The mysterious green liquid that filled The Cooler this past week is now empty. The green Dixie cups -- gone. The green socks, worn all week, can jump up and run across the room on command.

Masters week, Cooler-dwellers, hath come to an end. What to make of it?

	Augusta National can save a lot of money by just giving Tiger Woods the same jacket every April.

But hey, that's not my question. My question is for you: What the hell happened outside of Augusta last week?

I'm serious. When you cover The Masters, your week goes like this: You land near the Georgia-South Carolina border in April, you raid the home of an unsuspecting Augusta family for a week (while they clear $5,600 for a four-bedroom rental, good enough to pay for all the Chick-fil-a meals a Georgia family could want for a year), and you check out from the real world for seven days.

By the way, here's hoping the good, decent families of Augusta don't read this. They don't want to know what we sportswriters do when we take over their homes. It starts with the beer run, moves down through the uninvited guests crashing in the dining room, and spirals lower from there. But, hey: We treat their homes with utmost respect.

I mean, as far as they know.

Anyway, I wanted to read a newspaper. I wanted to catch up on the news in the Middle East, from the White House and from the box scores. But there was the CBS party. And then there was the PGA of America party. And then there was the BBQ in our backyard. And then there was the Golf Writers of America party. And then there was the Nike party.

And in between: The Masters party. You know, the one at Augusta National. It goes a little something like this: Arrive early. Eat Krispy Kremes in press room. Discuss previous night's party with scribes. Head out to course. Bask in Amen Corner. Up to the Players Lounge for lunch. Eat club sandwich next to Lee Westwood. Get cheap, perverse thrill from eating club sandwich next to Lee Westwood. Back out to golf course. Bask in Amen Corner. Back to press room. Eat ham sandwich while banging out subpar copy for newspaper back home. Begin discussing that night's party.

I kid, of course. There are no Masters parties. And the copy is never subpar. Right?

I mean, as far as my sports editor knows.

I'd better get straight to the Weekend List of Five, Masters-style, before he reads any further:

1. Arnie, We Hardly Knew Ye

	The tears were flowing when Arnie said goodbye to Augusta.

Well, actually, we did know ye. But when Arnold Palmer bids farewell to Augusta National, you feel like it's way too soon -- even at age 72. Some on the more cynical side snorted about Arnie's adieu, saying: "Hey, how many times can you see the guy say goodbye? He did it at St. Andrew's, at Oakmont, and now here?"

This, friends, would fit in the You-Gotta-Be-Kidding File. Arnie is to Augusta what the Babe was to Yankee Stadium. What Elvis was to the Las Vegas Hilton. What Warren Beatty was to his bedroom. He was The King.

Why make a fuss? Because. As my guy D. argues, the beauty of golf is that generations apart can play together on the same playing fields. We never got to see Mays play center field to Bonds' left field. We never got to see Bob Cousy feed Larry Bird on the wing. But we get to see Arnie and Tiger play the par-3 contest together, which didn't exactly suck.

And I'm prone to a little maudlin emotion. When you see Arnie exit, stage right, you think about the passing of generations. We're all getting there, with our grandparents and our parents. Father Time is more relentless than Old Man Par, it seems. So allow us this moment, OK? And I'd better stop before my laptop keyboard shorts out from the tear that might or might not be rolling down my face very soon.

As far as you know.

2. The Augusta National souvenir shop
Gentlemen, start your debit cards.

I know when I return home there will be a stack of concerned letters from my bank, wondering who pilfered my card and bought four shirts, a microfiber jacket, two sleeves of balls, four hats, two coffee mugs and a golf towel. I might get a home visit from the bank official, wondering who could spend so prolifically in one week, and still dress as poorly as I do.

Seriously. You might as well withdraw five $100 bills when you walk into the Augusta National gates, and set fire to them. In exchange, have a store employee meet you out back with the merchandise. It will save you the Tokyo-subway experience of shopping in that madhouse. Elbows fly. Hip checks are served. I don't want to say it was rough, but I saw the old Broad Street Bullies, the Philadelphia Flyers, refuse to enter the store the other day.

Rimshot, please.

Anyway, you owe it to yourself to visit the Souvenir Shop if you're ever blessed with The Toughest Ticket in Sports. And don't think you won't hemorrhage cash. It's a siren song. You are powerless to resist. And could you pick me up a navy blue windshirt while you're there? Some old lady gave me a Covered Wagon when I went for it, and wound up beating me to the merchandise.

3. Tiger's girlfriend

	The two women in Tiger's life: Kutilda, his mother, and girlfriend Elin Nordegren.

Let's keep this one safe. It's another man's girl. So I'll tread lightly, aware that my Grandpa always told me the three things in life you don't want to talk about socially are politics, religion or another man's girl.

So. Back to Tiger's babe.

Caught her act a few different times last week. Let's just say this: If she were a golf course, she'd be Pebble Beach. If she were a tournament, she'd be a major. If she were a garment of clothing, she'd be a green jacket. And we'll leave it at that. Respectfully.

4. Lay off The Goose!
I know most of you want to kill my guy Retief (The Goose) Goosen. Not me. I love the cat. I wish I had his inner peace. He three-putted to blow a U.S. Open, then went back to his hotel, had room service and watched the movie "Hannibal." I'd have done the same thing, except for the movie part, but you don't want to know which title I'd rent. Let's just say the guy who invented the idea that movie titles should not be identified on hotel bills is, to my mind, a genius along the lines of Louis Pasteur, Thomas Edison and Jonas Salk.

Back to The Goose.

	Retief Goosen didn't win the jacket, but he had his eyes on the "green pants."

He's pure class, baby. He came back to win that U.S. Open. He's won five more times worldwide since then, all with a Zen calm. And in the final group at Augusta? So he shot 74 to Tiger's 71. So what? He lost, then got off the line of the year when he said, pure Goose deadpan, to a packed house of reporters, at venerable Augusta National, in front of the Green Jackets: "I just asked one of the officials if for finishing second I get the green pants."

The green pants. This might be the funniest thing I've ever heard an athlete say.

The green pants.

Roll on, Goose. Roll on.

5. Tiger
What do you give the guy who has everything? Do you give him a babe-a-licious girlfriend? Do you give him good looks, talent and guts? Do you give him seven majors at age 26?

Or do you give him a coffee mug from the Souvenir Tent, for a cool $24?

Hey: All of the above.

Congratulations, Tiger.

It must be good to be The King.

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