The Art of Riffing and Other Ties That Bind

My friend Paul made a good point the other day, how he hadn’t seen any of the movies nominated for Oscars and had no real desire to see them either, a sad state for the world of movies and the world of men.

“Paul made a good point,” I tell my wife later.

“That’s a first,” she says.

I tell her what Paul said about movies.

“Good point,” she says.

“See?” I say, then I tell her how I think U2 is a good band but sort of overrated, that I don’t understand the big fuss. I even bought one of the band’s CDs recently, enjoyed it well enough but still think the band receives too much praise.

“You’re right,” she says.

So naturally, I’m feeling pretty good. My wife and I have agreed twice on things, which hasn’t happened since our third date.

I watch her make a list on the little chalkboard on the refrigerator, our schedule for the day--when the little girl is singing at the spring fair, when baseball practice is, that sort of thing. A typical Saturday in America. No timeouts. No downtime. Remember downtime? Me neither.

“Why do you sit there humming Beatles songs,” my wife asks, “but you won’t take me to see Paul McCartney?”

“I’ll take you,” I tell her.

“Really?”

“I’ll drop you off in front, then I’ll pick you up when it’s over,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says.

“Just don’t talk to strangers,” I tell her.

There’s a pause while she decides whether to kill me or make coffee.

As always, she’s pressed for time. They’re expecting her at the school fair in 15 minutes, hardly enough time for murder.

“You have no idea how hard it is to be married to you,” she finally says.

“Marriage,” I tell her, “is stranger than fiction.”

In my defense, mostly bad stuff happens to us at concerts. Once, I lost the car.

Then there was that Hollywood Bowl concert when our friend Debbie ended up upside down in the back of the minivan, her Mary Janes scraping the ceiling as she searched for the corkscrew or Chapstick or whatever it was she was searching for. Our lost youth, probably.

Then there was the Clapton concert at Staples, where--like Mick Jagger--I was spotted with the wife of a close friend. She had paused to say hello to some folks while our respective spouses continued on to our seats, leaving me with the wife of the close friend only momentarily, but long enough for people to spot us standing together at the Clapton concert. It created a 30-second scandal in our little suburb in the hills.

“Marriage,” I tell my wife again, “is stranger than fiction.”

“I’m going to the fair,” she says.

All you young wives out there, here’s marriage tip No. 312: Allow him his jokes.

When a spouse begins to riff a little, the loving thing to do is to stick around and feed him straight lines so he can continue his riff. For a riff is nothing to be sneered at. Not in this town.

My friend Pete riffs for a couple of hours, then they make a movie about it. My buddy Bill, a “Seinfeld” alum, teaches riffing in an improv class. My buddy Brian? The guy even walks funny. Seriously.

Sure, Los Angeles has its share of problems. It’s hard to find a decent sandwich. The bars have no atmosphere. The women, some of them come with foreign parts.

The flip side is that there are lots of funny people to hang out with. My buddy Bill and I can riff for hours. Some of them we even plan in advance, so committed are we to the perfect gag.

“Here’s what we do,” I tell him after a recent softball game. “Next time the other coach starts citing the rulebook, I’m going to throw my arms in the air and go, ‘You mean there’s a rulebook?’ Then I’ll yell over to you, ‘HEY, BILL, DID YOU KNOW THERE’S A RULEBOOK?’”

“We can riff on that for three innings,” Bill says excitedly.

“We can riff on that our whole lives,” I say.

And with that, I know it’s going to be a great season.

It’s late Saturday and the riffing is over. My wife is off counting the money from the spring fair. The little girl won a stuffed bear, taller than her mother.

I’m home helping the boy prepare for the spring dance. He’s tied a necktie once or twice in his life. I’ve tied a necktie 4 million times. Between the two of us, we can probably figure this one out.

The boy snakes his new tie around his neck, then yanks it hard, as if securing a dirigible to a tent stake.

“Looser,” I say. “In case you have to breathe.”

“Can you do it?” he gasps.

“Yeah, here,” I say, then stand behind him facing the mirror.

It’s always amazing how a Saturday can start off all pure and full of promise and then spiral out of control, then bounce back and give you some little nugget of hope. The boy in his new suit is my nugget of hope. On the third try, we get his tie almost even.

“You look sharp,” I say.

“It looks a little crooked,” the boy says.

“That’s just your head,” I say. “Family trait.”

The boy stands in front of the mirror. He admires his new suit. I admire him.

The cycle continues. Despite all evidence to the contrary, young people today continue to believe in the sanctity of something. Despite their harsh music and mean movies, today’s teenagers are really romantics at heart. The species depends on it.

Nothing’s perfect. Love is strange. Marriage is stranger. Stranger than fiction. All we can do is keep trying. And hope the next generation does it better.

“Here,” I say. “Let’s try that tie again.”

Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.