some photos, just to give you a peek at my life with Ogden.

Here are some poster ads I did for a music festival in Austin called South by Southwest (SXSW), which, funnily enough (and not remarkably so) I had never heard of. The respectful companies liked my work and one, Americana, is interested in using it as part of an email campaign, which is flattering to say the least! (click images to enlarge)

It's certainly not my favorite thing I've ever done - but, it's simple, to the point, and that seemed to be what they wanted. Besides, I spent most of my alotted time making this:


Which got a lot of love from, what I understand, is a really important company.

(still singing) ... please have no snow, or ice either because it'll make my car wreck ... and presents to drown my sorrow ...

I was driving to Ogden today, when I hit a patch of ice in between lanes on I-70 just outside Lawrence. My car spun from the middle lane all the way to the median wall - where the front left side made a hard, loud impact, smashing the entire front of my car as it continued to spin and slam into the back right.

It continued to spin, but I kept my hands on the wheel as all the alerts lit in my dashboard and my airbag failed to execute (thank God). By the time I managed to pull my car calmly to the shoulder of the road, without hitting anyone or seriously injuring myself, I think I had spun counter clock-wise 2 or 3 times; I barely scraped my knee and the impact knocked my glasses off. The catch-all wicker basket I keep in my car got smashed, and the presents went flying, but nothing inside the car, including myself, was seriously injured.

I was lucky. It's strange for me to be optimistic in times of crisis, but I managed to remain calm during the wreck - I know at first I yelled "Whoaaa!!!" not unlike while on a roller coaster, but a string of curse words cruised me for the rest of the thrill-ride until I finally stopped. I think, at one point during the spinning, I even smiled, just because the experience was so surreal, like when you're at a funeral - and so fast you can't catalog the appropriate expressions and sins to repent in time. I remember thinking, "Merry Christmas to me!" and betrayal because, "MY CAR WAS JUST BURGLED!"

Again, just like when I fell off that cliff, I was surprised that my life didn't flash before my eyes. How close to death must one be before all the flashing. I wanted flashing. I had to settle with flashers, well, flasher, as the only one of my lights that remains in any sort of tact is the back left side.

When I stopped, I tried to start my car again - my visceral reaction was, "Ugh, I'm going to be late for work." Kind of like when my car was burgled (what, like 3 weeks ago), when I wondered if I should just drive my car to breakfast without worrying about all the shattered glass.

I called 911 who transferred me to The Turnpike Authority, who dispatched a tow truck and a highway patrol officer (who had an I-hate-filling-out-car-accident-paperwork-where's-my-murder-case look about him). They took my information at the service station between Lawrence and Topeka. I had seen tow truck after tow truck and cop after cop speed by me as I shouted, "I'm right here!" I guess the other accidents were more serious; I hope everyone of them is OK.

Tow truck driver asked if I had a ride, but I didn't. He said he'd give me a ride, but I needed to figure out what I'd do when I got back to Lawrence. I called all the friends I knew that would still be in Lawrence over the holidays, and they were few. I was edging toward desperation when I called a few exes (one who called me later, concerned), but I ended up being able to easily rent a car (even though Enterprise employees have to get managerial permission for those under 25).

Tow truck driver drove me to Steve's Autoplaza in Lawrence (I recommend it to EVERYONE) while Highway Patrolman whistled on his very-un-merry-way. The woman at Steve's wore a shirt with a Santa Claus almost as big as mine and was most kind and caring as was the auto repairman.

They spoke with my insurance agent, listened to my babbling, gave their advice, and got me set up with a rental car from the Enterprise store across the street. I wanted something big and 4 wheel drive, and so they showed me the Jeep Commander, an almost Hum-Vee. I sat in the driver's seat and felt almost militant. Perfect. For a while, all my energy conservation crap broke off me like one of my headlights. I'm sure I'll feel guilty about it soon enough, but for now, just call me Private Whiplash.

Here are some photos:

I saw pieces of my car flying off in different directions, and when I exited my car, which I affectionately named Argo, I saw I-70ers run over the pieces, and tear them to shreds, while my bumper lay on the left shoulder by itself. I couldn't help but feel guilty for my car, like undead roadkill. I look at these photos and have the kind of sensation I'd get if one of my animals were injured.

This is Argo at the repair shop, and the white vehicle is my rental. Argo is still definitely better looking, well, maybe not NOW, but my Escape had a kind of timeless class that made me love it more than I probably should have. It was very dependable, always there should my friends need rescuing. It moved at least 3 people, carried my college career and fit snugly in my garage and in my life as the perfect car. I'm sorry I failed it.

Thanks for reading. <3