Conceivably, here's how I could have done it:

	Only the A's prevented a Bay Area sports hat trick of wins Sunday.

At 1 p.m., show up for kickoff at Candlestick, with the understanding that the 49ers would pants the Rams so thoroughly that I could split at halftime. Given Mike Martz's death-wish coaching of late, that seemed a good bet. Then, over to the rented helicopter in the parking lot of the 'Stick, eight miles across the Bay in the chopper to the Oakland Coliseum for the late innings of the Twins-A's Game 5, filling my flying time with scratch paper and a pencil, trying to figure out how Barry Zito got only one start in five games.

Then, back into the chopper, across the Bay to Pac Bell for the Braves-Giants Game 4 around dusk, landing the bird in the webbing of the big glove in left field, just for a dramatic entrance, a la the Flying Elvises.

Only question: How the hell do I do all that without getting a hernia from schlepping The Cooler with me?

This was my quandary, Cooler-dwellers, as I pondered an embarrassment of sports riches under a blazing October sky in the Bay Area. It was a day too good to be true in NorCal, with one obvious exception. I would, of course, miss the Sunday Hacky Sack tournament out in the Haight-Ashbury. But given that weed is sold daily on the streets and given that no self-respecting would-be hippie runaway kid shows up to the boulevard sans Hacky Sack, I knew I could catch that another time. Like, every day of the week.

What a Sunday by the Bay, dwellers! And to think, we're known as a sports market more prone to draw a crowd for the Alice B. Toklas women's rugby tournament (halftime entertainment: Hootie Johnson's effigy violently neutered) or for the "Legalize It!" Peter Tosh memorial Ultimate Frisbee tournament (halftime entertainment: an enormous bong is unveiled.)

But this Green Party-votin', electric-car drivin', Joni Mitchell-listenin' area of the United States went mainstream on Sunday, in a big way, baby. We had blow-dried talent for Fox and ESPN crawling through our press boxes. We had out-of-town writers stuffed in our press boxes. We had visiting league officials stuffed in our press boxes. And you know what all that means: Larry Flynt's new Hustler Club did gangbuster business down on Broadway over the weekend. Here's simple math for you: Sportswriter on the road plus easily doctored expense account equals paid orthodontist bills for city strippers' kids.

My beloved home region may never see a day like this again -- and that includes the possibility of local product Robin Williams holding a public backhair-shave on the Golden Gate Bridge. It was tremendous stuff, and I have to admit, as I left the Candlestick press box on Sunday night -- yes, NFL duty rang despite The Cooler's intense favoring of baseball -- I glanced out an open door that faced north, toward downtown and Pac Bell, and felt a moment of reverie. Only minutes earlier had the Giants joyously nailed down Game 4, and only moments earlier had I shipped a turd disguised as a 49ers game story to the San Francisco Chronicle, and now my gaze turned toward the beating urban heart of the beloved hometown. You could see, on the dark horizon, the faint glow of Pac Bell's lights pushing into the night sky, and I marveled at it all: Giants-Braves, A's-Twins, 49ers-Rams ... when a sudden, dark thought slammed me out of the bliss: Hey, this freaking Cooler is heavy!

On to the Weekend List of Five, then:

1. Ask not for whom the bell tolls, Boss Steinbrenner ...

	The exodus is here, Yankees, the happy ones are near. Let's get together before we get much older ...

Philosophical question: If the league championship series take place, and the Yankees are not in them, do those playoffs, in fact, exist?

No New York Yankees, man! No "New York, New York" from Sinatra! No Bob Sheppard doing his imitation of God on the PA system! No Rudy, no Billy Crystal, no Ronan Tynan singing "God Bless America"! No turkey hash, no turkey sandwiches, no turkey gravy ... oh, wait. That's the narrator from "A Christmas Story." Sorry. Got carried away.

What do we make of New York's outrageously early exit from the playoffs, after hanging 103 wins in the regular season?

Here's what we make of it. It's easy.

No "Baba O'Riley," no Yankees glory.

Listen, there is no bigger Jason Giambi Fan Club than the one populated by loyal dwellers. There is no doubting Jeter, Torre, Posada or Bernie. But the "X" factor that put the Yankees into four straight World Series can be distilled to 60 seconds of music from The Who. If you don't know what I'm talking about, go to The Who's 1971 album "Who's Next," cue up the vinyl and listen to the first minute of the first track.

Now close your eyes, imagine Paul O'Neill leaving the on-deck circle late on an October night, imagine the Yankee Stadium crowd rising as one ... and know for a fact that whatever happened, it tied to a Yankees victory.

This year, no Paulie. This year, no Tino. This year, no "Baba O'Riley."

I'm not saying the Yankees are done, I'm just saying they've got to endure a year of mourning for the heart and soul of their World Series heroes.

2. Get me a Rally Monkey, and get me one now!
I can only imagine the rest of the nation checking out the Anaheim Angels, seeing the Rally Monkey, and writing off the entire thing as another reason California should fall into the ocean.

I can only tell you how wrong you are.

First of all, the rise of the Rally Monkey is a phenomenon some two years in the making, back when the Angels had no chance of anything except seeing Tawny Kitaen in the wives' parking lot. This makes it legit: an obscure tradition fostered when a team sucks.

Second of all, the rise of the Rally Monkey has now produced men appearing at ballgames in full ape suits. Understand that, of all the things in this world that are inherently brilliant, a grown man in a full ape suit may top the list. If you show up someplace in an ape suit, you don't have to do much -- just show up, and mill around. Maybe drink a beer at a tailgate. But always keep the ape suit on. It kills. My pals and I call this the "Boomerang" effect of comedy: Take a funny premise, work it, work it some more to the point where it becomes unfunny ... then wait. Wait some more.

Then, like magic, it comes back!

It's funny again, perhaps even funnier than the first time. It has boomeranged.

All this is by way of saying: The Angels get enormous amounts of respect, love and appreciation from The Cooler for their truly epic achievement. Well-done, lads. Now, where's my ape suit?

3. Contract this!

	Jacque Jones' Dixie Cup overflows with bubbly.

Bud Selig's got some stones, doesn't he? Had the gall to answer his phone and give glowing quotes about the gutty Twins and their truly impressive comeback from 2-1 down on the heartbreak kids, the Oakland A's. Yo, Bud: You tried to make this team as extinct as the rotary phone! You are a bad man. You do not deserve to share in the joy of Torii Hunter, A.J. Pierzynski, Doug Mientkiewicz and the rest of the "Wheel of Fortune" Letter Gang. Yo, Carl Pohlad -- you want to complain about bills being too high for your revenue? Show us the books, Ebenezer. Your payroll is lower than Alex Rodriguez's dry-cleaning bill, so it can't be too bad, huh?

Meantime, the Twins remain the Official Team of the Cooler. Every day, they just field nine ballplayers. That's it. Nine ballplayers. Perfect.

Oh, wait. It's the American League, so I guess they field 10 ballplayers.

Bummer. Sort of ruins the poetry of the moment, doesn't it?

4. Random thoughts from a football weekend

	Mississippi's Justin Wade beats Florida's Rex Grossman on the field and in style.