Diary: Those slender green bottles.

It was a cool May morning. I'd gone for walk, felt a breeze, and suddenly had an overwhelming sense of deja vu ... in my taste buds.

It's funny how memories work.

Suddenly it felt like another day and time, albeit it autumn, not spring. The first chill in autumn is different; it's heralding coldness, not warmth. It's about impending icy death, not a springtime sense of renewal, but nonetheless, it felt like autumn during my May walk just the other day.

In my fleeting daydream, I recalled walking to a field party, or maybe a bonfire behind someone's house. There would have been burned hot dogs or burgers, youthful college-aged lust, accompanying futility in pursuit, and naturally, beer.

As the futility mounted, so did the beer, and that's the beauty of libation therapy.

What did I taste, the flavor still familiar after all these decades, amid a throwback soundtrack of The Who, Cars and Pretenders?

Little Kings Cream Ale, of course.

Then, like a whiff of smoke from a Hav-A-Tampa ... it was gone.