Category Archives: Curb Your Enthusiasm

Hot Air: Melange, Olio, Medley, Miscellany…

And The Answer Is

In the wake* of the death of host Alex Trebek, I’ve learned the correct Jeopardy! answer is, “What is robbing the cradle?”

Jean Currivan (L) and Her Husband, Alex Trebek.

[ * You’ll pardon the pun.]

Customer Service

When I worked as a bartender for Club Lago, a delightful Italian family restaurant in Chicago’s River North neighborhood, one of the owners, Guido Nardini, said to me one night, “There’s a reward beyond money in serving people.”

Now, a cynic might respond that’s a boss’s way of saying “You should learn to be happy with the peanuts I’m paying you,” but, no, I earned a nice chunk of change pouring drinks at Lago. No complaints there; from the sheer volume of customers to the fact that a lot of people used to love to throw c-notes around as tips, I was able to stash big piles o’cash in my home safe.

Guido meant what he said because he and his co-owner bro., Giancarlo, loved to serve customers well. And, yes, it did please me to please my customers. I treated everybody with great respect and care regardless of what I thought their largesse capacities were.

At the Book Corner ( ✯ more on that later) I continue to take great pride in going out of my way to satisfy customers and nobody (except for one guy — I’m looking at you, J.D.) tips me. I like to call myself “the book detective,” often standing on my head to find something rare or out of print or unheard of for customers. When they tell me they appreciate my efforts and I see the looks on their faces, that’s a reward in and of itself.

So, I’m particularly attuned to people’s customer service skills. The following are some encounters I’ve had recently. I’m not complaining or indicting, simply observing.


I saw my oncologist last week. As an aside, I’m right at the time when I should be declared cancer-free. It’s been five years since my bout with squamous cell cancer leading to malignant lymph nodes. You may recall my long series herein called My Olive Pits™. For five years I’ve existed in a limbo the docs call remission. Once my latest PET scan results are in, it is to be dearly hoped, I’ll get my parole. Anyway, there’s an impromptu check-in desk positioned down the hall from the oncologist’s lair where a masked receptionist takes patients’ temperatures and grills them about possible COVID symptoms. I wheeled up (Aside #2: Yes, I use one of these⬇︎ now because my hip arthritis has reached crippling dimensions)…

…and presented myself to the woman at the desk. The first thing she said was, “Do you come here often?”

Well, jeez, that’s a straight line if I’ve ever heard one. Besides, I’m always nervous as hell when I visit either my oncologist or my ENT doctor so I look for any excuse to lighten the mood. I responded, “Ha! Is that a pickup line?”

The woman stared at me.

Being met with a stony face is the ultimate negative feedback when delivering a joke. And, sure, the joke was lame and predictable. I wasn’t looking for reassurance that I’m the liveliest wit in South Central Indiana, just an acknowledgement, a sign of bonhomie, I guess. So I doubled down.

“That was a joke,” I said.

The woman continued to stare at me.

Rather than retreat then and there, I pushed further into the realm of red-faced-ness.

“Which you didn’t get,” I said, nearly sotto voce but not quite.

Her stared bored a hole through me.

Somehow we got on to the business at hand. My temperature was normal and I swore I had no coronavirus symptoms, so she passed me through.

In her defense, I’ll admit it’s a little more difficult these days to tell if a person is smiling or grimacing under the mask. But a smile is as readable in the eyes as it is by bared teeth. The woman’s eyes were not smiling.

Someone might say, “Well, maybe she thought it inappropriate that you were coming on to her.” Which is utter nonsense. I’m a crippled old goat with hernias galore, a bald head, barnacles on my scalp, and an implanted defibrillator in my chest. Only the most neurotically sensitive 20-something could interpret the joke as a come-on from the likes of me. Here’s a bit from Curb Your Enthusiasm, where Larry tells an attractive receptionist he’s talking to her because human-to-human contact is the goal, not because he’s hitting on her. (Go to the 1:30 mark of the clip for the exchange.)

Have I ever mentioned I believe Larry David is a dybbuk that resides in me and that my growth as a human depends on expelling said dybbuk?

On to the next encounter.


Last week was an orgy of doctors for me. I’ve finally been okayed to go into surgery for my right hip total replacement. I’d originally been scheduled for surgery on June 8th, only a cancer-related CT scan the week before revealed I was suffering from pulmonary emboli. These obstructions in lung arteries usually are caused by clot particles that travel up from the legs. They are life threatening and usually cause breathing distress and syncope. Sometimes the first symptom is the sufferer simply drops dead. Serious stuff. Mine apparently were caused by my inability to walk much anymore so clots formed in my legs. That’s all cleared up now, thanks to a daily regimen of an anticoagulant that has turned my blood into something more akin to a fine mist. At this point I begin to bleed simply by thinking about blowing my nose.

So, I visited my orthopedic surgeon last week to get the ball rolling again. He turned me into a pretzel to see where things hurt the most (answer: everywhere) and then brought out a model of the hip joint as well as the prosthetic ball and socket joint he’d be hammering into me. His nurse then came in and gave me a new date for surgery (December 21st) and told me about all the things I’d have to do before and after. Included is a month or two of intensive physical therapy with my new hip in place.

“You can do your physical therapy here,” she said. The IU Health Orthopedics and Sports Medicine complex just off Sare Rd. on the south side has a big gym/PT center. The she added that if this particularly facility was too far away from my home I could do my PT elsewhere.

“Well,” I asked, “what are my alternatives.”

“You can go anywhere,” she said.

I resisted the urge to quip, “So, can I do it at the library?” I’d already struck out once with mild humor in a medical setting. Still, I pressed on.

“Where are other facilities?”

“They’re everywhere.”

“Okay, I live off SR 446. Which one would be closest to that?”

“Oh, they’re all around. Go wherever you want”

We were getting no place fast. “Fine, I’ll do it here,” I said, and she duly marked that down in her notes.

All the way home, I fixated on the exchange. Why wouldn’t she tell me where another gym/PT center was?

I chewed over this for a few days until it occurred to me that all these different IU Health facilities are run as discreet little revenue centers. Individual doctors, or groups of them, have ownership stakes in their facilities. In the interest of fairness and convenience for the patient, the nurse felt compelled to tell me I could get my physical therapy anywhere but she really, really, really wanted me to do it at her place because that’s where the insurance payments would be sent.

Okay, fair enough. But it wouldn’t have hurt for her to say, “Y’know, we like to keep everything in-house. It’s easier for insurance and for record-keeping.” She might even have admitted her facility had an interest in getting the insurance payments. I’m an adult; I know how business works, even if that business calls itself nonprofit.

Instead, I was left wondering why she couldn’t tell me where other gym/PT centers are. Like Larry David, I obsessed over that question for far too long. I told you he’s a dybbuk inside me.

✯ Farewell, Book Corner–For Now

I’m taking a leave of absence from the Book Corner because 1) the pain in my hip has become unbearable and 2) I don’t want to catch COVID and have to reschedule surgery again — or die.

Both The Loved One  and Patty, the manager, have told me time and again I’m deranged for going in to work three times a week with this hip. TLO has shared horror stories about people suffering from the coronavirus with me in an effort to scare me off going in. At last I’m listening to them.

You won’t see me at the store until February at the earliest. I’ll miss the hell out of the books and the people. I’ll also miss the rush and madness of Christmas there. A big family comes in every Christmas Eve. Each member, from grandma and grandpa to the littlest arrival, gets to pick out a number of books as their Christmas present for the year. It’s become a tradition. And grandma always brings in a huge stash of holiday sweets and treats that I do my best to take an unfair share of home with me. I’ll miss the hell out of them, too.

But, truth is, I won’t cry too many tears over it all because by the 24th, I’ll be sitting on a brand new hip and I won’t be a crippled old goat anymore.

Hot Air: All Lies, Natch

At long last, somebody has got ahold of the Orange Baboon’s tax records. Reporters for the New York Times got their hands on the documents and the paper blasted headlines about the revelations therein Saturday.

There’s not a single thing in those records that should shock anybody who’s paid the slightest bit of attention to this man since way before he decided he wanted to become King of the United States. I’d been following his exploits closely since about 1987 when both Spy and Vanity Fair magazines started becoming obsessed with him. And, yeah, he is worthy of obsession because he was, at the time, a big player in New York City’s real estate and high-rise construction rackets and, since 2015, has become — inexplicably — a demagogic hero to tens of millions of Americans. Tens of millions of Americans who, I might add, generally fear, mistrust and detest anybody from NYC, often painting said habitués with an anti-Semitic brush. Hell, Mario Cuomo was an Italian Catholic but much of this holy land viewed him as a sneaky New York Jew.

Strict definitions and subtleties are not strong points among the folks who flock to Li’l Duce like so many flies around a pile of excrement.

In any case, the Trumpists will react to the NYT reports in predictable ways. Here are a few of them:

  • It’s all lies. President Gag himself took that tack within hours after the story was published online. In fact, his public relations firm, Fox News, ran this headline…… while the rest of the civilized world’s news media ran heads saying the records show he is a grifter, a tax evader, a fraud, and hundreds of millions of dollars in hock.
  • Hell, I don’t want to pay taxes; if I had the smarts and the means, I’d do exactly what my president did.
  • Who cares? Nobody’s perfect. Besides, Trump has more important things to worry about, like saving Western Civilization from the brown- and black-skinned, LGBTQ, feminist, marxist, bleeding heart hordes.

Those are three possible reactions. There may be more. It doesn’t matter inasmuch as that 35-40 percent who’ve gone gaga over the Miscreant-in-Chief wouldn’t be swayed if Jesus H. Christ himself came down from heaven and declared Trump to be the devil’s sibling. After all, it’s clear Trump has supplanted for them the son of god as the divinity they gleefully worship.


I’ve been on a music kick of late. A few of things I’ve been playing again and again are a couple of big band ditties from the Glenn Miller Orchestra, I’ve Got a Gal in Kalamazoo and Chattanooga Choo-choo, as well as the theme from’s Larry David’s Curb Your Enthusiasm.

The Curb theme first. The song is called Frolic and it was written by an Italian named Luciano Michelini, a film composer who’s based in Rome. The story goes that David heard Frolic in a bank commercial some years ago and decided, because it was light and frivolous, that it’d be perfect for his show. “It just sort of introduces the idea that you’re in for something pretty idiotic,” David said in a panel for the Paley Center for Media in 2009.

Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly downcast — um, pretty much every day these days — I play a repeating loop of the song that I found on YouTube to get myself to sleep at night. Here’s a snippet of the tune:

Now for the Glenn Miller tunes. Chattanooga, I’ve learned, was the very first gold record ever. It was released under an imprint of RCA Records and sold 1.2 million copies in 1942. RCA initiated the award, presenting it to Miller for the sheer number of discs sold. It wasn’t until 1958 that the Recording Industry Association of America codified the practice, awarding gold records for a million singles sold or a million dollars-worth (wholesale) of albums sold. There are now also Platinum, Multi-Platinum, and Diamond awards, given for records that sell certain bazillions of units.

Both Chattanooga and Kalamazoo were movie tunes, the former featured originally in the Sun Valley Serenade (1941), centered around a bizarre romantic mixup including Milton Berle, John Payne (not Wayne, Payne), Lynn Bari, and Olympic skating star Sonja Henie, and the latter from the 1942 film Orchestra Wives, its cast including Cesar Romero and Jackie C. Gleason (yes, that Jackie Gleason — he went with the initial the first few years of his career) as musicians in the Miller band. In both movies, the Nicholas Brothers dance. If you’ve never seen the Nicholas Brothers perform, do so forthwith and you’ll never even think of Fred Astaire again.

The Nicholas Brothers.

Here’s the thing about the Glenn Miller stuff. The tunes are performed in their respective movies by enormous orchestras. Kalamazoo, for instance, is played by four trombones, five saxophones, four trumpets and cornets, a couple of clarinets, a bassist, a guitarist, and a pianist, with vocals sung by Tex Beneke and the four Imperials. That’s 23 people. And in those days, Miller’s band, as well as those of Bennie Goodman, Fletcher Henderson, Artie Shaw, Duke Ellington, Paul Whiteman and many more made their dough primarily by touring. They’d visit every big city and small town in the nation that’d fill a hall for them. They’d travel by train. Imagine the logistics that went into planning such a tour. It’s impossible to imagine carting 23 people around the nation to perform live music these days for a ticket at even a dime less than $200. Yet folks from my parents’ and your grand- and great-grandparents’ generation were able to scrape up the dough when those big bands came to town. Economics, it must be said, have changed.

Anyway, one sour note on Chattanooga: The lyrics go, “Pardon me boy, is that the Chattanooga Choo Choo? Track 29! Boy, you can give me a shine.”

That boy, sad to report, was a black man. Grown men with dark skin were routinely called “boys” back then. And the fellows who ran shoeshine stands in train stations invariably were black men. These verbal atrocities held until well into the 1960s.

The racism in the song surely detracts, mightily, from my enjoyment of it.


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