It’s that time of the year again. But aside from a note in your planner or an increasing amount of spam in your inbox, you just might miss it. The unseasonably warm temperature certainly isn’t giving it away. Then again, how can you miss the nine e-mails about Friday’s “Dance Party with Pance Party”?

Despite Harvard’s strong stance against tobacco, I can’t help but imagine a smoke-filled game weekend. As 60,000 Yale and Harvard men pack the Yale Bowl, I envision bygone days of smoker glory rising again.

This weekend, students of both Yale and Harvard will be faced with several difficult sartorial dilemmas: Do I want to sacrifice warmth for fashion at the game? What do I wear to the tailgate party? Should I crush that Harvard girl’s self esteem with an obscene T-Shirt or mack on her by dressing to the nines?

As I scooped the last lumps of chocolate ice cream out of the bottom of my milkshake glass, my grandfather slid a napkin to me across the diner tabletop. It was covered with inky Xs and Os, but it wasn’t a game of tic-tac-toe or an affectionate note ending in hugs and kisses. He was explaining the rules of football to my elementary-school self, in preparation for The Game.

CAMBRIDGE, MASS. — I woke up last Saturday on the floor of a cold, dusty apartment. Through the paper-thin walls, I could hear the morning conversation of two men next door.
“Did you go see Nancy Pelosi yesterday?”

As we peer through the bushes outside 43 Hillhouse Ave. the morning before that athletic contest some members of this species call “The Game,” we see a great deal of activity. We’re in the president’s house on the northern outskirts of Yale University, here to catch a glimpse of a rare and wonderful creature. Try to be quiet, now. There, coming toward us — What could it be?

To me, tailgating means the smoky smell of slabs of meat on the grill. To others, it means the anticipation of an important sports event. And to most, it means having an excuse to drink during the day. The following recipes are meant to be enjoyed at any of the Game tailgates, by all sorts of tailgaters.

For those wanting to get pleasure from others’ pain, solace came in January 2008 in the form of fmylife.com, a user-generated blog dedicated to the expression of both commonplace and unorthodox forms of human hardship. Anonymous users submit short anecdotes about their latest misfortunes. As a result of this site, the term “FML” has become a ubiquitous expression of self-pity. And now, FML has hit the Ivy League.

We are not drinking to forget. We are drinking to create: memories, experiences, good times, bad (funny) times, friends, lovers, random social acquaintances we only wave to sometimes. We drink the way we do everything — for a purpose.
Friends, that purpose is now.

First, let me say that Caseus is probably one of the best restaurants in New Haven, based both on the inventiveness of its culinary ambition as well as the sheer mastery of execution.

This summer, in anticipation of the foodie film “Julie and Julia”, I revisited my copy of Julia Child’s iconic cookbook, “Mastering the Art of French Cooking”.

With a chalkboard outside its entrance reading “A Melting Pot of Mixed Cuisines,” the newly opened Mandala Bistro prides itself in a menu that incorporates cuisines from around the world. Indeed, this new Indian/Italian/American/Everything spot on Temple Street tries its hardest to back up that claim.

The Yankees don’t have a lot of hair. The official policy, since the dawn of the Steinbrenner era, has been that only neatly trimmed mustaches are permitted. And while this is not the only reason for my conversion to Yankees super-fandom in the past few months, I’m not counting it out as a factor.

I always have to explain my knees. There’s a keloid on my left, an irregular pink mound that started as an angry scar and just kept growing, the last evidence of my fall from a bike at age 13 (that, and the fact that I haven’t successfully ridden a bike in the six years since then). Skinny Asian female, about five feet three inches, has a birthmark on her smallest toe and a disfigured left knee.

Size matters, and Yalies think big! From the giant inflatable Handsome Dan to the enormous phallus known as Harkness Tower, big means beautiful at Yale. But when it comes to carbon footprints, smaller is better.

A day of reckoning has come to the smoking community. For decades, antismoking advocates have insisted that if only tobacco enthusiasts knew smoking was unhealthy, they would quit smoking. When warning labels didn’t work, the crusaders pushed for more direct labels. The next step was television commercials, followed by more and more graphic commercials, all illuminating the fictively recreated Truth of inevitable disease, decay and death. Yet somehow, to the astonishment of the anti-tobacco army, people continued to smoke.

Centennials and bicentennials always inspire a strange fever. Abraham Lincoln’s 200th, however, has prompted more madness than usual.

Where I Went: Alpha Delta Pizza, 371 Elm Street
What I Ate: Grilled Chicken Pita
What It Set Me Back: $6.50 plus tax

I ask myself: have I ever wished there were a healthy alternative to Durfee’s? Negatory — that’s never happened.