In the middle lower left of Richmond, in a parking lot, we lined up for half an hour to get into a hot tent that smelled like the floor of a bar. We got little taster mugs and tokens to exchange for beer samples, walked around and sipped our samples slowly, then fast. The DJ played remixes of ’60s and ’70s music and I heard the Talking Heads and over them, a mid-pitch roar that made it sound like the hundreds of people around me were singing along to the music. On further examination, they were not. As I moved around the festival tent, I overheard wonderful snippets of conversations about bicycles, beer, summer festivals, t-shirts. I pushed my way past many, many men with long beards and bald heads, plaid shirts and glasses. A man in a paperboy cap danced to Led Zeppelin and planes flew low, preparing to land at the nearby airport. When we left, the valet at the nearby casino snapped his fingers and waved his hand in the air and a taxi appeared to bring us home.