Post by Chafetz Chayim ha'Yehu'di
On Friday, September 14, 2018 at 1:53:57 PM UTC-7, PsychoLizardScarlotti thrives on his delusions...
The shtar giyur hangs on my wall,
In the tent?
Post by Chafetz Chayim ha'Yehu'di
signed by an orthodox beyt din, one of whom was ordained by Rav Avraham
I've read about Kook, and let's just say that his surname is an understatement.
Post by Chafetz Chayim ha'Yehu'di
the last chief rabbi of British mandated 'Palestine'. Scarlotti's petulant bullshit is corrected. David Schwimmer did nothing of the sort.
Schwimmer was photographed (approximately half a dozen photos) holding your shtar and laughing.
Post by Chafetz Chayim ha'Yehu'di
There is no 'documentation' of anything that never happened in 1967,
Correct. OTOH, there is solid, indisputable documentation of something that *did* happen in 1967.
Post by Chafetz Chayim ha'Yehu'di
and my marriages were never fakes.
They were not only shams, but you were, by your own admission, abusive to Faline as she lay on her deathbed, and in all probability hastened her demise.
Post by Chafetz Chayim ha'Yehu'di
Scarlotti refuses to admit his lies,
I will always admit my lies, Pick. Let's see ... nope, can't think of any.
Post by Chafetz Chayim ha'Yehu'di
refuses to send to me, in a manila envelope, with a verifiable return address > with his legal name, copies of the forgeries.
I don't want you coming anywhere near me, Pick.
Post by Chafetz Chayim ha'Yehu'di
We are dealing here with Michael Scarlotti, a profoundly disturbed fraud.
Scarlotti may very well have been profoundly disturbed, but he was never a fraud. You can read all about him here:
THE CURIOSITY PIECE
Revenge, at first thought sweet,
Bitter ere long, back on itself recoils.
-- John Milton
In speaking of my late friend, Michelangelo Scarlotti, I am immediately reminded of the rather bizarre little curio he kept on display in his private study. As a matter of fact, it is practically impossible to separate Signor Scarlotti from his singularly unique show-piece, for he seemed especially attached to it and was given to entertaining his guests (at least, that is, his trusted inner-circle of companions) in its presence. Of course, as you know from the headlines in the dailies, it was this little curiosity which ultimately brought about his downfall. That we gentlemen who were counted amongst his inner-circle of friends should have been tried as accomplices, merely because we failed to report the existence of Signor Scarlotti's trophy to the proper authorities, was one of the most scandalous miscarriages of justice in these United States of America to date.
I concede that, if one were to step back from the situation and examine the facts with an open frame of mind, one would surely see the entire episode as the ghastly outrage against humanity which the tabloids unanimously proclaimed it. Though the press itself may often warrant condemnation, I must confess them to have been in the right on this one point. But Scarlotti was such a thoroughly charming rascal! -- possessed with such a profound degree of that phenomenon known as animal magnetism -- that none of us who knew him ever so much as suspected the fact that something was amiss. And besides, the head itself -- for that was how we commonly referred to it -- seemed perfectly contented to exist within the proscribed parameters of its rôle.
Night after night it would sit there contentedly watching us as we gambled and drank, and discussed such topics as politics, literature, theater, and fashion; along with the latest goings on in our fair town. I might even go so far as to venture that the head appeared to take a keen interest in the majority of our conversations and oftentimes seemed eager to join in. But of course that is pure speculation on my part, seeing how the head was utterly incapable of speech. It seemed especially fond of our tobacco, and was always seen sniffing furiously at the air whenever a whiff of cigar smoke would waft its way over within nose-shot.
And are there not stranger things in the world than a bodiless head? Why, aren't the sideshows at even the most penny ante of carnivals filled with human oddities of an equal -- if not a greater -- sense of wonderment? Surely you have heard of some of the more sensational curiosities commonly displayed there for a penny or two. I've either seen, or personally heard tell of, an armless woman who cooks, writes and sews with her feet; a man whose skin can be stretched the length of a foot; a little boy with hair covering every inch of his body; a beautiful young lady with a five foot long tail; a man with two heads; a man with two sets of legs; a troupe of dwarves all under three feet tall ... and are not our modern scientists and anthropologists claiming that giant reptiles -- many of them bigger than a house -- roamed freely about the earth in great mutitudes so many millions of years ago?
In the face of such natural obscenities as the above, is it so strange that we should not have given the head any more notice than we would a talking mynah bird or a human skull.
Certainly Signor Scarlotti had sworn us all to secrecy on the subject of his prize possession. But we chalked that up to his almost innate habit of creating an air of mystery about himself and all things pertaining to him. This was coupled with his extremely private nature and his admirable desire to avoid unwonted press. For Scarlotti was a dark complexioned, brooding, sort of fellow rumored to have a goodly share of gypsy blood coursing through his veins, and many of us suspected that there were more than a few skeletons in his proverbial closet. Just how right we were in this last regard shall soon be made abundantly, and shockingly, clear.
And if a man like Scarlotti had seen fit to take us into his confidence -- at least insofar as to allow us to view the miraculous head -- we would each of us have been damned a dozen times over before we'd even consider a betrayal his trust. Besides, the head was well cared for and obviously in no immediate danger or harm. Of course, in hindsight, we can see it for one of the most absolutely despicable enactments of revenge ever perpetrated by a man against one of his fellow creatures. But hindsight is the luxury of wagging tongues. At the time, we saw only what Scarlotti wanted us to see. And ... well, surely you know how it is when in the presence of these extraordinary types of human beings ... Signor Scarlotti had a way of making it all just seem like so much sport.
Imagine if you will, a typical scene in the Scarlotti study. There would be three or four gentlemen friends -- all from the best families and of the most exceptional character -- gathered about their host, Signor Scarlotti, and what appeared to be the disembodied head of one Mr. Noah Moore. I use the phrase "appeared to be" in keeping with the literal truth of the matter (for in truth, Mr. Moore's head and body turned out, beyond any and all doubt, to still be very much attached); however, owing to the extenuating set of physical circumstances which surrounded his body at the time, one could certainly be excused for thinking him (in both the literal and figurative senses) to be nothing other than an animated, disembodied head. Indeed, Sigor Scarlotti had gone to great lengths to lend him the particular appearance one would expect such a natural oddity to have.
I believe a few words of explanation to be in order here. There often exists, as any magician or illusionist can tell you, a vast gulf between what one perceives to be the case and what, in fact, actually is. The human mind can be made to believe just about anything -- if properly presented -- and Signor Scarlotti was a master at the illusionist's art. We've all seen magicians perform such seemingly supernatural feats as the levitation of a table, the extraction of a rabbit from his tophat, or the sawing of a woman in half; surely these men could convince us of the existence of an animated, severed head as well. Indeed, Scarlotti's presentation of the head borrowed heavily from the prestidigitator's stock and trade.
"Standing" slightly over five-and-a-half feet tall, and encased in a block of concrete from his neck on down, Mr. Noah Moore presented a presupposing aura of the fantastic. The concrete slab was itself, in turn, encased inside a fine mahogany-paneled chest. A shiny brass plate encircled Mr. Moore's neck, just below his ears and chin, and gave the distinct impression of being a base, or stand, on which the head was most expertly mounted. The coup de grâce of Scarlotti's magnificent exhibit, however, was the exquisitely ornate, ventilated, glass-paneled cover, which was stylishly placed atop the prize to protect it from the hazard of accumulating too much dust.
Of course the idea seems monstrously inhumane in retrospect. But I cannot understate the fact that, at the time of our acquaintanceship with Signor Scarlotti, the predicament of the head -- and whatever physical and emotional trauma it may have been undergoing -- was looked upon by all concerned as nothing more than a whimsical joke. You'd have to see the head in action to really understand. Imagine, if you can, the head of a jovial, elderly negro minstrel perched atop a tall, mahogany cabinet, seated on a brass display stand, crowned by an ornate, glass dust-cover -- it's just too rich!
And the ridiculous faces it would make! I say! You really had to be there. I suppose, again with the advantage of hindsight, that the head's repertoire of grimaces might have been in response to its unfortunate -- nay, pitiable -- situation. Perhaps, they might even have been grimaces of pain ... Still, as presented by Scarlotti, these afforded nothing other than an occasion for uncontrollable outbursts of laughter by one and all in attendance. I remember the hilarious manner in which it used to twitch and contort its nose when confronted, by Scarlotti, with a goose-quill. Once, he even let me have a go at it! Hoo-boy! did I have a time of it! I had that thing ... the head that is ... sneezing as though it had a terminal case of hay fever. I must confess that I not only enjoyed myself thoroughly, but that I took a great deal of pride in my performance. Even Scarlotti was impressed with ability to wield a quill!
I must, hereby add in my defense, that never once did any of us ever hear the head, or rather, the late, unfortunate Mr. Moore -- complain. It was not until Signor Scarlotti's trial, that any of us had even the faintest idea that the hea ... that Mr. Moore had been so ruthlessly deprived of his tongue. We never dreamed of examining the condition of its tongue -- why ever should we? -- after all, we weren't any of us doctors! Apparently Scarlotti had cut his adversary's tongue out shortly after imprisoning him in the concrete slab. Naturally, the loss of his tongue served to render the ... Mr. Moore quite mute.
And what's more, we never thought of it as torturous to Mr. Moore. Again, I ask, why should we? It was done, the tickling that is, in the spirit of affectionate play. For, the ironic truth be known, we were all exceptionally fond of the ... Mr. Moore. I personally suspect that even Signor Scarlotti was not entirely unattached to ... Mr. Moore ... in his own, inscrutable way, of course. We all would feed it crackers and the like. It seemed to be especially partial to those on which we had generously spread peanut butter. Although, if we stuffed a few too many ... that is, if it ate the crackers a little too fast, its ... the head's ... his mouth would get all choked up with a sticky, peanut butter paste ... you'll forgive me, of course, but I have to chuckle over that image even now.
It's not without the deepest feelings of shame that I concede that the match tricks were probably a tad on the cruel side. Scarlotti seemed exceptionally fond of singeing its nose hairs with a lighted match until it sneezed ... er, until Mr. Moore sneezed, that is. He also delighted in wedging a lighted matchstick between two of the head's teeth and watching as it desperately wriggled its mouth about in a (more often than not) vain attempt to dislodge the fire before its lips got burned. Yes, in hindsight, it was a reprehensible jest -- an inhumane torture, even! -- but I swear to you that at the time it struck us as having no more consequence than a lad's pulling the wings off of a fly, or skewering a beetle on a tack.
I suppose that it ultimately boils down to a matter of perception. We were introduced to the head as a curio -- an object -- an inanimate thing ... or something nearly so, at any rate. Why it's the most natural thing in the world for us to have accepted the head at face value. I've heard tell of a tribe of natives somewhere on the Dark Continent of Africa who'd never seen a ship. When a British ... or was it Spanish? ... oh well, it matters little which country it set sail from, doesn't it? In any event, when a European ship appeared on their horizon one morning, they (possessing no equivalent mental image to compare it to) simply could not see it!
And who amongst us had ever seen such a thing as a severed head that maintained the majority of its former functions after suffering the deprivation of its body? We'd never seen the like of it. Never imagined that such a thing could even be. Signor Scarlotti, who seemed to know the history of this eighth wonder of the world, treated it as though it were some insensate object. What choice did we -- any of us -- have but to follow suit?
You see, we didn't know Mr. Moore as he was ... before. Signor Scarlotti would always explain the head's existence by claiming it to be the sole remains of a villainous blackguard who had once committed a most grievous injury to his person. He would follow up this statement with a glance down toward his right leg, which was affected with a slight, though noticeable limp. I believe the scar on his left cheek was in some manner connected with this injury as well. Yet the manner in which he delivered these lines -- for lines were what we took his words to be -- his manner, I say, denied that we should ever take them seriously. It was as though he was telling a private joke that we were all in on. Only we weren't in on it -- none of us -- although it was implicit in the delivery that we were expected to pretend to harbor an intimate familiarity with the particulars of the incident to which our host was casually alluding. We were the inner-circle, after all!
Today we know that he was telling the truth. And ... I suppose, although I find such a supposition most difficult to entertain, that what we took to be a hint of jocularity in his manner, was in fact the gleam of madness in his eye. Not that Signor Scarlotti was mad in the general sense -- though he must have been insane to commit such a heinous act. Rather, I like to think that the grievous calamity which the blackguard Moore had wrought upon him, had simply left him with an unnatural thirst for vengeance. For the truth be known, in all other particulars, Scarlotti was one of the nicest, kindest, most personable gentlemen I have ever had the good fortune to make the acquaintance of. Not for nothing does the word "mad" denote both the concepts of "insanity" and "anger."
Revenge, of course, can be -- and, indeed, there are many historical examples of its having been -- the undoing of many a great man. In poor Signor Scarlotti's case, I'll venture to say that his need for vengeance must have reached the state of an obsession. I am pained to think on how significant a portion of his life must have revolved around his mania to return injury a hundredfold times on the person (rather, on the uppermost reaches of the person) of Mr. Noah Moore. But all of this, again, is merely the voice of hindsight.
Still, at the time, we ignorantly considered the head to be one of our group. One of the inner circle, in a manner of speaking -- albeit more of a mascot than a full-fledged peer. Still, you must recognize that this admission in itself constituted a rare and high privilege for a man of color. Show me, if you can, one gentlemen's club in our fair city that would allow a colored man to enter its hallowed walls. And Mr. Moore was not only granted admission to our inner sanctuary, but was regularly invited to imbibe with us as well. Signor Scarlotti kept a cask of inexpensive, and I daresay sickeningly sweet, red wine that the head ... Mr. Moore was so insatiably fond of, on hand and we often took turns in raising a glass of the syrupy nectar to his lips. Heaven knows, for someone who supposedly had neither stomach nor liver, he sure could quaff his quotient of the grape!
I never really thought about how the trick was managed. I never really granted the head any more substantiality than a mechanical conversation piece -- a second cousin to Maelzel's celebrated chess-player. Or, at most, I suppose, as a rather bizarre pet. My God! he was a negro, after all! It's not as though one can equate their feelings with our own. Certainly not before the war in any case. When you've spent the greater portion of your lifetime believing a particular thing to be true, all the Congressional Proclamations in the country aren't going to convince you otherwise.
In any event, the concept that this ... thing ... had a body attached to it -- a body embedded in a solid block of concrete -- well, it strains one's sense of credibility, doesn't it? I mean, Scarlotti must have kept that thing in his study for at least ten years! How could it have stayed alive under such conditions? How, for example, could it relieve itself? Yes, yes, I know that's what ultimately proved to be a contributing factor to its ... his ... demise. Still, how were we supposed to know it was slowly fermenting in its own feces? The very idea is just too horribly monstrous to conceive of. Appalling, hideous, vicious, heinous, mortifying, abominable, unspeakable ... words fail to express the unfathomable cruelty of it all.
But we were never his accomplices in the cruelty. Oh, unwittingly, perhaps. But never knowingly so. We had been duped. Scarlotti had duped us -- one and all. He had used us ... manipulated us as though we were pawns in his unending game of vengeance upon the ... upon the person of the late Mr. Moore. It's true that we would join him in having a little sport with the head, but we never looked on it as anything more than that. Nor should we be held accountable for anything more.
Perhaps a few of the tricks Signor Scarlotti would play upon the head overstepped the bounds of human decency a bit: flicking its ears, pulling its nose, setting fire-ants loose inside its dust-cover. That was a hoot! Not now, of course. Not since I know the true facts concerning the unfortunate Mr. Moore. But it was, at the time, side-splitting, to say the least. Then there was the time Scarlotti stuck a chicken bone through its nose and called it an Ubangi. And I must admit that I thought the rat incident a bit harsh -- even at the time. But still, for the most part, the supposed tortures we've been accused of subjecting the head to were nothing more than friendly practical jokes. Why how can anyone hope to attribute malice aforethought to our playfully pulling on Mr. Moore's Ubangi-nose?
Alas! if only Scarlotti had not been blinded by his love for a woman. If only he had heeded the warnings in the Christian Book of Genesis and the Greek myth of Pandora. We warned him -- we of his trusted inner-circle -- we warned him time and time again. Never entrust the secret of the head to a daughter of Eve, we cautioned him. But Signor Scarlotti was a mad, passionate Italian -- utterly helpless when under the enchantment of some bewitching Jezebel's siren-song.
And, the truth be told, she was a fetching example of womanhood. Signor Scarlotti always did have the best of taste -- and a way with the ladies as well, if you know what I mean. He was a devilishly handsome rascal. And the object of his affection was a vision of angelic loveliness. They made for a striking couple, and might well have proven to be a match made in heaven, if only their personalities hadn't corresponded so admirably with their looks.
Their courtship was brief and tempestuous -- as I'm told is common with the Mediterranean races, and before half a year had elapsed from the date of their introduction, they were already publishing their wedding banns. Naturally, everyone was shocked at their impetuous behavior. His bride to be was such a reserved, almost conservative young lady -- well bred -- from one of the oldes families and all that. Scarlotti's behavior was understandable. But she had no excuse. Even so, the prospect seemed to bring them both joy, and as his inner circle of friends, Scarlotti certainly had our best wishes in the matter.
Marrying her is one thing, we gently cautioned our hot-blooded friend -- after all, several of us had already taken wives. A wife can do a man good, after all -- provided that she knows her place and keeps to it. Lay down the law for her, we encouraged him. Let her know what is expected of her -- and what is not. Teach her to be obedient, we advised him. Box her ears now and then, if need be. Show her the hickory switch, we suggested -- and don't be afraid to use it. Give her free rein over the estate (especially as pertains to her womanly duties), but never, never access to the wine cellar or the "Inner Sanctum" of this study. A little liberty here and there can do a woman good, we conjectured, but granting her the privileges reserved for the inner-circle -- well, that is another matter entirely!
But marry her he would -- and bring her in he did. And now we all must face the consequences. A pox on love! which has destroyed as many lives as it's enriched. For no sooner did Signor Scarlotti's bride first lay eyes upon the marvelous head, than she gave way to such a fit of cries and screams and general hysteria, that we were anxious -- truly anxious -- lest her rantings should wake the dead. Which, in a strictly metaphoric sense, was precisely what they did.
There are some things in this great earth that are, and should, remain the sole property of the male. Strong liquor, tobacco, politics, business, sports, the affairs of the world, and unusual curiosity pieces. The female mind is simply not constituted to handle certain things. It is naturally averse to being confronted with a novel idea, and prone to melodramatic outbursts whenever such an idea conflicts with the rather naïve conceptions of "Good" and "Evil" that have been drilled into its gray matter since childhood. Pah! God grant that I may die a bachelor.
Sadly, Madam Scarlotti proved a typical example of her sex.
As duly noted in the daily papers, the incident took place at Signor Scarlotti's wedding night ball. The groom, nearly bursting with pride, escorted his heart's delight into the private study where his inner circle of friends were celebrating his good fortune with drink and cards and the occasional ribald tale. Up until that moment, no woman's foot had ever trespassed on its sacred floorboards, and we were nearly at a loss as to how to comport ourselves there in mixed company.
Always the immaculate host, Signor Scarlotti introduced his radiant bride to each and every member of his trusted inner circle, and called for several bottles of his best champagne to be brought up from the wine cellar for a toast. All was going fine until he took it upon himself to perversely flaunt his newfound connubial bliss before the hapless head of his nemesis, Noah Moore.
Mr. Moore's display cabinet had been moved, no doubt with great difficulty due to its unseemly weight, to the back corner of the room and was currently blocked from view by a small group of gentlemen who were wagering on the number of live goldfish a bodiless head could swallow. And it was his bride's indecorous behavior, upon discovering the amazing head in the act of ingesting its twenty-seventh goldfish, which brought the other guests, en masse, into the sacred confines of our host's most private of rooms -- our fortress, our refuge, our cherished Inner Sanctum.
Needless to say, the hordes reacted in a highly negative fashion as well -- with all the expected displays of shock, disgust, and horror, etc., typical to the petit bourgeoisie. They're the ones responsible for the head's ... for Mr. Noah Moore's ... untimely demise. Not Scarlotti! Certainly not any
of us -- his loyal inner-circle of friends! It was the outraged guests who broke the concrete block apart -- exposing once-and-for-all its hideous secret. For as the black and liquified putrescence slowly oozed its way across the study's floor, it became apparent then -- to the horror of one and all -- that the concrete block had been the sole agent responsible for holding the unfortunate Mr. Moore's decaying body together.