Discover Top Posts Tagged with #erin mclaughlin

Eric Kleefeld at MMFA:

In the wake of the shooting death over the weekend of a supporter of the far-right group Patriot Prayer in Portland, Oregon, The New York Times, USA Today, and MSNBC are papering over the intrinsically violent nature of the group, its ties to white nationalism, and its history of staging armed confrontations against anti-fascist activists. This lapse is part of a larger pattern of mainstream media coverage that shies away from calling out right-wing extremism.

Patriot Prayer’s typical playbook, as the Southern Poverty Law Center has documented, is to “assemble a ready-to-rumble crew with out-of-town violent extremists, then troll through the urban center in hopes of confronting left-wing protesters, ensuring violence eventually will break out.” Patriot Prayer has repeatedly organized public events in Portland with the Proud Boys, which the FBI designates as an “extremist group with ties to white nationalism.” An attendee at a 2017 “free speech” rally organized by Patriot Prayer went on to murder two people and injure another in a hate crime attack a month later — only for the group to still go ahead with a planned “Trump Free Speech Rally” a week after that — and was sentenced this year to life in prison. Another frequent Patriot Prayer rally attendee and a member of the Proud Boys has posted threats online against the mayor of Portland.

The fatal shooting this weekend in Portland occurred shortly after a pro-Trump caravan traveling through the city confronted counterprotesters downtown.

[...]

For a group that officially claims to champion free speech, Gibson had also been organizing another event to oppose the bar’s screening of a documentary about LGBT activist Marsha P. Johnson. The lawsuit notes that “he introduced Cider Riot as ‘Antifa central'” in a Facebook livestream of the incident, “then asked his followers to look into the business, its owners, and its landlord. He then told his audience that ‘If they cared about Portland… take care of this establishment.’” Gibson responded to the lawsuit by saying that “maybe Cider Riot should stop co-hosting parties” for the local anti-fascist group.

Patriot Prayer’s Facebook page has also been a center of hate speech, including violent threats against Muslim groups. In January 2019, Patriot Prayer gathered outside the Portland offices of the far-left Industrial Workers of the World labor union, with participants yelling such messages as, “Get them dirty Muslims out of our country.” Another attendee told a counterdemonstrator, “We’re gonna hurt you.”

#Joey Gibson #Erin McLaughlin #MSNBC #The New York Times #USA Today #Right Wing Extremism #Right Wing Terrorism #Portland Protests #Patriot Prayer #Hate Groups

ACEC’S ENGINEERING INC. — Cities Are Competing and Spending to Be ‘Smarter’

.@ACEC_National's brand new column #ThePrivateSide zooms in on the competitive market of #SmartCities

AMERICAN COUNCIL OF ENGINEERING COMPANIES (ACEC)

New Engineering Inc. Column Highlights Private-Sector Markets

This is the inaugural Private Side column in Engineering Inc. The Private Side will be a regular department of the magazine, focusing on the private-sector markets listed to the right, as well as providing information and insights regarding public-private partnerships and economic data…

View On WordPress

#ACEC #American Council of Engineering Companies #Engineering Inc.#Erin McLaughlin #Smart Cities #The Private Side

II. The Fault In Ourselves

A few days ago, I decided to attend a free social anxiety group meeting. The meeting took place in a local LGBTQ community centre that I thought I wasn't allowed to go into because I do not identify as an LGBTQ person. As it turns out, everyone's allowed! Yay equality!

The building was beautiful; our room had large white walls and high ceilings. Four other early birds and I walked in confused and nervous. I didn't know how to set up the chairs, and it didn't help that everyone else was so hesitant. But then again, look where I was. I'd be a fool to think that the communication of the group was going to be phenominal. I just took a chair and sat because I was not about that "Is this okay? How does this work?" lifestyle.

A middle aged man named Lenny placed a tin box of chocolate covered biscuits on the table in the middle of the slowly forming circle and stated his disclaimer, "Full disclosure, these cookies are a year past their expiry date." A man beside me sighed and reached out to grab himself a cookie. When everyone was seated, the leader of the group, Bobby, introduced himself to us and managed to avoid eye contact the entire time. I'm not sure if this was a part of his regime to keep everyone from feeling threatened, but it made me feel ignored to the point where I could've napped and gotten away with it.

He explained that he starts off every meeting by going around and getting everyone to state their name and how anxious they are on a scale of 1-100. Today, I said 20.

So there we sat, listening to each others numbers when someone walked in through the door behind me. I looked at the clock. "10 minutes late," I noted to myself. I turned to see who it was. Refreshingly, it was a boy my age walking into this sea of 30 somethings. A tall, skinny boy with big eyes and stunning facial structure. Literally, and embarrassingly, my heart stopped and I thought to myself, "THIS IS MY AUGUSTUS WATERS AND HAZEL GRACE MOMENT." Here I am, sitting awkwardly in group therapy when a beautiful human being walks in fashionably late. My life is a movie.

He went to the stack of chairs in the corner of the room and tried to pull one free. He wasn't having much luck with it. These chairs were stacked on an angle so instead of pulling up you have to pull to the side. No one could get the hang of it. He tried and tried and tried until he finally got it and he gasped his relief and sat down with the group.

When we got to him he said his name was Nathan and his anxiety level was a 15, (I actually don't remember his number because I was still fixated on his beautiful face but I'm sure it was something unalarming).

We then proceeded to go around and one by one discuss our holiday breaks. Lenny went on for what seemed like hours on a couple topics: his mother resented him over his most recent arrest and his nieces and nephews didn't thank him for his presents. During his rant, I felt as though I might be bipolar because I was a roller coaster of emotion; sad, happy, bored, confused and curious because he never mentioned why he got arrested.

When it was my turn, I just said my christmas was alright. This prompted Bobby to ask if I felt depressed at all during it to which I muttered, "Yes." as he went on to pester the grey haired man with leather gloves beside me.

A few back and fourths later from various members, Bobby said he'd like to learn about why the new members chose to attend. Most of the answers were obvious reasons. People got anxious when placed in social situations with either big or small groups of people and came to seek help or comfort. When Bobby got to me, I was surprised how honest I was: "As high school ended, something was triggered in me that started to continually affect me. Not only did I get depressed, but I got scared. When University started I found that I got scared to make new friends, I lost all motivation and creativity and I would constantly get this unbearable feeling in my chest that would make it hard to breathe."

"Is there anything specific that you think would have started this?" said Bobby with his distant eyes locked onto the floor in front of him.

"Yeah, I know where it started," I said.

"Would you like to..."

I realized what he meant, "Oh! Share? Yeah. Yeah."

"Only if you're comfortable."

"No, I am," I said like a proud socially confident person.

So I told them. I'm not telling you though. As open as I am I also enjoy privacy more than most people. I think that's why I spend so much time alone. Really, I feel like I didn't have anything to lose. In a room full of self conscious adults, maybe coming to terms with the source in front of them would help them in some way. Maybe I'll inspire Lenny not to get arrested again.

When I finished, Some wild feeling of ecstasy swept over me. I had just informed a group of strangers of my burden and they all understood and were there to help. I saw out of the corner of my eye, the hand of a bulky Russian Grandpa go into he air.

"If I was you, I go confront person."

I barely understood him but his desire to help me out was heartwarming.

Across the circle, a middle aged gay man added, "Only if you feel that's best. Maybe you need your space, hun."

Bobby nodded his head at the ground.

Then, someone else raised their hand. I turned towards Nathan who was looking at me with his gigantic eyes. He agreed with what the Russian Grandpa had said and his sincerity combined with his piercing eyes, for a second, reminded me only of Tate from American Horror Story.

"If you could build up the courage to get closure, I'd respect you so much. You'd be number one in my books," he said.

"Oh great," I thought. "And thus lies the conflict in this movie that is my life."

I smiled what was supposed to be a kindred/flirty/understanding/seductive/thankful smile and he smiled back.

Bobby then quizzed me to death on my two options, closure or moving on. I chose moving on at the time but now that I think of it, maybe I should consider closure. At the end of our meeting, I realized the worst thing associated with meeting a cute boy at a social anxiety group, you're both way too scared to approach each other. So he stood there, eating some of Lenny's potentially roofed cookies and I wrapped my scarf around myself and decided I'd make a move next week.

I hope I do.

But I'm scared that I'll chicken out.

Love, Erin

#journal #group therapy #social anxiety #erin mclaughlin #erinisconfused #blog #text #romance #comedy #post

I. A Blatant Blogger

Hello blog,

I’m aware that you lack journal entries like these and even though I’m bound to regret posting a casual, incoherent piece on your minimalist pages, I believe it could help me in some way.

I’m terribly uninspired, blog. You would’ve thought that film school would’ve brought forth some new and creative ideas with the introduction of cinema and art direction but alas, it has not. I’ve grown to be a very unappealing writer. The only things I’ve written these past few months have been essays. Essays about politics and why the film Strike Up The Band from 1939 has propelled film initiatives with it’s stereophonic sound. I’m bored and tired and done with everything school has to offer.

I don’t have much time for my hobbies anymore. I haven’t done impov in months, I haven’t even seen improv in months. There was a time when I yearned to become a comedy writer but I haven’t written anything funny in what seems like a millennium.

I got a job. It’s embarrassing to admit that it’s one of the only things I look forward to nowadays. There’s also a part of me that wishes I had longer shifts, because otherwise I’m forced to go home and study or procrastinate, and that just weighs me down.

The thing I have the biggest problem with is the amount of time required to be a university student. I’m not even sure I want to be a filmmaker; that’s just one of my many dreams. It sucks that university doesn’t have a program where you can write fiction, do improv and create online content. I would be all about school if that was a real thing.

Well, my first semester is done. So all I have to endure is another 7/8ths of school until I emerge with a fancy degree.

Pray for me.

Love, Erin

#university #erin mclaughlin #blog post #journal #diary #text

Orchids and Oranges by Erin Mclaughlin

“Bonjour Monsieur, is there anything I can help you find?”

My days as a shopkeeper made me weary.

“Those oranges are fresh from Pontoise!”

I’d rather spend my time someplace else.

“Lovely weather, isn’t it?”

You can’t even see the sun, there’s clouds all around.

“Thank you! Have a wonderful afternoon!”

I hate my job.

When I was 12 years old, my father left his position as a city councillor to open a fresh fruit and supplies shop in our town’s square. My days consisted of managing the produce and providing a warm and welcoming experience to every nonsense maker that entered the shop.

“Bienvenu à La Marché de Franco!” Franco was my father.

“We have a fresh shipment of oranges from Pontoise in the back.” That shipment was three days old.

“Five oranges? Oh, you’re going to love these. €2.80. Thank you. Have a nice day!”

I tried to tell my father countless times that public service was not my forte, but he insisted I keep at it because everyone should have experience in different fields.

“Oh miss, you’re going to love these oranges. Fresh from Pontoise!”

My father caught tuberculosis when I was 18 and his health slowly declined. When he passed, I realized I had full control of the shop; I could either shut it down or keep it open. I decided to keep it in operation for a while, to save up enough money so that I could live comfortably after I burned it to the ground.

My dad’s been dead for 8 years.

Saving up enough money to live comfortably is quite difficult when you have to buy a few cases of Pontoise oranges every week, but my father always sold the best on the market.

It was late Sunday morning that I was unloading the biweekly shipment of Maffliers green pears when a most peculiar customer came in: a skinny, red haired man who was dressed as though he had gotten in a fight with a pair of scissors. He approached myself and nervously asked if we carried flowers for special occasions. I pointed him in the direction of the white orchids.

“The orchids are beautiful, however, the shasta daisies cost nearly half as much. Who are you buying them for?”

“My brother is dying,” he responded softly.

“Oh,” I felt guilty for asking. “In that case, you can take the orchids. Free of charge.”

His eyes grew dark, “I asked for flowers, not sympathy.” He reached into his pocket, drew three euros, slammed them on the counter and left in a huff.

“Have a nice afternoon!” I called after him.

“What a weird man,” Jane said as she leaned over the shop’s counter later that afternoon. “But when my brother grew ill, I was a shrew also.” Her petite fingers grasped at the orchids I had on display. “These certainly are beautiful, but I wouldn’t pay three Euros for them. Why are your prices so devilishly high, Elisabeth?”

“Father always had them that way.”

“That’s a lie if I ever heard one. My mum said that she used to be able to afford a pie’s worth of apples for only €2,” she looked around for the current price, “Now… she’d have to pay nearly 3 and a quarter. That’s madness! How are you still in business?”

I grinned and started, “My father was a highly respected man. You’re aware he was a councilman?”

“You’ve told me before, but the one thing that stalls me is the disbelief that councilmen are respected,” she giggled.

“My father was, he was in favour of everything la belle époque had to offer.”

La belle époque was the state in which France was in. In the past few decades, art, music and theatre had flourished and become more prominent in our daily lives. My father loved this, and regularly took me to see plays when I was little. Now, the majority of my customers were performers and painters, whose careers had been started with the help of my father.

Jane looked up at me, “I wish I could have met him.”

“If you met him, he’d pretend like he didn’t see you.” I said blatantly. “He was an incognizant man, with a fabricated enthusiasm for art.”

“He was still your father, don’t you miss him in the slightest?” She looked accusingly at me.

I understood the position I had brought upon myself. I responded, “I do… But whenever I think about him and the time that he was alive, I feel like every limb I have attached to my body is swelling and containing something that I’ve regretted for so long.” I looked longingly at the stack of Pontoise oranges. “I feel an obligation to keep his spirit pleased and to remain an obedient daughter but… Jane… it’s been 8 long years, and I think I’m finally ready to leave that behind.”

Jane caught me looking at the oranges. “You mean these?” She walked over to the display. “These pathetic things?” She pushed the display over. The floor was instantly littered with ripe oranges. “Who needs them!”

“No, but-“ I attempted to correct her.

“Look at these!” She strode to the granny smith apples. “How’s my mum going to bake a pie with apples that cost €3! She might as well frame them!” She tipped the crate over and apples rolled out of the shop and into the street. Passerby, stopped and looked concerned. One old woman with a pink shawl wrapped around her head almost stepped on one and lost her balance, she gasped, looked up and met my eyes. I had a devilish grin on my face and she walked off in a temper.

“That’s enough, Jane, you’ll injure somebody!” I said through my giggles.

“You know what, Elisabeth?” She took a break and leaned on a stand of grapes. “When my brother passed last June, I mourned for a while. I mourned like a sister should. I did not however, mourn for nearly a decade, not like you.”

“I am not mourning, I am saving money.” I declared.

“You are, are you? You blame it on the oranges and the orchids but I know just as well how much you earn from those high prices of yours. For you’ve had enough to live comfortably since the day he died.”

We looked at each other for sometime. I’m not sure if I had ever fully realized how wealthy I had become. Being my father’s only child who was not burdened with incessant illness, I felt as though I had been overlooked and uncared for. When the logical explanation was that he was preparing me to endure the worst without him.

I looked up from my daze to see Jane standing directly in front of me with a sly grin on her face.

“Let’s go on an adventure.” she whispered.

I understood what she meant immediately, I had brought the idea up myself no more than a week before. Only now, I was ready to endure the worst.

We poured the stores supply of gasoline atop the counter, atop the fruits and atop the vegetables. We stood a good distance away from the shops entrance and Jane did me the favour of drawing a box of matches from her satchel and lit one.

“Wait!” I exclaimed. “I forgot something!” I ran into the store and emerged with one of the orchids that was the least bit covered in gasoline. “Alright. Light it up.”

With her petite fingers, Jane dropped the match onto the trail of gas in front of us and we watched it as it followed it’s path towards the store. Within seconds we were standing in front of my burning burden and I watched as the sign that read “La Marché de Franco” turned black and fell to the ground.

I took a deep breath and inhaled the orchid I had clasped in both of my hands. It smelled sweet and fresh. I glanced up at the burning building which was starting to lose it’s character as it transformed into a heap of black ash.

I smiled and whispered into the flower in my hands, “Rest in peace, Papa.”

#short story #erin mclaughlin #fun6001 #erinisconfused #orchids and oranges #art #fiction

Inventory of Being

I am Erin.

I am seventeen years old.

I am a senior with all of my teeth.

An optimist with comedic negativity.

I have been told I have a unique face.

I think that’s a bad thing.

My eyes are large like Chris Christie,

and blue like Mitt after the election.

I’m fairly political.

But I only really care about American politics.

Which is a great example of how I think like an American.

I aspire to be as adorable as Gilda Radner,

as down to earth as Bill Hader,

as smart as John Mulaney,

and as classy as Tina Fey.

Most of all, I want to make people laugh.

Most aspiring filmmakers aim to be directors.

Not me.

I prefer editing and writing and producing.

I have uncontrollable ambition,

stating that I’d like to write a comedy pilot

and (hopefully) work with Lorne Michaels

before I’m 40.

The future doesn’t scare me as much as failure does.

The only failure I’m excited for is failure at stand up comedy,

because that means I gathered the courage to even try.

I am an avid risk taker,

who would prefer to stay at home and watch Game of Thrones.

Or Breaking Bad.

Or Community.

I believe men should be at peace.

and women without yeast.

I have spent my life trying to find the most perfect chicken parm.

I haven’t found it yet.

I bet it lives in Italy.

I’ve been to heaven.

It’s called the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre.

If I could go anywhere, I’d go there again.

I hate love seats, they’re like mini couches,

that I’m way too tall to lay on.

I’m obsessed with organized clutter,

like my massive DVD collection,

that’s sorted alphabetically by director.

I head bang to folk music.

I love observational comedy

and chicken parm...

...and callbacks.

I want to train to be an astronaut,

but then I remember that you have to know physics,

so instead, I wait for my pilot to be picked up.

Then I can buy myself in.

Like Justin Bieber did.

That’s the only thing we have in common.

I am a fan of colours.

Bright colours, textures, patterns.

Covering large spaces and areas,

depicted through paint, posters and rugs.

I think my life is a TV show.

So I always verbally break the forth wall.

I’m not a hipster I swear,

but my favourite song is America by Simon & Garfunkel.

I could just put on my black rimmed glasses,

eat some kale,

and listen to them right now.

If I were to die at any moment,

I wouldn’t have a problem with it.

I’m scared that one day, I’ll wake up,

and I won’t know what to say.

I’m scared I’ll be isolated from what I once was.

From conversation, mutual interests…