An ode to Dirtbag Summer™

Or, how I spent my summer vacation.

Party Possums: mascot of the summer. And also my new personality

Over the summer, I saw a few variations of posts like this:

I get it. The rage. The sense of injustice. The helpless feeling of watching our government dismantle all the empowering social services (public media, public health, education) in favor of funding an American gestapo.

It’s an enraging post, meant to enrage. But at this point, I feel nothing.

First off, comparing the salary of an educator to that of an ICE agent is like saying “would you rather have a small starting income, grade-A health care, and lots of room for advancement? Or a small-dick’d loser who will carry the stench of shame with you your entire life?” Hmmm, hard decision.

Teaching is not an easy profession, but I always feel resentful when pundits, the media, or Very Online people try to lionize it as some impossible or sacrificial feat. There’s a lot that I love about teaching that has nothing to do with valor: I like working with teens more than adults (when teens are assholes, they have a developmental excuse), teaching gets me off the internet, it’s purposeful and mentally stimulating, the wins are tangible, and it connects me to my community. Yes, it does feel great when a kid succeeds, but anyone who thinks teaching is purely a selfless endeavor is mistaken.

This is all to say that if people want me to be mad that I’m not as financially compensated as a Nazi, then they’re wasting their time.

Also, I’m pretty sure that bootlickers don’t get summers off. And Teacher Summer is the best. It’s not the reason I’m a teacher, but it’s also not not the reason. When I was young, I wanted to get a job at REI because I’d heard that if you worked at REI for 15 years, they’d give you a one-month paid sabbatical to do whatever you want. Before I was old enough to join the workforce, I was aware of the value in this kind of freedom.

But Teacher Summer is two months of paid sabbatical, and it happens every year. (Unless you’re a parent, in which case....sorry). As soon as that final bell of the school year rings, my brain begins its process of smoothing. Bye bye pedagogy. See ya critical concepts. By the end of the first weekend, there’s just a shiny, pink, perfect orb in my head, molded that way by booze, weed, and relaxation. Henceforth, my Teacher Summer becomes Dirtbag Summer™.

Alas, with school starting, it’s time to close the book on another Dirtbag Summer. Here are some highlights.

I bought a hacksaw

I know a lot of teachers who do house projects over the summer. Me? Not so much. I sweat enough just reading on the couch. This summer, though, I thought it’d be nice to finally install a drain-stopper in the bathroom sink, which I had broken a few months prior. For just a second, I was like “Eh, I’ll just wait until we remodel the bathroom to get this fixed” regardless that, as of yet, we don’t have plans to remodel the bathroom.

Turns out I didn’t need to wait years or spend thousands of dollars—drain stoppers are pretty cheap. They even have magnetic ones that don’t require any plumbing disassembly. However, the metal lever-thingy in the back that controls the upsy-downsy (plumbers, please hire me) of the stopper was too long to fit in the space below the sink. The directions said that if this is the case, cut it down with a hacksaw.

This is how I became a man who owns a hacksaw. Even though it felt like an annoying sidequest (without fail, every house project I attempt has at least one), the hacksaw worked! Plus it gave me an indelible sense of power while using it. Will I ever hack anything again? Probably not. Forty years of being alive and I’ve never had to use one. But I’m not going to lie: I like the idea of being a hacksaw man. It’s fun to think fondly of my sweet, sweet hacksaw, resting in its forever home out in the shed.

Jaws wine

Jaws is not just the perfect summer movie, it’s the perfect movie, period. I watch it every year around this time, and with the 50th anniversary underway, I became borderline obsessed.

Over the 4th of July weekend, Jessica and I drove out to Pioneertown to meet up with two friends from Utah. Before leaving San Diego, however, I’d learned that Jaws-themed wine was a thing. So like any hot blooded American, I went to the grocery store and bought four bottles of it. I had the choice between red, white, and a blue wine spritzer. I opted for blue, because, well, it seemed the most fun.

Blue was the wrong choice. It tasted like blue. It tasted like the Jaws: The Revenge of wine (fun fact: the poster for Jaws: The Revenge is what popularized the “This time it’s personal” cliche). Everyone else hated it so ended up drinking Jaws wine until my eyes rolled black, lifeless, like a doll’s eyes.

Jaws wine hangover was not great. This time, it really was personal.

PBL at Weiner Hall

For the first two weeks of summer, I was engaged in professional development with a bunch of other teachers, developing plans to incorporate project-based learning (PBL) at our school.

Sure, that’s probably the opposite of dirtbagging, but the workshops were held in the Weiner Hall multipurpose room at De Portola Middle School. Every day, I got to go to Weiner Hall, and that never failed to bring a smile to my face.

Weiner Hall.

Jorts

This summer, I had not one, but two pairs of pants graduate to jorts. I come from the school of thought that jorts are earned rather than bought, and it takes at least two seasons for them to become eligible. Nothing quite feels like summer like drinking a Miller High Life while summer breeze blows the frayed threads of a once-respectable article of clothing softly against your legs. Jorts truly are a fuck you to Big Jeans, and any opportunity to show Big Jeans who’s boss, you gotta take it. I took it twice.

Macguffins

I like going to movies with friends, but I also love going solo. People sometimes give me shit for it, but there’s something about being in loud, dark, public spaces without having to make conversation that just hits right for me (same thing for concerts). When you go to the theater by yourself, you don’t have to worry about friends’ availability, finding seats together, or having to think of something smart to say afterward.

I went to a few movies by myself this summer, often going in the middle of the workday when all you other suckers were tied to your computers.

To level up the indulgence, I always visited the makeshift, pop-up bar in AMC theaters: Macguffins. I fucking love Macguffins. I have dreams of becoming a regular. Imagine rolling up to AMC Mission Valley on a Friday night, plopping down at the Macguffins booze kiosk and chugging $16 double Jack & Cokes while making chitchat with the 21-year-old who’s the de facto bartender only because they’re old enough.

When I showed up to a 11:00 a.m. showing of Eddington on a Tuesday and ordered a $16 double whiskey-coke, there was no look of pity from the bartender—she just said “hell yeah.” Big dirtbag energy (BDE™) right there.

Teacher Leadership Academy

In mid-July, I attended the Teacher Leadership Academy on the CSU Fullerton campus. The conference was aimed at supporting and providing strategies for early-career teachers. It was incredible and inspirational, and I met tons of nice teachers. Plus they paid for my hotel, and oh boy, do I love 2-3 nights of solo hotel livin’.

But the hotel bar was empty every night. Unusual! What kind of teacher conference was this?? I expected a lobby full of proper dirtbags.

On the final night, I met up with some LA friends—also teachers, but not attending the conference—and we found a divey karaoke/biker bar. By the end of the evening, I was at the level where belting out Red Hot Chili Peppers “Suck My Kiss” to a room of rough-looking biker boys.

The morning after, I lay in my free hotel room, wishing for death. How was I supposed to confront a room of kind, emotionally-intelligent people with my head pounding and eyes red with shame? But somehow, I called upon the god of dirtbag summer, did a little maintenance puke, and rallied. I made it to the final sessions like a man half my age. Still got it, I thought, sitting in the back, not talking to anyone and refraining from sudden movements.

Primus concert

Primus is a dirtbag band, full stop. As we discussed in the last “Is This Band Good?,” Primus appeals to a dirty, nerdy, dude-heavy population that seems stuck in the ‘90s (perhaps the most dirtbag decade, imo). I was on the fence about paying money to see them, but I saw a recent write-up that they had started playing songs from their much-maligned but my favorite Brown Album, so I bit the bullet.

There were a lot more women (and children, teens!) at the Primus show than I was expecting, but the line for the men’s room was endless. They also played “My Name is Mud” which is very much a dirtbag anthem.

Possum Party tattoo

I don’t put a lot of thought into my tattoos. I’m not willy-nilly about it, but I’m past the point of imbuing profound significance in the designs put into skin. It’s usually just a matter of having a cool or funny idea and then getting it before I can chicken out or second-guess.

This summer, the phrase possum party jumped into my head, and I immediately knew that it would be the official slogan/mascot of Dirtbag Summer, not to mention my new personality. And although we’re closing the book on this Dirtbag Summer, these possums will always be a reminder of what I can look forward to every June.