According to seasonal party poopers, this is the last weekend of summer vacation.  What this really means is that starting next week, after Labor Day, vacation rentals slow down as families migrate from the beach to the school-supply aisles at Staples.

This hardly seems like a good reason to terminate warm weather fun.  But being that Labor Day has officially been designated as the last gasp of summer, I think it is an appropriate time to reflect on that forgotten hero of all summer festivities:  the bottle opener.

OK, ice cubes and hot dog buns are right up there too, but you don’t find those things folded into a pocket knife or attached to a key chain, now do you.

Here is what I like about the bottle opener:  it doesn’t have moving parts.  It doesn’t require batteries.  There is no user manual.  You don’t have to call India if it breaks.  And it isn’t shrink-wrapped in nuclear plastic.

The bottle opener is wireless, it always works, and, best of all, it seems like it could have been invented in New Jersey.  But it wasn’t.  The bottle opener was invented in Baltimore in the late 1800s by William Painter, an Irish immigrant, patent number 5142000.

However, as an unreliable Internet journalist I don’t have a problem erroneously suggesting that the inspiration for the bottle opener was born out of necessity at the Jersey Shore after Mr. Painter discovered that he had no way of lifting bottle caps off  celebratory beer and soft drink bottles.  You see, Mr. Painter had invented the Crown bottle cap just months earlier, at the start of summer, patent number 464258.

It sounds plausible.  And I think his wife invented the manicure on Labor Day after she came up with idea for pop top tabs the previous Memorial Day.

So as we toast the end of summer, even if it is a bit premature, let us not forget the invention that made EnJay famous.

The light bulb.

Contributor John Christmann’s weekly humor column, Dad In The Box, can be found online at www.thealternativepress.com or on his website www.dadinthebox.com . You can fill up his inbox at john.christmann@dadinthebox.com

I am one of those people who can’t sit down. Unless I am already sitting down, in which case I am one of those people who can’t stand up. This is probably why I am stuck in a lawn chair right now with large drops of water dripping onto my leg from the outside of my lemonade glass. What do they call that again?

The kids are lying out on the lawn with their heads together imagining shapes in the clouds. After they spot one that looks like my nose, they want something to do. They are bored listening to the crickets sing.

Not me. I love listening to the crickets. It reminds me of a gentler time, when life was simple and so was I. As opposed to now, when life is not so simple and I still am.

I remember drifting aimlessly in a tire swing suspended from the thick, strong arm of a giant oak in my friend’s backyard. The grass beneath the tree struggled to grow because there was so much shade.

“I could devote my whole life to doing nothing,” my friend said.

I spun slowly around on the tire swing looking at the kaleidoscope sky through the dark green leaves high over my head. I thought about this until I got dizzy and felt like getting sick. How exactly does someone devote their whole life to doing nothing? What is it they are doing when they are not doing anything? Don’t they get bored?

“Does spinning on a tire swing count as something?” I asked.

My friend was resting at the base of the tree with a long piece of wild grass in his mouth. He didn’t answer, I guess because he was too busy doing nothing. Many years later he would run a large corporation that manufactured floating lawn furniture and would be too busy to return my emails.

Condensation! That’s what they call it. It’s when the swollen air reaches the dew point around a cool object and releases all its moisture.

Well, I guess it is time to standup and do something.

NJ My Way Contributor John Christmann’s weekly humor column, Dad In The Box, can be found online at www.thealternativepress.com or on his website www.dadinthebox.com . You can fill up his inbox at john.christmann@dadinthebox.com

Most people don’t call New Jersey home. This seems obvious, but you don’t really discover this until you travel someplace where people ask where you are from. In most parts of the country this is a conversation stopper. Like telling someone you are a plumber. People are hard pressed to think of a follow-up question.

I’m from New Jersey I respond to a pause, followed by a pregnant pause, followed by a pause which actually gives birth, something out of wedlock like, “have you ever seen Bruce Springsteen?”

But I do my part. I keep New Jersey a secret because I don’t really want anyone else to come here even though it might be nice to have a larger tax base.  I thrust forward my lower jaw and mumble something in response. “What?” they say. Then more clearly. “I am Bruce Springsteen,” I say. They smile politely and decide I must be a plumber. It’s in their eyes.

On the airplane my kids are looking out the window high above the clouds. They are imagining shapes in the coagulated wisps of white below. “That one looks like New Jersey,” says my son pointing downward.

“I think it is New Jersey” I say knowingly, because the pilot has just announced our descent. From the air, New Jersey looks pretty much like every other state. Except the ones that give way to mountain ranges or arid stretches of brown. And the ones without a coast line.

The woman next to me asks if we are going home. A week ago, on the outbound flight, the answer was no.  Now the answer is different. “I am Bruce Springsteen,” I tell her. “I live down there.” Between the puffy clouds below are lush green hills spotted with lakes, and off in the distance an ocean delineated by a thin line of white sand.

She laughs. “I am going home too,” she says. She puts her finger to her lip and in a soft voice whispers, “I love New Jersey.” She is a plumber like me.

Contributor John Christmann’s weekly humor column, Dad In The Box, can be found online at www.thealternativepress.com or on his website www.dadinthebox.com . You can fill up his inbox at john.christmann@dadinthebox.com

Over the summer, in my search for activities to occupy my kids, I discovered the Summit Police Youth Academy. This unique, week-long camp run by the Police Department in our town is designed to expose young adolescents to police work through simulations, training, and physical exercise.

So using the time honored parental rationale “you will thank me for this one day”, I enrolled my son.

Although the program incorporates a significant amount of structure and discipline, the Sergeant in charge made it very clear that The Academy is not a boot camp for troubled kids. But the night before the program starts my son seems skeptical. So what is this camp, exactly? he wants to know.

“It’s a boot camp for troubled kids without any troubles.” I reply.

The next morning I drop him off at the police station in his new uniform: blue gym shorts, T shirt, and cap, each with an official emblem identifying him as a Summit PD Youth Cadet. “Tuck in your shirt,” I say as he leaves the car. Why? he wants to know, it looks stupid!

Later, when I pick him up, he slams the door without saying a word. After some prying I find out he did pushups during the session. Lots of pushups. He refuses to return.

The next morning his attitude has not improved much. “Tuck in your shirt” I say again as he departs the car. Why should I? he challenges. I ask him how his arms feel.

Later in the week he points out some tactical police errors while watching Law and Order on TV and informs me of the procedures he would follow to take me down if I were a dangerous drug dealer.  And on the last day, as he gets out of the car, he tucks in his shirt in and walks bolt upright through the front door.

After a week of police camp he is still angry; he has no desire to be a cop. And he doesn’t understand why he has to tuck in his shirt.

But after a week of police camp, he doesn’t see what I see.

Contributor John Christmann’s weekly humor column, Dad In The Box, can be found online at www.thealternativepress.com or on his website www.dadinthebox.com . You can fill up his inbox at john.christmann@dadinthebox.com

This is a really dead time of year. No one is around. Everyone goes on relaxing vacations; to the shore or someplace really fun.

But it seems that whenever I schedule a vacation, I can count on missing something really important. Sometimes it is a pressing work assignment. Other times it is a highly desirous social engagement.

There is a law of bad timing that goes something like this: If you want something important to happen, schedule a vacation. This is a more upbeat modification to Murphy’s corollary which states that if something can go wrong, it will—when you are away on vacation. This is usually when my basement floods.

Still, who in their right mind holds a wedding on the last weekend of July? Apparently the Clintons do. I guess Chelsea had no desire to be a spring bride. Or maybe in an effort to keep the guest list below 500, Bill and Hillary chose the dead of summer because they figured most people would be away on vacation.

Or maybe that was the only week Oprah could make it.

Granted, I am not an ‘A list’ kind of guy, but I would have made myself and my family available to fly into Stewart Air Force Base and chopper it to the ceremony for the afternoon. Heck, I love weddings. They make me cry.

But I was not invited to Chelsea’s wedding last weekend. I was not asked to replace Ellen DeGeneres on American Idol either. Or even join President Obama on The View . I wasn’t even charged with any high profile ethics violations.

I suppose it is just the law of bad timing at work.

But fortunately for me, I don’t go on vacation until next week. So with any luck at all, nothing important will happen and I can just relax with my family at the shore.

Contributor John Christmann’s weekly humor column, Dad In The Box, can be found online at www.thealternativepress.com or on his website www.dadinthebox.com . You can fill up his inbox at john.christmann@dadinthebox.com

“Just tuck and throw your hands hard over your head,” I yell from the relative safety of poolside. I don’t know which has them more nervous, the large group of bystanders or the short drop onto the rippling blue surface.

I believe that learning to do a front flip from a diving board is a right of passage for kids who frequent summer pools. It is a relatively simple display of athletic prowess, but it involves overcoming fears which appear to be insurmountable: a fear of heights, a fear of water, a fear of belly flops. A fear of failure.

I believe performing a front flip is just one of many rewarding steps kids take in learning to overcome obstacles. Like riding a two wheel bike or speaking in front of a crowd. Like getting married and raising children. Like living.

But encouraging them to take a topsy-turvy spin off the end of a springboard against their better judgment isn’t easy. It takes patience and thoughtful instruction. “Just run off the board and do it!” I yell, exasperated.

“Let’s see you try!” they reply. And so I remove my shirt and step out onto the board to show them the way.

There must be a better word than Splat! One that suggests a little more pain, a little more redness, a lot more displaced water. One that follows the decaying bounces of an over-sprung board and the open-mouthed gasps of bystanders shuffling back to avoid getting wet. Splouch? Spillap? Kerboosh? Whaplunk?

Whatever the word, when kids finally learn a front flip, they learn it for life. They pop from the water on a hot summer day dripping esteem, and they announce to the world, “that wasn’t so hard!” And they run back to the diving board to perform it over and over again as we, as life guards, remind them to walk.

And then, before we know it, they are on to more complex obstacles. Ones that we may not be able to help them with. Ones that we ourselves are still fearful to address.

Before we know it, they want us to perform handsprings.

Contributor John Christmann’s weekly humor column, Dad In The Box, can be found online at www.thealternativepress.com or on his website www.dadinthebox.com . You can fill up his inbox at john.christmann@dadinthebox.com

Boy, I thought being a writer was hard; I would hate to be an inventor! Imagine trekking all the way to Fairfield, NJ to pitch your idea in five minutes to the king of TV-based Direct Marketing, A.J. Khubani.  In the world of the infomercial, Henry Ford wouldn’t stand a chance.

You see, Mr. Khubani is the CEO of Telebrands, the company behind such infamous “As Seen on TV” products as Pedi Paws, the automatic nail file for animals. And periodically, on Inventor Day, Mr. Khubani opens the doors of Telebrand’s corporate headquarters to consider the ideas of everyday inventors with a dream and a crazy idea that just might work.

Since Telebrands is right in our backyard, you would think Inventor Day would attract whacky product ideas from all over New Jersey. But you would be wrong; it attracts whacky product ideas from all over the country! And the next Bill Gates with a battery-operated fish polisher from Whodathunkit, Kansas must line up very early in the morning for his shot with A.J. Because on InventorDay, you don’t want to be pitching your idea for a recyclable recycling container late at night when what Mr. Khubani really needs is an electric eyelid opener.

I have been invited to attend Inventor Day presumably because they have run out of notable columnists to cover the event. But, after being deluded into thinking I too could be an inventor, I can contain myself no longer.

“People are always saying yes or no,” I announce out of the blue to Mr. Khubani, holding up a crudely drawn rendition of my product idea. “It places a lot of wear and tear on the vocal cords.”

He responds politely, before calling security.  “It looks like a plastic thumb on a stick,” he interprets correctly.

“That’s right! Twirl it one way and it’s thumbs up. Turn it the other way and, well you get the idea.”

Mr. Khubani looks at me thoughtfully. I can see the wheels spinning in his head as he considers the mass appeal of my product and the countless millions it will earn with an infectious pitch on late-night television.

“You can twirl it down, Mr. Dadinthebox. Thank you for coming.”

And I thought being a writer was hard!

Contributor John Christmann’s weekly humor column, Dad In The Box, can be found online at www.thealternativepress.com or on his website www.dadinthebox.com. You can fill up his inbox at john.christmann@dadinthebox.com

A friend from New Jersey is a friend for life. A friend from New Jersey doesn’t turn a blind eye and skip out. A friend from New Jersey is consistent, like an off shore breeze. That is why I will never; ever again buy an air conditioner made in China.

When it is over 100 degrees and your air conditioner decides at the end of the day that you don’t pay it enough Freon to work in such miserable conditions, even your family abandons you. They want to know immediately why the air conditioner doesn’t work. In such an emergency, it is just not environmentally possible to maintain a cool head.

“Do I look like an HVAC guy?” I snap. I don’t really know what an HVAC guy looks like, but I hike up my drooping shorts anyway.

At night, when the line at the Dairy Queen spills long and thin out onto the radiant asphalt parking lot and I reluctantly support the night air as if I were nothing but a sticky park bench, I listen jealously to the hypnotic whir of reliable air conditioners from nearby houses. I need better friends I think to myself.

“I can’t sleep,” says my daughter. It is three o’clock in the morning. Her face is hot and clammy. I would welcome her into the bed, but on 90 degree nights without air conditioning, body heat is not comforting. My wife is half asleep; her body covered partially by a thin sheet, her bare leg extending off the bed into space.

The ice in the glass beside the bed has long since melted. The water is tepid and there is a dripping ring on the stand. I sprinkle some water on my daughter’s forehead. Then on mine. Then on my wife’s.

You know who your friends are on thick summer nights in New Jersey.

I am a mosquito magnet. I am big, I sweat, and I have a lot of surface skin area which is exposed in the summer. The very thing that turns most people off seems to turn mosquitoes on.

The problem is, I hate them. They buzz like tiny dive bombers and when I swat them against my neck they conveniently disappear. They bite me in places I did not know existed. They suck my blood and put me at risk for diseases like Malaria and Yellow Fever and probably even Gingivitis. They serve no purpose other than to spoil outdoor activities in the summer.

The other night, after a nice outdoor meal on our deck was ruined by these annoying insects, my wife looked at me and said: “We need to do something about the mosquitoes.” Of course, what she really meant me was, “You need to do something about the mosquitoes.” Because when it comes to the nasty business of extermination, I am the designated Grim Reaper.

Still, I never thought of killing them. “What we need is a bigger mosquito magnet,” I announced. “Something more irresistible than me.” My wife looked confused. “I think we should buy a cow and put it in the back yard.” I clarified.

My wife wisely let me work through the consequences on my own, which is how I reluctantly ended up installing a Bug-Be-Gone Exterminator the next day.  The sky threatened rain, but I was eager to rid my backyard of pesky mosquitoes, so I quickly set up the unit as the winds began to jump and slow, heavy drops thumped my head.

Through rain streaked windows I imagined the drenched contraption politely ridding our deck of helpless mosquitoes. “Dad, where do mosquitoes go when it rains?” asked my son. I heard a faint buzzing around my ear. I slapped my head hard, only to have the buzzing return. Again. And again.

My son stared at me smacking myself in the face. Then he returned his gaze out the window. “Maybe they go inside,” he said.

Every year at this time I take my two boys to shear their shaggy winter hair. It is one of the first rituals of summer vacation, and they love to feel the fresh air across their heads when the hot days set in. Every year the barber brandishes an electric clipper, runs it across their heads, and charges me forty dollars for ten minutes work.

“This summer I am going to save some money and cut their hair myself!” I finally proclaimed.

When I was a boy my father cut my hair. He sat me high on a chair, fastened a sheet around my neck and shoulders, and turned on his electric shears. I felt like I was going into surgery. My ears buzzed and my teeth hummed as big hunks of hair plopped down to the floor. Years later, when I first heard the term lobotomy, I envisioned the familiar drone of loosely harnessed electricity driving tiny blades over my skull.

“What do you know about cutting hair?” my wife asked, trying to reason with me.

“What did my Dad know?” I replied. At which point she held out an aged photo of me on the first day of summer camp. I was 8 years old, missing two teeth, and sporting a white patch of skin at the front of my scalp.

“Indians did this I suppose?” she said.

There are a few facts concerning electric hair clippers that I think everyone should know. For example, were you aware that hair clippers are available to anyone, regardless of experience? And were you aware that clippers come with detachable guides to control the length of the haircut, and without these guides clippers are only surpassed by a razor in the amount of hair they shave off the head in a single pass? Or that if you set the clippers down these detachable guides can slip off unnoticed?

And were you aware that improper use of hair clippers just before your mother-in-law comes to visit can result in a sleepless night alone on the couch?