On the corner of Irrelevance and Oblivion sits Pete Rose. Baseball won't have him, but Las Vegas will, so here he is in the far reaches of a designer mall, behind a rope, hawking the only thing he has left: himself.
He sits there every Thursday through Sunday, six hours at a time, signing balls, bats, photos, jerseys and jokes. For $199, he'll sign: "Hits-4,256, Steroids-0." For $299, he'll sign: "Sorry I Bet On Baseball." And if you ask politely, he might even write: "Sorry I Shot JFK" or "Sorry I Broke Up The Beatles."
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