See this story at BrooklynDaily.com.
By Carmine Santa Maria
Brooklyn Daily
I’m madder than Old Mother Hubbard when she climbed up on a chair to get to her cupboard to fetch her old dog a bone — and then got knocked off her high perch by an anxious mutt, breaking her hip and injuring her spleen in the fall — over the fact that nowadays people have figured out that I am in fact old — and when I go to the VA for my annual oil change they send me to the geriatric wing!
Look, you all know that I call myself the ol’Screecher because I’ve been screeching about the needs of our community for 40 some odd years plus, with many outstanding victories to my credit. But that doesn’t mean I think of myself as some old geezer who simply complains for no reason, and as far as I’m concerned, they should take me to the pediatric wing because as long as I am sitting down atop Tornado I feel great — and I got the blood work to prove it!
And whenever someone asks me “How old are you?” I immediately respond “12!” So all of a sudden to be labeled as someone whose needs could be better taken care of in the geriatric section gives me a new meaning to the title “Great-Great-Grandpa.” My primary care doctor thinks I’m old (and a tinge overweight) and always wants to challenge the results from tests on my ticker that conclude I am in miraculous health for a man my age, despite my morbid weight problem that makes me look like a combination of old, fat Marlon Brando and old, fat Elvis — combined!
As I’ve told you a thousand times before, when friends or strangers ask, “How do you feel Carmine?” my stock answer is “I’m fine.” I just wish I wasn’t so old.
And being old, let me tell you about some things you should avoid talking about when with friends of a certain age. First of all, never ask someone how he is doing shortly after he had an operation, unless you want to get an incision-by-incision rundown of what happened followed by his now-expert opinion on what you have to do to stay healthy and thus avoid having to go through what he went through! And, above all else, certainly don’t bring up the subject when you’re out for dinner together, because there is nothing you’d rather not have for dessert than a breakdown of somebody’s spleen removal, hip replacement, or stomach staples.
Instead, make sure your polite conversation only includes Carmine’s Certified Tried-and-True Subjects to Discuss Over Dinner, including happy times (anything before 1980), great cruises, wonderful vacations, and the Carmine Gold-Seal Award Winner, grandchildren.
But remember, only use grandchildren if you are ready to get a face tan from the hundreds of iPadPhone photos you’ll be going through while you shovel chocolate ice cream into your mouth.
Now is the point in the column where I try to put back in all the stuff my editor cut from last week’s column.
First, I want to mention that Marcia Robins, the subject of last week’s dinner column, received a Borough President Proclamation, a Council Proclamation from Councilman Dominick M. Recchia Jr., and the Educational Leadership Award from Jim Harrigan, the Council of School Supervisor and Administrators. She also got an Assembly Commendation from Assemblywoman Diane Savino. Speaking of dinner tables, I would be remiss if I did not interject the charming members at my table whom I had the pleasure of sitting with at Gargiulio’s. Olga was at my table with my good friends Wendy Levit Karlin and Sid Schatzman. PS 128’s Roseanne Montomauro, Lee Sabatella, Annette Mazzola, Paula Cohen, Nora Whitman, and Pat Curtin were also celebrating Marcia’s retirement.
Naturally, federation board chairman Jack Spattola was there for Marcia and his namesake. Salvatore Spattola, who is not related to Jack, did a yeoman’s job with his beautiful dancing music and singing. Even federation president Frank Naccarato and his wife were tripping the light fanatic, dancing, while beacon director Joe Rizzi watched in amazement at Frank’s Fred Astaire moment.
Correction of the week: Remember last week when I couldn’t remember who Alma was? Well, actually her name is Alba, whom for years I’ve been calling Alma, as in last weeks’ Marcia Robins column referring to “Manny” the young Adonis in the pink shirt whom I didn’t recognize, although we’ve worked together for years. Alba was shocked to learn that I didn’t know that her name is Alba and wanted it corrected. So here’s saying sorry I messed that up, Alma!
Screech at you next week!