I am going to tell you something I have never told another human being before in my life. I enjoy watching golf on television. Somehow, I'm aware that this is an odd, unexpected, and almost certainly not a very exciting admission, but only at first blush. You need to know more. You need to know why I get great, restive pleasure from watching golf on television. You need to know that not even I am fully aware of why the following aspects of the event titillate me.

In order for you to gain a thorough understanding of my condition I will rapidly list what gets to me, and you can be the -- sort of -- processor of this onslaught of unthinking utterance and tell me what you think.

Okay, ready?

Soft male voices, contra posta male bodies, shifting legs, swinging postures, plaid pastel pants, green fields, a carpet of grass that's barely a quarter of an inch long, dimpled balls that fit in the palm of your hand, fingerless leather gloves, chiseled chins, money, green hills, dog legs, the flat water of curving pools, someplace to get to, soft male voices, power, a game, soft male voices.

There, I've expelled everything that's on the tip of my brain. No need for dredging the water traps. It's just there. What do you think?

Am I nuts or what? Am I an approaching middle-age, white-middle-class American woman looking for something that I've never actually gone after?

How can I embody so many unrealized loves that are only manifest in one activity, one desire, one secret fondness for watching golf on television? Are these TV golf tournaments perfectly spaced out, timed and distributed to effectively quench my desire and leave me able to function until the GTE Classic or the US Men's Open comes along?

It seems that may be the case because other than this one, tiny strangeness, I'm perfectly normal.

For cyclists in Brooklyn there are two major threats. City buses are to be expected. They're big and they pull over a lot. A strong number 2 danger: Cadillac Escalades. There are a surprising number of them on the road, they're very wide, and they're very fast.

And now, thanks to Fisher Price's Power Wheels division, there's a way to train Brooklyn's little luxury SUV owners of the future. For $320 you and your child can own a battery powered power wheels Escalade. You could settle for the standard purple edition, but why, when you can splurge on the black EXT model?

Lest there be any doubt that this truly is the SUV equivalent of candy cigarettes -- a toy that is all branding -- a review of the available literature should clear things up.

The Escalade EXT is not an average kiddie car; it is tricked out. It has two big speakers on the back providing high quality sound for the in-car FM radio. The 12-volt battery gives enough juice to gear up to five miles-per-hour, and an indicator light tells your toddler when she's low on juice and should head for the garage.

In the immortal words of the manufacturer description the vehicle also includes "molded windows, windshield, grill, and side-view mirror detail" as well as "chrome hubs and grill for a 'bling' effect." It has "grass performance," probably seeing more off-road action than actual Escalades.

Delighted parents are nearly as breathless. One Amazon reviewer notes that when looking around for a car for her toddler, "We decided on the Escalade because it was pretty roomy inside." Another, also happy to pretend this is a real vehicle, writes, "This truck has been great and very durable."

Indeed. Why let all those branding dollars go to waste? National ad campaigns fall on little ears as well, and Fisher Price and General Motors have a lot to gain by branding children's toys, warming them up for the day when they can buy their very own luxury sports utility vehicle. Complete with bling effect.

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