"The Cow Goddess steers her artcar-and our white-knuckled reporter-around Dallas"

Star-Telegram Staff Writer

DALLAS — Not having much experience cruising with a Cow Goddess, I am nonplussed when she pulls up to my house at 8:30 p.m. in her Chrysler LeBaron convertible and honks. This is because The Cow Goddess doesn’t honk when she pulls up to your house. She moos.

Me to my wife: "Do you hear that? What is that? Where’s it coming from?"

My wife to me, reconnoitering to the street: "Sounds sorta like a … oh, my. Honey, The Cow Goddess is here for you."

The Cow Goddess has a real name. I don’t know it. I prefer not to for the same reasons I wish I didn’t know the Tooth Fairy is bogus. What I do know is this: The Cow Goddess, 24, drives an art car. She made it. It has a Holstein paint job, a cow head on the grill, a 10,000-Lego cow mural appliqued to the hood, faux cow-fur upholstery, various cow-related dashboard ornaments, a tail and the aforementioned mooing horn. The car’s name is Betsy II.

Furthermore, I am a "journalist." The four-day AutoFest begins tomorrow, out at the Texas Motor Speedway. It will have an art-car display, including, but not limited to, the Texas Tornado, a Honda Civic with all sorts of jetsam glued to it; Toyboata, which you can figure out; Peanut Car, ditto; and Betsy II. The AutoFest wants publicity. Again, I am a "journalist."

So, I clamber into Betsy II. The Cow Goddess is wearing horns, heavy blue mascara, a pleather motorcycle-type jacket with faux cow-fur trim, elbow-length cow gloves, a cleavage revealing corsetlike thing, a tutu and knee-high cow-print boots. Picture the kind of boots members of KISS had had a Holstein fixation.

I am wearing bluejeans and a Carhartt-brand coat, which works on two levels: 1) It’s cold, and Betsy II’s top is down, and 2) Carhartt coats are favored by your typical Midwestern dairy farmer.

"Hi, I’m Tim," I say.

"Hi, I’m The Cow Goddess," The Cow Goddess says.

The next two hours are a blur. You know that scene in Blue Velvet where Frank asks Jeffrey if he wants to go for a ride and they do go for a ride and Frank sucks on that unidentified gas while he’s going about 110 and Billy pretty much soils his britches? I would be exaggerating if I said cruising with The Cow Goddess is like that. But not much.

Our first stop is NorthPark for The Cow Goddess’s Halloween costume. With Marilyn Manson bleating on Betsy II’s sound system, we go careening down Central Expressway. Between Manson and the bitter wind, conversation is rendered impossible. Nonetheless, I attempt to practice journalism and ask The Cow Goddess a probing question — like "What’s the deal?"- and she commences to tell four stories at once, each related and dovetailing into the next. I’m able to make out about a third of what she says.

"The cow — actually it was a bull — was my pet. I was 5, and I would play with Big Red every day, on my way to gather the eggs. … also against drunk driving because my mom was killed by a drunk driver and so was Betsy I … went running home, going ‘Big Red’s gone! Big Red’s gone!’ …is why I’m learning to eat cooked spinach again … They said, ‘Big Red has gone on to greener pastures … can’t even stand the smell of cooked cow, and I never use the B-word. It’s like the N-word to me. … Sitting at a red light when I got hit from behind, and because my stepmom is so , the seat belt was stretched out, so I hit the steering wheel and the dashboard … hate all condiments, too … That night, at dinner, my brother said, ‘Mmm, Big Red sure is good.’ … thing I remember, the road flares were already out and I was saying ‘Why? Why did you hit my car? I can’t believe you hit Betsy.’ …And so, ever since I’ve had a thing for cows."

Walking through NorthPark, The Cow Goddess elicits three varieties of reaction from mallgoers: 1) openly contemptuous glaring (uptight adults), 2) surreptitious glancing (overly polite women and udderly amazed men), and 3) good-natured stopping in tracks, turning, pointing and laughing (laid-back adults and utterly amazed children).

We finish our shopping and hit Lower Greenville. Betsy II’s horn is operated by a three-knob device that The Cow Goddess installed just below the radio, which displays a time not even close to approximately accurate. The horn, in addition to multiple sirens, makes all manner of animal noises. I put the thing through its paces — baa, moo, whinny, ribbet, bark, whinny- much to the enjoyment of barhoppers and patio diners alike.

"I can tell when a guy I’m dating has eaten cow for dinner," The Cow Goddess says. "I’ll kiss him and go, ‘Ew, what’s that funky taste? You’ve been eating cow! But I’m not a vegetarian."

A couple crosses the street in front of us. The Cow Goddess reaches down and twists a knob. Betsy II barks.

You broke the rule!" The Cow Goddess gently informs me, "Always leave it on the cow setting. Always. When I need a moo, I don’t want to get a bark."

Then, sadly, it’s time to head home. As she pulls up to my driveway, The Cow Goddess tells me, "I just think art cars are about to explode." I consider myself fortunate to have survived the ride.

Under side view photograph "The Cow Goddess (she prefers this name), also known as ______ of Dallas, can baa, moo, whinny, ribbet or bark at people, thanks to the specialized horn on BetsyII."

Under front page photograph ‘"The Cow Goddess drives a convertible out of necessity — there’s not enough horn-room in sedans."