Did we use this photo last week? Yes. Is life still good for Carmelo? Yes.

2. Felipe's thugs
I'm just hoping that geographical bias doesn't cloud The Cooler's judgment here ... but is there a cooler story in baseball than 67-year-old Felipe Alou leading the Giants to a 6-0 start?

In an era of bluster and noise, Felipe Alou is understated grace.

In an era where ESPN Classic airs the '97 World Series as Old World nostalgia, Felipe Alou is baseball history in black-and-orange.

The San Francisco Chronicle's Henry Schulman visited Alou at home over the winter, and found a man who is straight off the pages of "The Old Man and the Sea" -- a wise, taciturn fisherman in the autumn of his years. Except this guy doesn't go by the name "Santiago" -- he actually pens in the name "Santiago" on a lineup card.

Plus, the man is a flat-out stud. The guy is 67, and has 11 kids, including a 10-year-old. He makes Warren Beatty look like Gilbert Gottfried.

So, he steers his Giants through a 6-0 start, then arrives at the world's most beautiful ballpark today to throw out the first pitch with his brothers, Matty and Jesus. (Note to those who see a shameless hometown bias: Wrigley is more epic, Fenway more historic, Camden more original. It's just that Pac Bell is the most beautiful.)

We're a week into ball, and Jeter and Griffey are hurt, so let's just say it: Coolest story in ball -- Felipe and the Giants.

3. The Royals: Get with 'em!
A close second: RoyalMania!

Let the record show, The Cooler is entirely on board with RoyalMania.

Mike Sweeney is one of the great ballplayers most of America does not know about. Joe Randa flat-out rakes. And they feature an Opening Day pitcher named Runelvys Hernandez.

Runelvys.

My boy T.C. has a theory that there are no two funnier first names than "Wolfgang" and "Klaus," and he's probably right. I just need to know: Where does Runelvys fit in? If you're pals with Runelvys, you have to go strictly with "Rain Man" or "R-Dog." You can't go with Runelvys.

Hell, it's hard to type.

By the way, if you have time, check out the Royals' pitching staff. Runelvys Hernandez rates as a DiCaprio-esque superstar amid that parade of no-names.

But The Cooler believes!

RoyalMania!

4. The NASCAR thing
Checked in to the Atlanta Airport Marriott on Sunday night. Noticed a too-dense crowd milling around Bentley's Sports Bar, and the registration desk. Who, thought I, could be chillin' at an Atlanta Airport Marriott on a Sunday night, in this time of recession and war?

My question went unanswered until I boarded an elevator with a 50ish woman, bespectacled, and what appeared to be her daughter, also bespectacled. I would have thought they had just come from a Sylvia Plath discussion group, based on their eyewear and general, low-key demeanor. Until I noticed Mom's gray jacket, which read over the left breast: NASCAR.

A fourth in the elevator asked Camille Paglia: "So, who won the race?"

Replied Ms. Steinem: "Earnhardt." She then gave a thumbs-up, before disembarking on the sixth floor.

I was dumbfounded! Surely, I thought, this twosome was headed back to the hotel room for an intense discussion on Dickinson's obsession with death. Instead, they appeared intent on checking out SportsCenter, the better to re-live the memories from Talladega.

This NASCAR thing, apparently, isn't leaving our radar screen anytime soon. Are we, the non-NASCAR American sports fans, meant to embrace this guest that will never leave? Should we welcome it, head-on, for all its comedy and irony and red-neck quotient, not unlike the way some embrace professional wrestling? Or should we recognize that Dale, Jr. and Tony and Jeff are legit national sports idols, to be worshipped and honored through the wearing of fluorescent garb, mostly in T-shirt form?

At the least, my worries over the high-brow NASCAR fan were assuaged later. In my own strut down to Bentley's, I caught sight of a diner in the swank Ally's American Grille in the lobby. He was at a candlelit table, clearly in a spot reserved for fine dining -- wearing his No. 24 tanktop, and nursing a Coors Light.

Later, in the elevator, I enjoyed a brief ride up with a couple fresh from the Marriott hot tub -- he in an Earnhardt T-shirt that barely hid his Mickelson-esque breasts, she in a floral bikini that bared the glories of her surgically-augmented breasts.

I retired for the night, confident that NASCAR's fan base was unmistakably recognizable.

5. Pat Summitt: I'm on board
Caught a bit of the Women's Final Four on Sunday night, including Pat Summitt's -- what? -- 50th appearance in the championship game? She's John Wooden in pumps, dwellers. There she was, with ESPN's cameras dialed in to her pregame speech, laying down basketball truths: "Defense and rebounding will win championships, and I haven't changed my opinion on that in 29 years."

Yo! She speaketh not with forked tongue. Steve Lavin could have done with a couple of weeks at Pat Summitt Basketball Camp. He might still have his job.

Pat Summitt's team do this, in order: play hard, play defense, hit the glass, and win. Not only that, but Summitt has made the gradual transition from cheesy-frosted blonde to the more graceful and tasteful mellow brunette over the past few years. Much love to her hairdresser.

Now, go win the championship.

Either Jim Boeheim or Roy Williams will meet you at the parade.

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