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      Combover: Smart as a Rabbi

      May 30, 2012
      From the column 'Combover'

      Photos by Janicza Bravo

      Someone shot an angel. Some piece of dreck found their way up to heaven, got past the gates, somehow got a gun in without anyone noticing, saw an angel sitting on a cloud, and opened fire. Now an angel is dead. Maria is dead. 

      The memories rush my mind. Liz Taylor gorgeousity. Brandoesque talent. And smart as a rabbi. I start thinking about being on the set of Not Remembering Sasha Mathis, watching her on the monitors, making me laugh my hairy ass off. Damn, she was good in that. She was good in everything. Great in everything. No words to describe. Except “great,” obviously. 

      I should have married her. She would have made a great fifth wife. Only thing that stopped me was that she wasn’t in the tribe. That and I’m married to this town, Hollywood, baby! But that didn’t stop me from loving her more than a sheet of matzo with some chopped liver. Boy, she’d get my belly heaving. And she knew it too. Whenever we got together I’d turn bright red with hypertension. “Your blood pressure, Combover. Your blood pressure!” Always so caring. I’d have 40 heart attacks for her, 75 diabetic comas, 125 strokes. I would have died for her. Well, maybe not died, but definitely a hip operation or two. 

      I remember when she auditioned for Birdbrain. You might remember Birdbrain. It was only one of the top-grossing action movies of all time. She came in to audition. I didn’t want her to. Yeah, I knew she was good, but to me she was always sugar. Like Audrey Hepburn, but Hepburn never played a cop. 

      I said, “Mar, don’t waste your time. You got the world lovin’ you. This part is too hard-edged.” She told me if I didn’t see her for the role she’d never talk to me again. Now if another actress said this to me, I’d give them a swift backhand, make a couple calls, and bury their careers. But never Maria. She had a hold on me tighter than my grandmother’s grip on a packet of Sweet’N Low. So I agreed. She came in, and what did she bring with her? Her own gun! A gun to an audition!

      She pressed the barrel to my head. “How sweet am I now, you big, fat Jewish pile of shit?! You give me this part or I’m gonna give you a fucking lead yarmulke!” I knew she was good, but I didn’t know that good. Needless to say, she blew my tallith off. I gave her the part, and we went straight to Malibu. I fed her fresh herring all weekend. She fed me a little redhead lovin’. 

      Topics: Fiction, Brett Gelman, Combover


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