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In “The Life,” his 2016 play starring David Hyde Pierce at New York’s Playwrights Horizons, the protagonist drops dead unexpectedly, transforming kvetchy comedy into clinical postmortem.

He described a partly gentrified tableau, “like a Woody Allen movie” with “kvetchy” sellers and buyers.

She describes herself as “kvetchy and blue,” but she owns it, one day, one sniffle at a time.

The latter are for dabblers, like me, who get kvetchy when an outdoor activity starts to eat into the dinner hour.

The lunacy of their complaint – “This program is a nightmare – but not enough people are being helped by it!” – is like the old joke about the kvetchy restaurant patron who complains the food is terrible, and the portions are too small.