You could picture Gary Shandling viewing this comically grotesque presidential campaign season and wincing in recognition. And not necessarily because Senator Bernie Sanders has an older brother named Larry. Early on, this excremental spectacle was reminiscent of Caddyshack, with Donald Trump as Rodney Dangerfield and every other politician, Republican and Democrat, as the country club snobs who despise him. In particular, Jeb Bush made a memorable foil to Trump, like how Ted Knight was to Rodney.

But the more appropriate comedy film/show antecedent is Shandling’s The Larry Sanders Show from the ‘90s, especially how this wretched election resembles a never-ending version of the roast episode. Larry’s sidekick, the unbearably phony suck-up Hank Kingsley (Jeffrey Tambor at his best, which is saying something) is so concerned about the roast for Sanders that he works on jokes with the head writer of the show. Like many current politicians, Kingsley had the great misfortune of being an unlikable person whose main purpose in life was to be liked. Because of this, Kingsley would become a rich target during the roast, which featured everyone from Carl Reiner to a pre-Daily Show Jon Stewart, and his pathetic comebacks to Stewart reeked of anxiety, jealousy, and unwarranted entitlement. Much like how Jeb would react to Trump tearing into him during the roasts … I mean, debates.

In fact, watching Jeb this past year was like seeing Hank Kingsley run for president. Imagine that, the man who would be King instead turned out to be Kingsley. It was a strange, unexpected development, considering there are those who think he was an exceptional Governor of Florida. Perhaps he was. However, you wouldn’t know it by his campaign, which was marked by a series of awkward moments that were Kingsleyesque. Even the goofy explanation point (Jeb!) was pure Hank.

When Barbara Bush went campaigning for her son, Trump mocked Jeb, saying, “He desperately needed mommy to help him.” It was hard not to feel bad for Jeb, but more so for America having to witness a presidential contender get such a savage neutering from another presidential contender. Just when you thought it couldn’t get worse, Jeb whined in response, “He made fun of my mother.” Actually, Trump made fun of him for being weak and Jeb’s feeble Hank reply only proved him right.

Then there was the time he pitifully implored an apathetic New Hampshire crowd to “Please clap.” It was the kind of cringeworthy plea for attention that made Hank Kingsley such a perfect vessel for Shandling’s observations on how desperate some people are for the approval of others. The most noxious example of this was last October, when Jeb tried to impress the NRA by dismissing the mass shooting in Oregon that had just taken place with “stuff happens.” Nine innocent people were killed and another nine wounded.

By the time he mercifully called it quits, the campaign flushed $130 million down the toilet, made Al Gore’s inept, lackluster 2000 run seem like a paragon of competence and inspiration, and (perhaps temporarily) put a humiliating end to one of the most powerful political dynasties in American history. If that’s not bad enough, there’s also the colossal embarrassment of finishing lower in numerous primaries than Dr. Ben Carson, a man who once boasted of his attempt to hit his own mother with a hammer, have that refuted by the press, and then double-down, insist it was true, while accusing the press of “smearing” him. Even Hank might’ve shaken his head in disbelief on how poor Jeb could’ve fallen so low.

This past year showed that not even someone as privileged as Jeb Bush is immune to the absurdities and cruelties of life, self-imposed or otherwise. On The Larry Sanders Show, Shandling explored and reacted to that theme, sometimes with merely a pained smile or a grimace. And the deadpan non-reactions of many Jeb crowds brought to mind The Larry Sanders Show’s pioneering use of uncomfortable silence as a punch line. You would later see it utilized on Curb Your Enthusiasm, Arrested Development, Veep, Modern Family, The Office and seemingly every commercial now airing. As a testament to his genius, the show within The Larry Sanders Show was more compelling than most of the modern late night talk programs. Shandling did a stellar job guest hosting The Tonight Show, and his intelligence, self-deprecating charisma, timing and curiosity shone through in a fictional context as well.

He also broke new ground with It’s Garry Shandling’s Show, from the ‘80s. It came off as a fusion of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood and Late Night with David Letterman, deconstructing the sitcom format in the same irreverent, accessibly avant-garde way Letterman did with talk shows. It’s Garry Shandling’s Show could find humor in the most unlikely situations, like with Gilda Radner. In 1988, a year before she died of cancer, Radner made an appearance as herself, acknowledging her disease and mugging for the studio audience, shaking her clasped hands in a victorious, self-congratulatory manner, as if to say, “Look at me, I’m still here! Aren’t I great?!”

Any kid in the ‘80s who loved comedy connected to that unforgettable scene in Freaks and Geeks when Bill came home from school and watched a young Shandling do stand-up, set to The Who’s “I’m One.” He laughs hysterically, possibly seeing an older, more confident reflection of himself, and feels less alone. It pulls off the trick of the viewer relating to someone on TV at the same moment they’re relating to someone on TV. When Shandling suddenly passed away last month, it was one of the first things that came to mind.

Frank Sinatra, Jr. preceded Shandling in death by a week. Like Jeb Bush, he grew up with every possible advantage, and yet couldn’t escape the brutal indignities of existence, even after his own existence ended. An NBC news affiliate in Indiana announced his passing, accompanied by an image of Joe Piscopo as his father, back when he parodied him in the ‘80s on SNL. No one could imagine how hard it must’ve been living in the immense shadow of one of the 20^th century’s greatest artists, plus having the same name as him. Mistakenly using a photo of his father would’ve been enough of an insult. But presenting a picture of a guy who pretended to be his father three decades ago? In life he was eclipsed by his father. And now in death by his father’s greatest impersonator.

It was the kind of cruel absurdity that, if he were watching, you could picture Shandling wincing in sympathy.

Matt Leinwohl

Watching Joe Garagiola and Vin Scully on NBC’s Game of the Week as a pre-teen in the ‘80s was like seeing your grandfather talk baseball. And by that I mean your grandfather, not mine. Sid Leinwohl, better known in our family as “Grandpa Tattoo,” had a mild interest in the game at best, but was a good sport. Back in ’87, we were watching the Mets, when the camera briefly focused on back-up catcher Barry Lyons warming up on-deck. Grandpa inquired, “That Lyons?”

He clearly wasn’t familiar with Barry Lyons, but caught the last name on his jersey and made it seem like he knew him by double-checking if it was him. An odd way of bluffing, but he probably figured I would confirm it was Lyons, and provide his first name, statistics and background so that next time he actually did know who he was. Which of course, is exactly what happened. In imparting this information, my responsibility was to amiably present it as if he already knew all this, so he wouldn’t feel left out. In other words, I pulled a “Garagiola.”

He and Scully were an ideal broadcast team. Garagiola had a midwestern “gee whiz” sensibility that contrasted perfectly with Scully’s east coast poetic panache. In 1984, when Bob Uecker hosted Saturday Night Live, Harry Shearer and Billy Crystal portrayed Scully and Garagiola giving a summary of his performance as host. After it’s pointed out that Jesse Jackson would be hosting the following week, Crystal responded, “That guy is some kind of Reverend.” This was the same year Jackson made his infamous, anti-Semitic “Hymietown” comments, so Crystal nailed Garagiola’s typical polite understatement with that line, and even got his occasional blinking down flawlessly.

The real Joe was beloved for his self-deprecating sense of humor, particularly his famous quote about growing up across the street from lifelong friend and Hall of Famer Yogi Berra: “Not only was I not the best catcher in the Major Leagues, I wasn’t even the best catcher on my street!” However, as a 20-year-old rookie, he helped his hometown St. Louis Cardinals win the World Series in 1946, hitting .316 with four RBIs. It was the only time he reached the postseason, and he made it count, unlike far more talented players who have wilted on the grand stage. It was a fitting beginning for a man who seemed to lead a fairy tale life, and would become one of the game’s greatest ambassadors. Baseball was good to him, and he responded in kind.

While Joe Garagiola was known for his genial disposition and Ed Grimley “Say cheese” smile, Joe Santos became renowned for depicting characters with intense and exasperated, “Say what?!” grimaces. Santos grew up in Red Hook, back when Brooklyn was a place you escaped from and not to. After years of small parts and supporting himself by working various jobs like railroad worker and cab driver, he got his first big role in the 1971 classic The Panic in Needle Park. It was also the breakthrough for his friend Al Pacino, the star of the movie. Pacino had recommended him, as they played softball together. Much like the other Joe, you hit and catch a ball, suddenly your life changes.

In baseball, perhaps the ultimate compliment is, “Check the back of his baseball card,” meaning the presumably stellar stats that are featured. The equivalent for an actor is their IMDb page, and Santos has quite an impressive one. His oeuvre is very “dude” friendly, the kind of cops and robbers crime dramas you watch with your grandfather. And by that I mean my grandfather, not yours.

1973’s The Friends of Eddie Coyle was one of the best films from that era. Along with Robert Mitchum as the title character, it featured Santos, Peter Boyle, Alex Rocco, Richard Jordan, Steven Keats, James Tolkan, Matthew Cowles, and Jack Kehoe, essentially character actor nirvana. No matter how many times one sees it, you feel like you’re watching actual criminals in grimy ‘70s Boston, not actors playing them.

Other movies with Santos include Shaft’s Big Score!, Shamus, The Don Is Dead, and The Last Boy Scout. He was even in Abel Ferrara’s sleazy classic B movie Fear City, from 1984. All first class, low-brow, “tough guy,” Sid Leinwohl cinema.

You can also find Santos in virtually every 20^th century cop show. NYPD Blue, Miami Vice, Naked City, Hill Street Blues, Hunter, Police Story, Baretta, and The Streets of San Francisco are just a sample size. In 1978, he somehow managed to make an appearance on the unfortunately titled David Cassidy – Man Undercover.

His last television credit was The Sopranos, where he played the consigliere Angelo Garepe, the mentor to Steve Buscemi’s character. He was reunited with David Chase, who received his big break as a writer/producer on The Rockford Files, where Santos played Sgt. Becker, the character he’s most associated with. He added a blunt, impatient, old school New York presence to the laid back, southwest ambience of the show. It would be like if Lou Reed joined the band America in the ‘70s. Only 43 when the series started, he already looked like a retired cop, conveying anger and weariness with a simple glare. Although no matter how many times Rockford annoyed him, he always came through for his friend.

Santos and Garagiola passed away within five days of each other last month. With a glower and a grin, they were among the best in their professions. Both seemed like Sid Leinwohl kind of guys.

Matt Leinwohl