Grills and boys

MY summer place is in front of the barbecue, beer in hand, sun hunching down behind mountains that have turned as purple as a bruise. The sausage on the grill is whistling “Moon River,” that ode to friendship and wanderlust.

“Moon River, wider than a mile,

I’m crossing you in style some day...”

I’m a sucker for summer things. Moonlight on the water. Root beer floats. Bony women in cotton dresses. The clink-clunk of ice tumbling into a tall glass.

I like the warm feeling the sun leaves in your neck after you’ve worked all day in the yard. The way the driveway warms your bare feet when you take out the trash in the evening. Crickets.

But more than anything else, I like to stand in front of a fiery grill, with a rack of Italian sausage hissing Johnny Mercer lyrics, tongs in one hand, bottle of stout in the other, listing slightly to the left as the beer bottle empties.

“Two drifters, off to see the world,

There’s such a lot of world to see...”

Grilling is my manifest destiny. My father did it; my grandfather too. Everywhere I have ever lived I have had some sort of grill. In college, I stood in the snow flipping burgers on a hibachi outside a worn brownstone apartment. I’ve had a million burgers since then. Mostly, I stay out of the snow.

I grill year round, but summer is prime time. There is something tribal about standing around a fire on a summer night, out of earshot of Seacrest or the rat-a-tat-tat of computer keyboards. There are thumbprints of marinade on my T-shirt. It’s the only Picasso I’ll ever own, and it smells of garlic and red wine.

Sometimes, a buddy will be over, by my side, griping about his lousy love life. My buddies all seem to have lousy love lives but -- go figure -- lots of kids.

“My wife is like a stockbroker of sex.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. And it’s a bear market.”

Tonight, I’m flying solo out here, the grill my only companion. I would never admit this to just anyone, but I make my own sausage, an odd hobby for an odd man. It’s easy to do: Grind, season, stuff. Honestly, I could show you in about 20 minutes. Stop by Saturday. Bring a six-pack and 100 dirty jokes.

That, of course, is the byproduct of making your own sausage: lots of ribald jokes, many of which go over my head. I am a man among men, a big, hairy-necked galoot pushing 5-foot-8, but I’ve never had a particularly dirty mind.

So when people start making sausage jokes, I rarely get the punch line. Seriously, I just wish they’d stop.

And believe me, you’re never more vulnerable to bad jokes than when standing in the kitchen, holding a 3-foot length of sausage that is spinning out of a machine and threatening to overwhelm you like a giant anaconda.

“Could somebody hold this?” you’ll ask.

“Not me, dude.”

“Help, it’s got my leg!” I scream, but nobody moves a finger.

So be it. The world’s always been a tough place for visionaries. Let the repressed people among us have their little jokes at my expense.

They can’t ruin my summer.

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Chris Erskine, a columnist in the Home section, considers himself the male Martha Stewart.

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Beach blanket BBQ: Most beaches don’t allow fires, but there are a few with fire rings or barbecue pits where you can get your grill on. Among them: Dockweiler in Playa del Rey, Cabrillo in San Pedro, Leo Carrillo State Park in Malibu, Capistrano Beach and Doheny State Beach in Dana Point, and Huntington State Beach. Check beaches.co.la.ca.us or www.parks.ca.gov.

Get along: The Autry National Center held a series of grilling events in the spring. Sticking with that theme, on Thursdays in July the center’s Museum of the American West will hold an outdoor barbecue, gallery talks and movies starring -- you guessed it -- Gene Autry. 4700 Western Heritage Way, L.A. 5 p.m. July 6, 13, 20 and 27. $15. (323) 667-2000, autrynationalcenter.org