On Saturday my friend Abby and I did the unthinkable.  We got on the local light rail train, took it two stops, got off of it, stood on the platform for a couple minutes (from reading Harry Potter I know trains dock at “platforms”), and then hopped  a different colored train to Fair Park.  Growing up, people like us didn’t go to Fair Park unless the fair was actually happening right then.  And as soon as we got off the train, and it occurred to me that we were at an event that was open to the public, it occurred to me that perhaps I should have picked a less conspicuous purse.  It wouldn’t be the only time that evening that I would regret my choice of purse. 

In the twenty feet between the third train platform, and the event we were attending, we happily accepted a pamphlet from a nice young man.  It would make for fine reading while waiting in one of the many lines ahead of us.  We were at Taste of Dallas.  (“How does Dallas taste?   I know how it smells,” quipped the friend who could have joined us if she hadn’t waited until a quarter of nine to call.)  Hundreds of vendors were lined up to sell bite-sized amounts of food for a buck or three to interest us in their restaurants, and to raise money for some group or another.  Most of them sold either cake or some variant on steak in a bun.  Heaven, except it was too crowded. 

Abby lured me to this event because the review of it said that by having it at Fair Park, they had more room and air conditioning.  Air conditioning is one of my favorite things about civilization.  It’s right up there with videos of cats riding Roombas.  The food, we discovered, was not in the air conditioning.  The food vendors were lined up on either side of a water feature.  Water features typically do not boast air conditioning.  But we were here, and so was food, and apparently so were large tacky plastic containers of frozen red alcohol.  We set off in search of those.

I have a well-developed shallow side, one that really knows how to appreciate external validation in whatever form it takes.  So we let ourselves by diverted from our quest for red booze when we passed the box wine tent, and a nice man wanted to check our identification. I know what he was really telling me is that I glow with youthful beauty.  And when another nice man handed us two samples of their vacuum-packed finest, instead of the one each that lesser mortals were getting, that too was personal. 

I should probably be embarrassed that I wasted my feminine guile on some box wine, when there are so many worthier causes out there to which I could lend my charms.  But we didn’t yet know about the whiskey tastings, and I’m no snob.  I like my Rieslings cold, and crisp, and paid for by someone else, and that’s exactly what I got.  

^{Tasty, tasteful, and environmentally friendly.  Yes, I'll say anything for those who ply me with alcohol.  And yes, the refrigerator did sound of angelic choirs when opened.}

We wandered around a while, stopped for the occasional cake ball (heartily recommended) or to stare at the sartorial choices of others, when we finally broke down and asked someone where to find the tacky red-liquor-in-plastic stand.  We set off towards “the NBA thing,” which served as the landmark nearest the red liquor stand.  Of course there was a line.  The next best thing to air conditioning is frozen blended alcohol, and in Dallas, in July, oddly enough, we weren’t the only people to feel that way. 

While standing in line, I pulled out my pamphlet.  “HEAVEN OR HELL: Which One Will You Choose?” it asked.  I learned about sheep and goats and a lake of fire and there was a place for me to mail in to tell them what choice I’d made.  I decided to defer the decision until after I had ponied up ten dollars for my gallon-o-daiquiri.  Abby chose the daiquiri-margarita swirl, so her plastic hand grenade-looking container was piebald in red and pale green.  I took a sip through the foot-long straw.    It was cold and sweet. 

“Is there any alcohol in this?”  I looked to Abby, who was solemnly pulling from her drink. 

“Maybe?” She answered.  Since we doubted the presence of alcohol in our drinks, which meant we’d just plunked down a lot of money for Slushees, we decided to head for air conditioning.  The buildings with air conditioning had been allocated for peddlers of third-rate art, jewelry, sandals, corsets (God help me, I wanted one), and ohmygod a petting zoo! 

There was a lemur, a mini horse, various poultry, and tiny goats.  They were baby tiny goats, and if I’d only brought a bigger purse, like the kind spoiled women haul their Chihuahuas around in, I would right now have my very own baby mini goat.  But I wasn’t too busy cooing over the baby mini goats to spot the elusive Goaticorn:

The mythical goaticorn has only one horn, bleats “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” prances around on hoofs of gold, and can only be seen, apparently, by the moderately inebriated. 

Oh.  In retrospect, it clearly has two horns, one of them’s just all lopsidedy.  I’d forgotten the first lesson of college drinking: alcohol hides in red flavoring. 

On the plus side, I now know what to write the Heaven or Hell pamphleteers.  I’m not going anywhere the mini goats can't also go.