On Saturday evening of the Oregon Country Fair, back in ought-five I think it was, one of the strangest happenings I've ever witnessed took place right there in the middle of the meadow at Marshall's. We were all getting dressed up to go out into the Fair, feeling merry and loose with revelry. Suddenly, an enormous owl flew over the meadow, his shadow temporarily blotting out the moon. He circled, lower, and then came down to roost on a branch not far from the campfire in Kitchen Camp were we were all assembled.
He fluttered down to one of the benches, next to the bar, and flapped and agitated. "Whoo? Whoo?" he cried. "Whoo? Whoo? Whooo's got the Whiskey?"
We poured him a generous dose of Jameson's Irish in a little bowl, and he started lapping it up. Then he tottered along the bench and climbed onto the shoulder of one of the many beautiful lasses who call Kitchen Camp home. He kept his talons in check. It looked like he also kept a close eye on the plunge of her neckline.
Soon he called out again, "Whoo's got the whiskey?" Once again the bottle was procured, and once again the owl had his fill. He moved from one pretty girl to the next, perching on her shoulder and leering, occasionally asking for drinks out of her cup. We started calling him Guzzles, and talked to him like he was any other party animal at Kitchen Camp. He was getting to be pretty popular. Again and again he would call for another round of Jameson's, until it was all gone.
"Whoo's got the whiskey?" he hooted, one final time, but when I showed him the bottle was empty, he glared at me, hopped off the shoulder of the woman he was visiting at the time, and landed with a distinct "thud" on the fireplace bench. He tottered, teetered, and flopped down to the next lower seat. But then he righted himself, took a couple steps, and flapped heavily into the air. He wobbled in a circle over his head, cried out once more, "Whoo's got the whiskey?" and flew off in the direction of main stage.
Throughout the night we heard reports of him. One person said she saw him flapping and hooting by the Drum Tower, surrounded by clapping, stomping hippies who were throwing coins at him. A guy I knew from Construction said he'd seen Guzzles take off from behind the Get Fried booth, trailing smoke and hooting madly. I even heard he was partying backstage at the midnight show.
In the morning, we found Guzzles by the campfire. Clearly the night had taken a toll on him. We took the liquor bottles away, put out some water for him, and hoped for the best. By noon, when people were really ready to start moving about again, he was gone.
But gone though he may be, Guzzles will never be forgotten, and we look forward to another visit from him, some Fair in the near future.
"Who's got feathers and a pointy beak?
Too drunk to fly, too soused to speak?
If you're looking for a party fowl, call
Guzzles the Party Owl!
Guzzles the party,
Guzzles the party,
Guzzles the party owl!
Who, Who, Whoo's got the wiskey?"
