Are We Not Men?

The stress test of dating Miss Market is getting the best of me. I have passed the midterm but worry about the final. This mischievous minx has been keeping me up beyond what my late years can stand. As I crush another cigarette into my 22-year-old crimson OU Sooners ash tray, pour another diet coke, ponder my winning line to the New Yorker’s cartoon caption contest, uncap my pen to do a week’s worth of crossword puzzles and struggle to meet a Monday deadline, the sporting life beckons.

In one’s fifties, the best, the definition of which is up for debate, is behind you, but more subtle pleasures resonate with a tang that the impatient young can only laugh at – for now. My golfing buddies and I pulled into the parking lot with trepidation. The course was chock-a-block with men seeking a spring day in the sun, a hotdog at the turn and a chance at glory before the weekend duties of family, laundry, gardens and a spouse’s “honey do” list descended.

Almost an hour and a half transpired between the first tee shot and completing the second hole. Two of my harried partners were making phone calls and thumbing Blackberries to keep the commercial world at bay, yet they managed to engineer heroic shots – one with a cigar clenched in his teeth, another after taking a munch of his apple. It takes all kinds. Banter of awry domestic life, wayward business deals, tips on wayward swings (siblings and friends were probably bemoaning us, errant drives and Miss Market on golf courses of their own) and the futility of pleasing our cruel mistresses, Miss Market and three-putts among them, filled the interstices.

For my part, didn’t slice all day, which I consider a victory, though I hit my usual score of 104. I say victory because I can see the possibility of cratering my handicap. It lies just beyond the swale of the 18th hole at Dyker Beach. One crisp approach shot and I could have two-putted for par. It was not to be this glorious Friday, but it awaits me on Fridays or Mondays or Thursdays to come. I chunked it and cursed, but I could see the future as surely as Cotton Mather, Thomas Paine and Al Capone sensed the exceptionalism of the New World. It’s just a seven-iron away.

For a few hours, the Taliban were retreating to their caves, all our children were above average (like the banks, all of which I predict somehow passed Geithner’s stress test) and significant others were cheerful helpmeets while the lords of the manor frolicked after finding an entry on to the Gowanus.

Yet mistakes abound, such as my disastrous attempt to get out of a greenside bunker. Miss Market beckons with a smirk. Hey, big spender, she simpers, how about a smidgen of Viagra? No, thanks, darling. No leverage required in this environment. A scorecard with 90 at the end of 18 is all but assured. But wise men never fall in love so how are they to know.

Ford has enriched us with its $1.4 billion loss in the first quarter, less than expected, and refusal to take bailout dough. Palm continues to romance with the Pre smart phone. AMD is hanging in there. And this just in, Matthew Stafford will get gazillions in the NFL draft because he is young and strong.

But the old and weak can be winners, too, when they are misperceived as such. This is the due diligence or wishful thinking of the stock picker. Either it's cheap or cheap for a reason. Pessimism on real estate could be at a turning point. Adding Developers Diversifed Realty Corp. (DDR) at $3.90, up 11% on Friday.

After all, bogey golf would put me at 90, a milestone not to be sniffed at. Just a seven-iron away.