Moving on, to the L.A. college days:

And that comes from a Laker-hater, dwellers.

But there are exceptions, naturally. There have been rare moments where I've been present, and I wonder: Does it get any better?

(Side note: I received a passionate e-mail from a reader reminding me that the actor who produced that epic tear was no more an Indian than Milton Berle was an Indian; in fact, the weeping Indian was a character actor of either Italian or Jewish descent, hilariously far removed from the Native American plight. This, of course, reminded me of the fact that the Hekawe tribe from "F Troop" was made up mostly of old Jewish vaudeville actors, adding to the many layers of comedy that Hollywood produces without intention.)

But I digress.

	As Bonds rounded the bases, The Murph was trying to decide whether he wanted refried or black beans.

Long story short:

My girl and I watched Friday night's Giants-Pirates tilt on the TV. We felt the need for burritos in the fifth inning. We cruised to our local burrito joint at that time. We stopped off in our corner mart for a bottle of wine on the way home.

And that's when my Jordanian corner mart guy -- we'll call him "T" -- told me:

"Seeks hundred, man!"

"Say what?" I said, craning my neck past the cash register that had rung up so many of my alcohol purchases, to his behind-counter TV.

"Bonds," T said. "Seeks hundred!"

On the TV, I saw the gushing celebration. Bonds had gone yard.

I turned to my girl.

"I go to as many games as I can," I moaned. "I stay. I root. I watch. And he hits 600 when we go get burritos!"

She cast a sympathetic glance my way.

"Hey," she said, "at least the burritos will be good."

This is what we are left with:

If you miss an epic sports event in person, make sure, at the very least, your burrito will be good.

On to the Weekend List of Five:

1. And then there's Sammy
Barry who?

	After his power surge this weekend, Sammy Sosa is only 11 homers shy of 500.

Let's break it down in cold, hard reality: Barry Bonds is a 38-year-old geezer with a bad hammy whose days are numbered.

Sammy Sosa is a 33-year-old stud -- if his Dominican birth records are to be believed -- with about 500 home runs left in his bat.

Why are we so consumed with Barry chasing Hank Aaron? Bonds, bless his maple bat, is lucky if he passes the great Willie Mays at 660.

Sammy isn't looking at 755.

He's looking at 1,755.

Sammy's putting on a freaking show. He hit two bombs Thursday at Pac Bell, which totalled roughly 2,000 feet, and then hit three more Saturday at Coors, and topped it with another one Sunday at Coors, and sits on a cool 489 as we gather 'round The Cooler on a Monday.

Say what you want about our Big Four: Aaron, Ruth, Mays, Bonds. Americans, all. God bless us, we rule, et cetera, et cetera.

But here comes the true Dominican Dandy. My money's on him to blow past Aaron, and set his sights on Sadaharu Oh!

2. Get your money down now: Oakland, baby
Why should you ever doubt the Oakland A's? Art Howe is the steadiest manager in the bigs since Miller Huggins. Billy Beane is the best GM in sports since Bill Walsh used to study film and pick out pass rushers from James Madison University named Haley. The A's are packed with more young talent than "American Idol." Who doesn't want Eric Chavez at third base on their squad? Who doesn't want Miguel Tejada at shortstop on their squad? (And yes, that question goes out to every team in the bigs, except Texas.) Who doesn't want Mulder, Hudson and, especially, Zito on their squad?

	Miguel Tejada and the A's are making their usual late-summer push.

Get with it, dwellers. The A's hit heartbreak in '00 and '01 in Game 5s against the Yankeees. No more of that nonsense. Like an idea whose time has come -- and this is all by way of saying they took two of three from Boston and New York on the road this week -- there is nothing so powerful as the Oakland A's.

Get to Vegas. Now.

3. A quick word on summer movies, circa 2002
Granted, bad summer for flicks. The last three weekends, my girl and I have caught the following: "Road to Perdition" (Newman on the big screen -- a joy to behold); "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" (the chick flick to end all chick flicks); and the latest "Austin Powers" (I'm sorry, but Nathan Lane owned me; so did Myers' Dutch dude. Call me a pawn.)

But here's my thing:

People and cell phones ... in movie theatres.

You must stop. Now.

When we went to catch "Perdition," we were early.

I suggested we duck into another theatre in the multiplex, for giggles. For max giggles, we checked out "Mr. Deeds." A bigger waste of celluloid since "Ishtar," I can't imagine. But that's not the point. Point is, some cat's cell phone rang during the wreckage that was "Mr. Deeds."

And he answered it.

More to the point ...

He struck up a conversation, and continued it, until its natural conclusion.

During the flick.

This is America, 2002.

I'm not sure I like it.

And that goes more for "Mr. Deeds" than it does for the guy on his cell phone, chatting away.

4. The AP Top 25: Mount Olympus hath spoken
It's out. The list of the 25 best college football teams, according to a bunch of ill-informed, bought-off, poorly-dressed and underpaid sportswriters.

And what do they have to say?

	Ken Dorsey and top-ranked Miami have a 23-game winning streak.

Miami rules.

It's taken me about 20 years, since Howard Schnellenberger worked a pipe like Castro, to come to grips with this, but I finally have:

In college football, the state of Florida is to the nation as Rome was to Europe in the time of Christ.

You have to look at the few breakthroughs -- Oklahoma in '00, your occasional Nebraska -- as the rebels, as Hannibal, or the Vandals. The rest of the time? The state of Florida ruleth.

Whether it's the 'Canes or the 'Noles or the Gators, Florida has a pull on college football somewhat akin to the state's pull on the 2000 presidential election.

I will let that frightening thought sit in while you search for the next Waffle House on a Florida interstate.

5. The answer to the philosophical question
Does it matter, indeed, if we saw it live? In this age of SportsCenter? In this age of cable TV, bringing every sporting event of import into your living room?

I don't know the answer. I do know this: When T, the Jordanian corner-mart guy, told me about "seeks hundred!" I turned to my girl and said the following words, simple, yet profound:

"How sweet is TiVo, honey?"

Up to the living room, then. On with the TiVo. Out with Bonds' 600th. Replays galore. Moment soaked in.

And the burritos?

They were damn good.

Brian Murphy of the San Francisco Chronicle writes the "Weekend Water Cooler" every Monday for Page 2.