I live near a very dangerous place, The Warehouse in Port Costa, a tiny town down a very windy canyon road, on the Sacramento River. As its name implies, it's a former warehouse, huge, and it has a chill room with what they say is four hundred beers in bottles.

I scoot down the canyon on occasion, wander into the chiller accompanied by a rowdy barmaid, and idly select weird beers to consume on the raised platform overlooking a few dozen Harleys, and few Italian and Japanese crotch rockets, and of course, my very weird looking stretch scooter assembly of parts, the naked Helix (sounds like the next Dawkins book, eh?).

Big bowls of popcorn are free, and they have a killer shrimp cocktail, way too many shrimp way too cheap.

The trains roll by, boats skip and sail by, tugs push barges of oil to the refinery in Martinez (I ruminate on peak oil), and across the river the McMansions snake across the temporarily verdant hills. Latino families picnic and fish on the beach, kids screaming happily as they flail each other with seaweed invaders from the faraway ocean, and the metal detector guy wanders aimlessly in his search for Ed Dorado.

Then I have to ride home, pixilated, into the setting sun. There's a beautiful view of the Marin mountains just west of the I80 freeway, reminding me why I live here. It's a glow, indeed. Beer festivals.

It's idyllic

Align culture with our nature. Ot else!