What happened to Jack?

Morty Seinfeld's nemesis Jack (actor's name?) in the astronaut pen episode look rotund. In the episode where Jerry gives his Dad the Cadillac, Jack looks emaciated. Anyone know what happened to him? (IRL) Was it a heart attack...just a guess on my part. Is he still with us?

Peter

In article , [email] says...

This should be the link to the story. Doesn't seem to work at this moment...(neither does the latimes.com).

In article , [email] says...

Yep, the link doesn't work, but the story can be found in archives...they are charging $2.50 for one arcticle! Well here's the story as I found it from deja.com:

After a Fall, He Had the Last Laugh Late comedian Sandy Baron's brief comeback offered one friend a lesson in keeping the faith.

By ROBERTO LOIEDERMAN, Special to The Times

    In 1992, not long after I had opened the Pasta Place, a small deli in
a Studio City mini-mall, a man started coming in every morning. He
appeared to be in his late 60s. No matter how hot it was, he wore the
same fleecy overcoat, which was filthy and frayed, as were the rest of
his clothes, and he smelled awful. He had a salt-and-pepper beard, and
his hair, mostly white, was longish and scruffy. His eyes were deep-set,
intelligent; his fingers were slim and, except for the cigarette stains,
delicate-looking. Every morning he would pull out a few crumpled-up bills
and order chicken salad and coffee. After the first week, we started
chatting--small talk--but he never mentioned what was obvious from his
look and smell: He was homeless. There was something about the man that I
liked, so I told my staff to give him food and coffee on the house, every
day, and make sure that he was gone before lunch.
    One night, Denny--a drummer who played at the bar next door--came in.
He told me that he'd heard I was giving food away to a homeless guy. Was
that true? I nodded.
    "Do you know who he is?"
    "Should I?"
     "That's Sandy Baron."
     "Sandy Baron? The comic?"
     Denny nodded. " 'Broadway Danny Rose,' 'Hey, Landlord,' lots of
stuff."
     Denny warned me: He knew Sandy, and, well, it probably wasn't a good
idea to give him things. Clearly, Denny was talking from personal
experience.

* * *
     That night I rented "Broadway Danny Rose." Though the movie had been
made fewer than 10 years earlier, the Sandy Baron in the movie looked 30
years younger than the man who came into my place every day. Still, he
had the same deep eyes and the same face. The same New York accent, the
same cadence, the same hand gestures. No doubt about it: It was the same
person. The man I thought was nearly 70 was actually in his mid-50s.
     This, then, was the dark side of the show-biz dream. After having
worked in movies, on Broadway, on television, Sandy Baron was now a
homeless street person, hustling chicken salad and coffee from a
sympathetic deli owner.
     The next day I told Sandy that I knew who he was. He shrugged, not
looking up from his food. I didn't ask him to explain his condition, but
he did anyway.
He had made money, he said, but he blew it all on drugs, booze and
divorces. He had no family to help him and couldn't go back again to
those who had supported him in the past.
     I told Sandy that I too had worked in television, as a writer. This
triggered a reaction. He started pitching ideas to me. Not specific
comedy bits--his mind was not rational enough for that--but the
possibility of our working together on something. I was amazed at his
manic optimism: "If I could just get some acting work. . . ." Despite his
situation, he believed that there were still more acts in his personal
drama. I told him that he should be realistic and accept the likely
possibility that he would never work in show business again. Sandy
insisted that I didn't understand. A movie director was looking for him,
and so were the people from "Seinfeld." Even if it were true,
which I doubted, I didn't think there was any chance that this grimy,
foul-smelling, less-than-lucid homeless guy could ever carry out the
requirements of an acting job.

* * *
     Sandy said that what he needed was to clean himself up. He asked if
he could stay at my house--for a few days--until things got going again
for him. Yes, I understood that he was imposing on me as he had imposed
on others. But I thought: Why not? Why not do something for him? I was
certain he wouldn't get his acting career back, but at least I could give
him a safe haven. A shower, clean clothes, and he'd be a new man. And I
also thought this: Maybe, just maybe, this was the real reason for my
having opened the deli; it was part of a cosmic plan whose ultimate
purpose was to help Sandy Baron get his life back.
     I shared that thought with my wife, who felt that Sandy's insanity
had infected me.
     Then, two things happened.
     One night, Denny came in with an intense woman who chastised me for
helping Sandy, who, she said, was a "dry alcoholic" and was using me to
avoid dealing with his problems. She strongly urged me to stop giving him
food and make sure he started going to AA meetings again. "And for
heaven's sake," she said, "don't even consider letting him stay at your
house."
     The other thing was that I was diagnosed with throat cancer. Sandy,
when I told him, was full of compassion. Then he quickly shifted gears
and pleaded again: Could he stay at my house? Given my new situation, I
imagined what that would be like: his smell, his needs, his chain-
smoking. No, it was out of the question. Not in my condition. Several
days later, Denny told me that he had tried to get Sandy to go to a
halfway house. Sandy had refused, then had disappeared. Denny asked me to
call him the next time Sandy came in so he could try again. Seeing that I
had difficulty carrying out this kind of betrayal, Denny assured me that
it was in Sandy's best interest. OK, I agreed finally, OK.
     Sandy showed up, and I called Denny, who was there in minutes. We
talked.We pleaded. We cajoled. Finally, Sandy agreed to go--on one
condition: that I promise to let him stay at my house after he got out of
the halfway house. I nodded, though I knew I never intended to fulfill
that promise.
     When I visited Sandy, he was horribly depressed. "Look at these
guys," he said, waving at the other residents of the halfway house. "Look
at them. Scum of the earth. Junkies. Ex-cons. How can a guy like me stay
here with them? You know what I've done? You know what I've been in?"
     So long as Sandy had been an anonymous homeless guy wandering around
Studio City, he had maintained some dignity. But here, the people who ran
the place, and even some of the residents, had seen him on TV. He was
confronted constantly with the contrast between where he had been and
where he now was. It was unbearable. He begged me to take him home--to my
home. He cried, pleading for help. I cried too. I told him OK, all right,
I'll think it over--knowing that I was lying again.
     During the final stage of my radiation treatment--all I could do was
lie in bed all day--my wife called from the deli. Sandy had left the
halfway house and had shown up. He was desperate. He claimed he had a
movie deal and "Seinfeld" wanted him, but he had to clean up first. He
needed $150. My wifedidn't know what to do.
     I didn't have the energy to argue or to say no. Just give him the
money, I told her. Just give it to him.
     A couple of months later, when I was back at work, Denny came in. He
had heard from Sandy, who was in New York, working on a movie. I assumed
that, if true, he was playing the part of a crazy homeless person.
Denny's tone was unmistakable: Given Sandy's history, it was unlikely
that I would ever hear from him again.
     Denny was right. I never did hear from Sandy again. He never called,
never came around. I don't know what I expected. Gratitude, I suppose.
     A few months later I saw him on "Seinfeld." Sandy really was
working! And he did a good, professional job. Watching him act, I felt a
flood of emotions: anger at the way he had used me, resentment that he
had never acknowledged my help. And relief as well, that I no longer had
to deal with his needs. Guilt too, because I hadn't believed in him or
let him stay at my house. Then I thought: Maybe I played a part in this.
What I had given him, had it made a difference? What I felt most of all,
though, was amazement. He had pulled it off. Astonishing.
     In the mid-1990s, Sandy continued acting occasionally: a couple of
low-budget movies and the recurring role on "Seinfeld." Sandy's agent and
guardian angel, Michele Keeler, said that he was generally able to take
care of himself, living in a clean hotel room in Sherman Oaks. Of course,
there were periods when he would sink and call Michele for help,
sometimes in the middle of the night. And there were moments when the
darkness inside him would take over.
     For the most part, however, Sandy was sane and self-sufficient, and
he worked--when work was offered--at what he loved. In spite of
everything, he never gave up the idea that he was a performer who would
act again.
     When Sandy was diagnosed with emphysema in the late 1990s, Michele
moved him into a nursing home. Tom Cherones, who directed him in
"Seinfeld" episodes, saw Sandy for the last time at that show's wrap
party in 1998. Sandy was using an oxygen tank. "Obviously, he was very
ill," Tom said, "but he was rational, and he was very friendly with the
people from the show." Yes, certainly. They were the ones who had given
him a chance to be, once again, what he had once been. They had provided
him with one more act to his drama.
     Sandy died this year on Jan. 21. It was not homelessness or booze or
madness--or lack of dreams--that killed him, but tobacco.
     Now, when I see Sandy on reruns, my reaction is very different from
what it was seven years ago: What I feel is--gratitude. Thanks, Sandy.
You were right. Absolutely right. You knew that you had it in you to act
again. You knew what I didn't know then: that nothing--not homelessness,
filth, illness, age or the well-meaning advice of those who care for us--
necessarily requires us to give up our dreams.
     This lesson cost me $150 and several bucketfuls of chicken salad.
I'd say that was a very low price to pay.

Copyright � 2001 Los Angeles Times

Wow! Great story....real pathos there.

Peter

On Thu, 18 Oct 2001 10:39:14 +0300, Noone wrote:

Thanks for posting this great story. J