If a randy 80-something Don Draper were looking to get laid in the 21st century, he’d find himself moodily attracted to a raven-haired lady columnist who’d written an op-ed supporting allowing women members at Augusta. They’d meet at her place, order Indian food, and make slow, sad love to the gentle strains of Top Chef in the background. Don would lie beside her while she slept, watching the green light of her cable modem flickering off the fur of her labradoodle, and the next day, striding among the familiar sun-dappled lawn under the Big Oak Tree, the whole thing would seem like a gloomy, bewildering dream. The golf course, he’d think. The golf course made sense. The careful plan of the fairways, the pimento cheese sandwiches, the creek. This was order, civilization, tradition. A place where a man commanded respect. The kids would never understand this. They were in some other world, frightening but obscurely thrilling, where waiters went by their first names and you pressed elevator buttons yourself. You could visit that world; maybe you even had to. But you’d always come back to the golf course.