I promise to return with something more thought-provoking later in the week. For now, more mindless observations and petty gripes.

The square that shattered my dreams.

As some of you know, one of my life’s dreams is to successfully complete the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle. Last week, I came as close as I ever have. It came down to a single square, at the intersection of 21 Across and 9 Down. Even with all of the other letters filled-in, I still didn’t know the answers, so I guessed at the one letter missing. I guessed wrong.

I’m sure most of you could have guessed correctly; some of you may have known the answers based on the clues. But not me. Sure, I could have gone to the dictionary and figured out 9 Down, put I don’t roll that way. And now my dream is deferred for at least another week. Probably longer.

After taking the kids to the APLM on Saturday afternoon, my wife and I decided to call the babysitter and head out to the Corner Pub for a couple of pops. It was a pleasant enough outing, except for one person whose inauthenticity screamed at me from down the bar. It almost ruined the entire evening. Let me just say that no one should be allowed to wear Guinness gear while throwing back Budweisers. If you can’t handle the stout, don’t cop the aesthetic.

"Raise yer pints laddies . . . Eww! Guinness tastes yucky. How do those Ireland guys drink this? Quick, get me the Great American Lager."

A friend of mine in St. Louis plays on a softball team sponsored by Budweiser and he gets a lot of brewery swag. During a visit, he gave me a Bud T-shirt which I accepted so as not to seem ungracious, but I’ve never worn it because I’m a man of principles and I will not pass myself off as something I’m not, in this case, a drinker of marginal beers. I use to have a couple of Grateful Dead shirts that I wore after falling under the influence of some Deadhead types in college. However, once I decided that the Dead’s incessant noodling wasn’t for me, I stopped wearing the shirts.

So please don’t mislead people with your apparel. Don’t wear a Harley jacket if you’re scared of two-wheelers. Don’t don a seed company cap if you’re feeding off a trust fund. And don’t pretend you’re a hale and hearty son of Erin while drinking a watery domestic.

While taking the old elliptical for a spin yesterday, I caught a little of the 1988 Tom Hanks vehicle, Big. I almost hit the record button so the kids could watch it during after-dinner Sunday cinema time. Then Jon Lovitz made a suggestive comment about how a wanton woman wields her amazing wrapping legs and I figured that it could wait a few years.

It always bothered me that they included adult situations in what could have been a more all-age appropriate movie. Sure, Lovitz’s character and the mature aspects of the Josh/Susan relationship are good for a few laughs, but those laughs have to be stifled when the kids are around or else you have to explain things that they don’t need to know about just yet.  I’m a firm believer that childhood innocence should be cherished and preserved while children are still children.

That said, Big is a pretty good movie.