The Monk looked at the Teahouse of the August Moon and stated, “pareidolia, seeing a pattern or image that is not there. A psychological phenomenon not uncommon in inebriates. In this case, an entire case of Giant Imperial Quarts of Narragansett beer. Something that you vastly desire. On waking from your frowsy drunken sleep, what else should you imagine but more of your favorite beverage? Your object of desire. Per se, this is not a bad thing, but persisting in this imagery after waking reveals a disturbing pattern.”
The Teahouse reared up to his full six feet of skinny folkie height and replied, ” You’re not the only one who took Psych 101 with professor Nigorski you Pius monastic. Enough of your gasconade so early in the afternoon. I see the box of GIQs behind your obese carcass. Give me one!”
Another Saturday afternoon at the Grove Street Folkie Palace had started.
The Teahouse, our landlord, had come home in the wee hours of the morning after a trip to Montreal. Nothing could keep him from his bed, including the loud carousing of his roommates. He’d slept through the tail end of our TGIF party and was now rousing in time for our Saturday afternoon gathering. He’d been rousted awake by our loud rendition of Saint James Infirmary with all the verses improvised by our community of local folksingers and friends. We might have waked the dead in the burial ground on the Boston Common. But, it was only 2 PM and too early for noise complaints.
With a dozen or so participants singing and playing, we’d need supplies. So we passed the hat for contributions and sent a rescue party off for more beer and snacks. After all having pareidolia of beer cases after the store closes is a terrible way to end a party early.