What they do is called "volkssport," taken from the long-standing German tradition of doing leisurely 10-kilometer (6.2 miles) walks through interesting and attractive venues. This is a family affair, not a competition, despite the fact all finishers receive custom-designed medals or patches for their efforts. The idea is to make the walk at your own pace, even stopping to picnic if you choose. Such events are scheduled year-round in the Dallas area and throughout the state. For a fee of just $12, you can join the group--but there's no rule that says you have to be a card-carrying member to participate in their events. You can even bring the dog along if you've got a leash.

OK, the rabid sheep turned out not to be rabid, all right? Buy a bag of feed pellets and cruise through Fossil Rim Wildlife Center, where you're so close to the animals they drool on you. Or stare menacingly into your car window, occasionally tapping it with a huge beak, like the ostriches and emus. Everybody loves Fossil Rim Wildlife Center--even our friend from Nigeria, who talked on his cell phone the whole time (we didn't even know you could get a signal out here) but admitted he'd never seen any of these animals in his own country. At Fossil Rim, just south of Glen Rose--90 minutes southwest of Dallas down Highway 67--you drive in your own car through 10 miles of habitats that simulate the African savannah and other wildlife-rich regions. Along the way, you see gazelles boinging in the fields; seemingly every species of deer known to man; zebras; giraffes; cheetahs; rare black rhinos and much more. If it doesn't seem too weird to dine on animal flesh, have a delicious Black Angus burger at the cafe halfway through the safari drive and get a penny squished in the gift shop. You won't be out too many bucks, and what you do spend helps support Fossil Rim's internationally recognized breeding and wildlife preservation efforts.

Need a little illegal excitement that doesn't involve sex? This street is an ever-popular location for the city's mostly younger crowd to gather and ruin the tires and expensive souped-up engines they bought by waiting tables. On a typical summer night, you need only to show up at about 10 p.m. and wait around. Soon, the parking lots of nearby businesses will fill with youths who are either planning to watch the illegal drag races or those who will actually take part. Take a spot near the entrance of the road, sit on your hood and wait. It takes only about five minutes from the time the first racers arrive until the place is crowded with cars and people and the air is filled with the noise of screaming tires and exhaust smoke. Take care, though; it will only be going on for a little while before the Arlington police arrive and bust anybody they can catch.

Ah, yes, the dreaded 972. Depending on the area and particular social circle, the three-digit prefix is anything but innocuous. Those who have chosen the manicured grass, SUVs and loooong exit ramps run a constant risk of being shunned by their Southern, city-slick brethren. After all, there's no way some "Yankee" can handle the nightlife of the real Dallas, right? On the contrary, roughnecks...the Main Street Liquid Co. in Richardson offers 214-esque carousing in the coziness of the suburbs and consequently presents an alternative to the suffocating blitzkrieg of corporate sports-bar hell. The no-frills environment is apparent even before you step into the warmly wooded interior of the tavern, as the identifying neon above the door succinctly (hence tastefully) reads "BAR." Once inside, a new patron must acquire a free card before that initial libation is poured, but don't let any notion of exclusiveness fool you; everyone willing to belly up to the well-stocked bar and engage in a game of billiards or traditional elbow rubbing is welcome. It has the dimly lit cramped charm, it has the regulars and it has the specials that translate to downtown drinking north of the "border."

Went to a friend's birthday party here recently, and we were sorely disappointed. Not because the service wasn't friendly and efficient, because it was. Not because the outside deck wasn't shaded and comfortable, because it was. And not because the people-watching wasn't entertaining, because it was. ("Hey there. What school you go to?") It was upsetting because the table kept ordering one type of beer. One does not travel to the Ginger Man for a one-flavor experience. This pub with wood décor and many taps behind the bar boasts 70-some brands of brew coursing from said spigots, as well as about a hunnerd different types of bottled beverages. Next time, we're going to be responsible Ginger Man-goers and order at least 13 types of beer on our way to an evening of overbelching and yelling, "Beer ye, beer ye!" from some dark corner of this lovely establishment. And, sure, designated driver, we'll call a cab, yada yada.

There is no spot we know of where the soul (some would say soullessness) of Dallas is on display more than at the West Village on Saturday night. Young, toned bodies fitted into stretch-fabric outfits. Quick and quicker gaits. Grand entrances. Primo automobiles. If your Benz is in the shop and you're stuck for the night with the Aerostar van, you'd better park it three blocks away, maybe by the trash bin behind Texas Land & Cattle Co. Among the chic restaurants, bars and grown-up movie theater, there's a lot in this quarter to attract the attractive. Former Mayor Ron Kirk once famously said that nobody comes to Dallas for the scenery; people come here to get rich. He was dead right, with at least one qualification. People come here to at least look rich, and when that's on the agenda, this is definitely the place.

The last time we were there, Cosmo's was buzzing with so much chatter and laughter that it was hard to know where to begin our conversation. We watched another fellow on the other side of the bar checking out the waitress. He told us later that this was his nightspot after leaving work on Greenville Avenue. The waitress caught his eye because he was bedazzled by the "architecture of her ass." In the front of the room by the doors, a birthday party was in full motion. To the delight of that group and much of the bar, the birthday boy was doing his best to improvise new steps to "Billie Jean." Everybody still loves Michael Jackson. But a group of ladies in the back of the room made everyone's night by reminding us, in a jukebox sing-along, "What's Love Got to Do With It?" What better testament is there to the power of a juke?

Dog park folk are a different breed. Parents who put down a bowl of cool water in a dog park don't expect their dog to be the only one privy to it. They may put it down in front of little Oliver, but they're happy for Skids, Blue and Gracie to partake. Moms and dads of canines who think enough of their pup to take her to the park are flat-out considerate, and at the White Rock Lake park, that consideration is evident as humans watch out for their own pals and everyone else's. We've seen at least seven humans bolt to help keep a dog from sneaking past the first of two gates. The dog park is a more intimate setting than regular parks where kids are on alert for strangers and parents generally cut the conversation with "Hi, is this your sippy cup?" Www.dallasdogparks.org actually has a pet bio section where owners can look up other dogs they meet and find out when they usually go, you know, so Fido can play with his buddy again. Though, it's nice if it helps the parents make human friends, too.

At 508 Park Ave., there is a building that (on June 19 and 20 in 1937) housed a recording session by legendary Delta bluesman Robert Johnson, one of just two occasions he ever had his music recorded in his abbreviated career. At the moment, the building is abandoned, though it was once home to the Brunswick Records' warehouse, as well as the office of Don Law, who produced Johnson and many others during his storied career. Directly across the street from the building is The Stew Pot, a church-run kitchen for the homeless, and the main reason 508 Park doesn't have a plaque or anything that commemorates Johnson's stay there. Check it out before the entire block is razed to make room for lofts or something like that, but make sure you empty your pockets first. If you think it's hard getting away from 7-Eleven with some spare change, just try doing that here.

There are busier happy hours; there are more tricked-up happy hours. But we're partial to this one because it's simply classy and smart--not unlike us. From 4 p.m. to 7 p.m., all draft beers are half-price. No muss, no fuss. The place is nice enough to bring a date or a client but not so stuffy that you can't walk right up to the bar and order a Bud Light, if you like your beer old-school. If you need to nosh while you sip, the appetizers are great, and the wood-fired pizza is delicious (the "M" gimmick they use on the menu, in which they come up with several clever names using the letter, is a bit much, but we'll let it slide). The waitstaff is attentive and friendly, the drinks cold, the bartenders knowledgeable. All of which makes us happy, happy.