Portland Oregon Superintendent of Schools, Hillary Khloe Octavio Sunbeam, said Monday in a news conference that the Common Core curriculum currently taught in all Portland public schools will be suspended immediately.
In place of traditional teaching methods that have been used for the past 100 plus years, millennial students will now be able to answer test questions based on their feelings at the time of the test. Homework will not be required in an effort to reduce the “triggering ” effect brought on by the stress of answering questions and actually using their brain for anything other than social media post.
History, English, and Mathematics are to be Google based. All answers will be available on-line.
Superintendent Sunbeam gave the press an example of the new teaching method. Using a ” presentation board of “no color” as to not offend children of color, she posed a typical math question that has been know to cause severe reactions in middle school students.
The sample test question is; ” If a group of rioters left city hall in Portland at 3 PM and walked at 5 miles per hour toward Seattle, and a caravan of migrants from Honduras crossed the Mexican border and walked at 3 miles per hour headed to the Texas border, how long would it take each group to reach their destination?”
Acceptable answers would be; ” I’m offended,” That’s a trigger word,” ” large groups scare me,” ” I need a latte,” ” I am afraid I might see a statue,” and “where-is my trophy.”
Dr. Seamus Scaramouche of the “Institute of Millenial Behavior” says, “most of these young people don’t need an education anymore. They get everything from their smartphones and social media.”
I wrote this story a few years ago and decided to bring it back for a re-visit. Given today’s headlines with the hipster crowd in Seattle and Portland grabbing our attention. I think it is a good recount of how ridiculous we can be about our coffee.
My wife and I visited the new and improved Fort Worth landmark, Sundance Square, a while back. Beautiful place, well planned and functional architecture. Good job, Bass boys. After a few loops, we got a hankering for a cup of coffee and maybe a pastry. We found a coffee house cafe with little sidewalk tables. Not our style, so we went inside.
Passing through the door, I caught the name on the storefront window, “The Door to Perception.” The famous beat author Aldous Huxley wrote that book. He and Jack Kerouac birthed the beat generation via literature. This might be a cool place.
We queued in line at the counter. The young man in front of me smelled of Petiole oil. An odd scent for a man. Didn’t mix well with my Old Spice. Hippie chick perfume is what we called it back in the day. My wife nudges me and whispers, “what kind of place is this? These kids all look alike.”
Her observation was spot on. Every male in the room had a similar symmetrical haircut, facial hair, garage-sale chic mismatched clothing, and skin-tight jeans. Birkenstock sandals seemed to be the shoe of choice. The girls were ditto but without facial hair. Stepford children they were. I knew immediately that we had stumbled into a Hipster coffee house. I told my wife to please be calm. This is no more dangerous than wading into a gob of old hippies at a Steppenwolf reunion concert. She wasn’t amused.
The Petiole boy in front of me was ordering his coffee. I caught the conversation between him and the barista.
“I’ll have a Trenta in a recycled rain forest cup, free-range, green label, fair trade grown, Andean, but not from the higher region but the lower valley, harvested by virgins no older than 16, aged in a cave on the coast to a bold bean, roasted on a log fire made from non-endangered rain forest trees, lightly pressed, and kissed with a serious pour of steamed spotted Syrian goats milk, then ever so slowly, pour two Cuban sugars at the same time on opposite sides of the cup. Oh yeah, and Kale sprinklers. Don’t stir it, I need to experience the aura.”
“Ahhhh… that’s my favorite. An educated choice, sir,” cooed the barista. We are stunned. What in the hell did that kid just say?
I stepped up to the counter.
“Two coffees with two creams and sugars each, please,” I say. “And what region will your coffee be from, sir,” says the young barista. “How about from Columbia, you know Juan Valdez and his little burro,” asked I. “Don’t know that one, sir, don’t know a Mr. Juan Valdez,” she replied. “Got something from Mrs. Olsen or Mrs. Folgers ?” I asked. “No, sir, don’t know them either,” she said. “Got anything that comes in a vacuum-packed can?” I ask. “No, sir, our beans come in hand-sewn burlap bags from India,” she replies. “Do you have any coffee grown in the United States?” asked I. She perks up and replies, “Yes sir, grown in California, Big Sur area by the Wavy Gravy Mystical Coffee Co-op. I hear it’s harvested every third quarter when Jupiter aligns with Mars, and the moon is in the seventh house. You know, sir, this is the age of Aquarius.” “Yes, I know the song,” I say.”Is there a song, sir?” she replies.
At this point, my head was about to explode, and I needed to wrap it in duct tape to contain the splatter. My wife saved me by stepping up to the counter and addressing the barista.
“Look, Moonbeam, just give us two cups of that Gravy Wavey coffee, and you pick out the sugar and cream, deal?” “Names, not Moonbeam mam, its Hillary,” says the barista. “Of course, it is, sweetheart; I should have guessed that. I suppose you have a brother named Bill too? “No, mam, just a little sister, Chelsea.” My wife shot me her “get me out of here before someone dies” look. The barista sensed where this was heading and promptly pushed the coffee across the counter. I paid, and we left. We stood on the sidewalk, took a sip of the gruel, and poured it into the gutter.
On the way home, we went through the Mcdonald’s drive-through for a red, white, and blue cup of coffee. Can’t go wrong with good old Mickey D’s. None of that Hipster crap.
“I’ll have two coffees with cream and sugar; please,” I said to the voice. “Sir, will that be a Latte, a breakfast blend, a dinner blend, a dessert blend, an anniversary blend, or an I love you blend, a save the children blend in a reusable cup or an expresso, chilled or topped with sprinkles” the voice replies. I pulled out of line, and we headed home to our old and extremely un-hip, Mr. Coffee.
I haven’t heard a word from my old pal Mooch in over a month, so I dropped by his house yesterday. The older than dirt Dodge pickup sits in the drive, and his lawn was knee-high, so I figured something is not right. Mooch loves his yard like it was his child.
Five minutes of door banging, and Mooch cracks the door and says, “go away, I don’t want any of it.” ” I’m not selling nothing old buddy, what the hell is going on with you,” I say. He opens the door enough for me to get a good look at him, and holy crap, he looks terrible. A white beard, hollow yellow eyes, and a pale complexion. Not the fit and the tanned man that I know.
” I’ve been out of town for a while,” he says. “The wife and I heard that them Antifa folks were paying people to protest and riot, so we went to Portland for a while. We figured, why not, somebody’s got to get paid and it might as well be us. Old peoples got to eat too. We made $3000 a week plus room and board at the Holiday Inn. If we got arrested, there would be an additional $2000 a week for jail time. I made enough to buy a new pickup next month.”
” Where is your wife, Mrs. Mooch,” I say. He looks down at his shoes and mumbles something. I ask him to repeat it. He sort of shifts around and says,
” I left her in jail for a while longer. I figure another month, she will have made enough money and we can pay the house off.” When I return home, I ask my wife if she would consider a visit to Portland.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 
You must be logged in to post a comment.