You can get many things at The Cooler, fellow dwellers.

	Odalis Perez's near-perfect game started a bad chain of betting events for The Murph.

Among them: half-baked takes from a half-baked scribe. A refreshing Dixie cup of Sparkletts under the fluorescents. Or, if you grease the guardian of The Cooler well, a pint glass of your favorite ale.

What you will not get is any semblance of how to make money out of this profanity-laced mosaic we call the Sports World.

You want hot betting tips from The Cooler? Sorry, kemosabe. The Cooler comes up Gobe Desert-dry in that category.

Don't doubt my inferiority complex here. I'm fresh off a quick trip to Las Vegas for my boy V.T.'s bachelor party. I don't want to say it didn't go well, but Southwest Airlines made me check the barrel I was wearing at the gate, meaning I flew home nude.

What's hilarious is that I cover this stuff for a living. I'm paid by a major corporation to pen insightful words about these games, to uncover hidden truths about these frivolities, to lend the reader a fruitful insight into this escapist world he calls sports.

Meanwhile, my wallet was Medi-Vac'ed to Las Vegas General with a tourniquet applied all weekend.

(Side note: I should clarify. There is no such thing as a "weekend" in Vegas. Vegas is the ultimate 36-hour town. You do it like I did, you're OK. Land at McCarron late Friday morning. Go A.J. Foyt pedal-to-the-metal for 28 hours. Late Saturday afternoon, back to McCarron. Out that evening. I see Vegas the way Bill Walsh used to see his veteran players on the 49ers: Leave it a day early rather than a day late.)

So back to the miasma of woe that was my "weekend" in Vegas.

The losses were so steady, so rhythmic, so pulsating that a Euro DJ could have spun a trance/house mix to my betting losses, and it would have packed the dance floor.

When you start with the Friday day game at Wrigley and take it in the shorts, you know you should make a mental note that says, basically: Why waste the money here? Why not invest it in a few three-song sets at the Spearmint Rhino?

But no.

I know the sports world. I knew that Kerry Wood would take down Odalis Perez. (Perez nearly threw a perfecto.) I knew that Russ Ortiz would take down Elmer Dessens, and provide the under. (A fool's money and his favorite team are soon parted.) I knew that the three-team, Friday night, West Coast-special parlay of the A's/Angels/Mariners would take me to the Promised Land (Only to see the M's play their recurring pinata role to the Yankees, who have a Svengali-like hold on them.)

	Roger Clemens and the Yankees make the mighty Mariners vincible.

It got worse. Trust me. It got so bad, in fact, that my guy V.T., the guest of honor, tried to buck up my spirits by shepherding me over to the dog races where, in a mai-tai-induced stupor, we were certain of our hastily produced quinella bet. It had to be a bad sign that, five minutes earlier, I had never heard of the word ""quinella."

It had to be a worse sign when my guy V.T. noticed that we had thrown our cash on a race featuring a greyhound that was going off at 1:9 -- odds so unreal, we soon learned that we had bet against what proved to be the Secretariat of Canines. When the race started, the Secretariat of Canines was moving as if someone had jammed a hot poker in a tender place seconds before the gun, racing as if a night with Lassie herself was the side juice for winning.

We won't even get into the travails of blackjack, where I met a dealer whose sole purpose on this Earth was seemingly to fleece me. I tried to ask her if the blackjack table had, perhaps, been built on an Indian burial ground. She never changed expression while dealing herself a king and an ace and, in an all-too-familiar dance, reaching for my chips.

I'd better get to the Weekend List of Five, before the lads back in Bristol, Conn., get the same idea and grab a piece of my paycheck:

	Don't bet against John Stockton getting his team the best possible shot.

1. John Stockton: like, the best player ever
Yeah, so I'm obsessed with the guy because he helped murder my Kings-Jazz bet over the weekend. (By the way, there is nothing like a Vegas sports book to bring you back to the NBA. Like the rest of America, I had fallen into a Rip Van Winkle slumber on the game. Trust me: All it takes to cardio-paddle that carcass is a bachelor party, a liberal ATM and a greaseboard filled with NBA playoff action.)

Anyway. Back to Stockton. Let's work it this way: Your life hangs in the balance. The Death Gods have decreed it so. They give you one chance to live. That chance is this -- you need to field a five-man NBA squad to score a bucket. Is there any question that you're going with Stockton to bring the ball up the court? There is no question.

Give me the stoic expression. Give me the Cousy-length shorts. Give me the guy who will absolutely get my team the best possible shot!

He was so maddeningly efficient, my guy Steiny erupted in a sports book rage: "Look at that guy! He's 40 years old! He's still getting his team the best possible shot! I'm 37, and I'm down six mai tais at 2 in the afternoon! He's 40!"

Yeah. So, John Stockton -- like, the best player ever?

	Kobe Bryant 's 21st century Lakers are not quite ready for Showtime.

2. The Lake Show
Have the 21st century Lakers passed up the Showtime Lakers yet? Let's go to the tape: Shaq vs. Kareem -- You might have to go with Shaq. Kobe vs. Magic -- you've got to go with Magic, but maybe not after five more years. Dyan Cannon in '84 vs. Dyan Cannon now: The votes are starting to pour in for the Showtime Lakers. James Worthy vs. ... James Worthy vs. .... James Worth -- all right, I'll back away from that idea.

Showtime Lakers still reign supreme over that country known as DancingBarryania.

3. A quick nod to our friends in New England
I'll say this: I know more about water polo than I do about hockey, but I caught a little of the Bruins-Canadiens playoff game this weekend. I can say this with total authority: There are few, if any, sporting events that look better than a Bruins-Habs hockey game. The short list: Lakers-Celtics (doesn't matter who is home team); 49ers-Cowboys (only if the Niners are wearing pre-Mariucci unis; powder gold pants, etc.);

Jets-Raiders (only at Oakland; Jets in white.)

And point No. 2 on that fair region: Derek Lowe's big day was sweet to watch. Not a whole lot better TV than a Red Sox no-no at Fenway. That said, I had to howl with knowing laughter when I saw the fine prose of the Boston Globe's beat writer, Bob Hohler, describing that magic spring day at the Fens. Wrote Hohler, of Lowe's travails with the Bosox: "... Lowe, the 28-year-old Michigan native who pitched so poorly as a reliever last year that he was flooded with hate mail, derided at every turn, and feared being seen by irate fans, even in the security of the bullpen."

	The Canadiens vs. the Bruins just looks right.

God bless your passion, you animals. And I don't want to hear anybody rag on European soccer fans ever again.

4. Hope for the NBA
Before we sign off on NBA Playoff Fever, it is time to admit that, as gambling-friendly as the playoffs are, the quality of play is, quite often, as pleasant to watch as a Rosie O'Donnell lap dance. Which is why I think it's time to give a Congressional Medal of Honor to two young players who give us all hope -- Dirk Nowitzki and Baron Davis.

As for Dirk the Diggler: Four straight games of 30-plus points and 15-plus rebounds.

As for Baron the Bruin: This line from Saturday's action -- 33 points, 14 boards, 10 assists. This cat is like magic!

Neither stud won yours truly any dough, so you know the sentiment comes from the heart.

5. A final tale From Vegas
Vegas is tremendous for these two final reasons:

1. While watching action on the TV, a recurring news flash ran across the bottom of the screen, reading only: "Three Dead in Overnight Fight at Laughlin Casino. Details after the Game."

By no means do I poke fun at the deceased, but ... let's repeat: "Three Dead in Overnight Fight at Laughlin Casino. Details after the Game."

Reason No. 2: While our entire party was getting fleeced by the fates of Sport, we got the bright idea to shake it up by playing the ponies. Considering this crew of ne'er do wells and incompetents, we'd have done better to bet the 25-cent pony ride in front of the local supermarket.

Instead, we found ourselves rushing in to bet at a muddy Sportsman's Park, led by our guy Sanchy, who maintained, with a steadfast glaze over his drunk eyes: "Dude, it's all about Horse No. 6. Check him out. He's the only one wearing blinders! Dude! He's the only one wearing blinders. It's all about Horse No. 6!"

"Wait, where?" I said.

"Dude, up there," Sanchy said, pointing to the big screen, where Horse No. 6 was being joined by his brethren of mudders at the gate.

Soon, the truth became obvious.

"Wait," Sanchy said, crushed by reality, "they're all wearing blinders."

Yeah. We lost the bet.

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