There are not a lot of options these days when I look in my cupboard. No spaghetti, no cans of chili, just a bunch of spices and some rice. When I look in my fridge, there are no cold cuts, no leftovers, just tortillas and cheese and a bunch of liquid refreshment ranging from beer to juice to water. How can a man survive the summer with any kind of sustenance? The answer is in the freezer. Stacks of fish, beef, chicken and pork patiently waiting to be taken out and sacrificed to the backyard gods. Whether grilling at home or hanging out at a friend's abode, I survive and thrive the summer simply by gravitating toward the grill.

Last night, I walked across the street to a friend's house, threw down some chicken legs and uncorked a bottle of wine. The week before, it was a fish fillet and cracking open some Harp beers. Just like Jesus in his day, the master griller can take the initial loaves and fishes and feed everyone who arrives. Backyard barbecues are minor miracles.

These places are where our social skills come to the forefront. Chit chat is mandatory, life affirming revelations are not. You must introduce yourself, define yourself, explain yourself, and listen to the others do the same thing to you. Fortunately, I have plenty of fodder for the backyard dirt. Cab driver, thespian, rock n' roller, writer, movie reviewer, bohemian. No one takes anything to heart as we eat and drink and gab. Feeling good, feeling great. Feeling great, how are you?

Sometimes, a host has some specialty they like to show off. Got a hot tub? I've got no suit. No problem? No problem. We have much wine but no beer. Do you like wine? I like wine. This is my art. Do you like art? I like art. Dude, you gotta check out this new amp I got. You like rock? I like rock. We're going to play the marimbas. You like marimbas? I like marimbas. All we have left is in the keg. All we have left is whiskey. All we have left is weed. All we have left are chicken legs. Hey, aren't those mine?

Vegetarians, carnivores, herbivores, vegans, anorexics, obese, painfully fit. Everyone digs a barbecue. If people have a special diet, they bring their own sustenance, and they don't complain. There is no cover, there is very little posing, there is something really natural and beautiful about backyard barbecues.

I meet all the ladies. Young girls wearing and thinking next to nothing, the neurotic twenty somethings, the recovering thirty somethings, the polite forty somethings, the wacky fifty somethings, and the proud sixty somethings. Young fresh faces with hope, and older ladies who have replaced hope with sophistication. Some are bold, some are shy, and some I know too well to remember how they were when I first met them. They all have stories, they all have quirks, and they excite and disturb me in equal doses.

I meet all the guys. Musicians, fathers, artists, accountants, old buddies, boogaloo dudes, smooth hipsters, students, teachers, broke bums, wealth off fancy pants. They are all up to something, and usually, it's something worth doing. Fixing up the house, putting together a night club, another kid on the way, brewing their own beer, taking a break. Something about meat on a grill that brings men together from all walks of life. I think it's the smell. Can you get me another beer? Thanks. So what's this you've been up to? Really? That's cool.

As the summer days cook away my brain, it's nice to know I can still survive with some meat, greens and drink. On many a hot Monday morning, I wake up and wonder how I made it through another weekend. Oh yeah, the backyard barbecue. Who's got the party this weekend?

Chris Jungle only comes when invited.