How is this possible?

Granted, you expect to see almost anything when you come to Las Vegas. But I saw something yesterday is one of the most disturbing (and certainly one of the most unsanitary) things I have ever witnessed in now 57 years on this planet.

I went into a men's room at the Palace Station Casino. The three stalls were being used. So I waited. Presently, a young guy (he looked early 20s) exited a stall with an apple in one hand and a banana in the other. He walked past the wash basins and back in the casino.

Fortunately, I had already eaten breakfast. Otherwise, I might have put off my feed for a very long time.

I found myself wondering what made this fellow to think such behavior is acceptable. Skip the bit about not washing hands for a second. Yes, it's appalling but we do see that all the time. But who in their right mind brings fruit into a public men's room?

I hope this was an "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas" moment.

A day later, I am still grossed out thinking about it.

LA kind of game

I hadn't been to Dodger Stadium for 35 years. But it seems to me the place never changes. And that is a compliment.

The Dodgers beat the Tigers, 6-4. But that seems also insignificant compared to everything else that goes on at this palace.

Granted, it is not the easiest place in the world to get to. The best I can figure it, there are only two ways into the place ... and one way out. It is advisable to have a GPS system that can guide you around the inevitable LA road construction projects to get you there.

Once you figure out how to get in, though, it is worth the effort. The ballpark is 48 years old and looks as fresh as it did in 1962. The seats are comfortable, the sightlines are great and the music does not offense anybody's sensibilities. It is as easy ballpark to walk around as I have ever been in and the p.a. announcer doesn't sound like he is auditioning to be the next announcer for "The Price Is Right."

It's not perfect. There is a bit too much Dodger Blue for my taste and some of the prices are ... well ... high.

But if you want to go to a ballpark where the game seems to be the most important thing going, this is your place.

The voice of summer is silenced

Perhaps the most remarkable part of all that has been written about Ernie Harwell in the last 36 hours is where the plaudits have come from.

It is understandable that those of you who grew up listening to Ernie describe the Tigers in the 60s and 70s felt sad when we heard of his death Tuesday night. But the amount of lofty prose written by publications all over the country is truly staggering.

The national writers got to meet Ernie when the Tigers came to their town ... or they visited Detroit. In some way, I suspect they envied us who had him for 162 games a year. It didn't seem to matter if it was the World Series champs of 1968 and 1984, the teams that nearly got there in 1967, 1972 and 1987 or the rough years in the mid 1970s when the team regularly lost 90-100 games a season. Ernie stayed the same, telling the tales of the ball club in his warm, southern, gentle style.

Funny what you remember. In 1970, Detroit had a SS named Ken Szotkiewicz. He had a brief, undistinguished career, finishing with a not-very-lofty .107 career batting average. But I have a vivid memory of one night when he hit drilled one into the seats against the A's at Tiger Stadium. "Socko lived up to his name on that one," Harwell said, describing a ball that went into the lower deck in right field.

I remember another night in the fabled year of 1968. The Tigers trailed Baltimore in the bottom of the ninth by a run with a runner on base and two outs when Tom Matchick, another weak-hitting shortstop, lofted a fly ball to deep right. Harwell pauses as the ball is in flight (probably wondering himself if the ball was really going to reach the stands) and then breaks into as excited a tone as you would ever hear out of him as he says, "And it is a home run for Matchick and the Tigers win the game." It is the greatest home run call I have ever heard.

Another night, Gates Brown capped a wild four-run, ninth inning rally for a doubleheader sweep of Boston. Ernie simply said, "What a mad mob it is here tonight."

He was a man of few words. But he made them all count. Perhaps that is why so many non-Detroiters loved him so much. Ernie knew that less is sometimes more. You didn't need to go into detail why it was a bad play to go to third base on a ground ball to shortstop. You just needed to tell us what happened. He did so without damning the miscreant. That's a real gift.

As I wrote in a piece on MinnPost.com, the beauty of growing up on Tiger games was the feeling Ernie was personally broadcasting the game to you. He didn't try to sugarcoat bad baseball. He also didn't overdo it when the team was going great. No, he felt he was lucky to be at the ballpark telling us what was going on. And it showed.

So, I don't necessarily mourn his passing. Ernie had told us he was ready to go and take on his next challenge. But I am not worried he will handle it. After all, anybody can handle calling the games of the 1996 Tigers (who went a miserable 53-109) can take on anything.

A smell to remember triggers a few thoughts

When I was a wee lad, we all had tasks we had to do at home on Saturday. One of mine was to walk half a dozen to Ray Guetschoff's butcher shop. A half a century later, I still enjoy going to these places to get meat and other goodies. Like the great smell of fresh bread, there is something about the aroma of the meat market that is reassuring and pleasurable to me. In our little part of the world, there are two places I go to regularly for such stuff. One has a meat area in the back of a small grocery store. There, Jim knows exactly what kind of cut of pork chop I want and offers suggestions for other delectable items, His suggestion for a turkey that was grilled last Thanksgiving was on the nose ... and went down the gullet easily. I also like the fact they have dog bones I can take home for Pete. His nose goes beserk at the smell of one of these. If there is such as a clean bone club (the animal equivalent of the clean plate club), Pete would graduate magna cum laude.

I was at the other place this morning - a true butcher shop about 10 miles from our house. What I like about this place is the variety of meats as well as some nifty homemade spices that add taste to the various meats. Based on a recipe I had read, I had an idea for a sandwich this morning that I took to these guys. After some consultation, we changed it up a bit. But I think I have a potential winner now. We'll see when I spring it on my wife and whoever else happens to wander through the house in the near future.

As I get older, I find I am more attracted to simple, uncomplicated foods. I admire good cooking and wish I was better at it. My wife and her sisters are superb cooks. (Interestingly, they differ in technique but the result is always the same: great, tasty but not particularly exotic eats. Kathy found a recipe for shrimp on the barbecue the other night that was c'est magnifique.)

I can't match that. So I settle for finding different ways to get most of whatever meat we buy - whether it be on the grill, the oven or even the toaster oven. And if the latest idea doesn't work as well as hoped for ... well, one just heads back to the butcher shop for another try. There are worse things in life.

Another simple pleasure: working with the ballgame on in the background

So I am working at home today and wanted some background noise for company. Instead of opting for music, I have been given a great bonus a rare morning baseball game I can have on the television.

In this case, it is Tampa Bay and Boston in the annual Patriot's Day game at Fenway Park.

To say it is a treat is an understatement.

All games at Fenway are fun -- even games like this one with Tampa Bay leading 8-0 in the 6th inning.

What is even more fun is the Red Sox announcers - Don Orsillo and Jerry Remy - are very good at their job. Anybody can make a 3-2 thriller decided by a two-run homer in the bottom of the ninth fun. But it takes a real pro to keep a lopsided affair interesting. This pair offers good insights, info on the players involved in the game and excellent back and forth discussion in a calm, reason manner.

Early, Remy noted that home plate umpire Angel Campos was all over the pace with his strike zone and had managed to get both sides upset with him. When TB's Ben Zobrist kicked about strike two, Remy observed the next pitch would likely be a strike, too. The pitch looked a foot outside but Campos sent Zobrist packing anyway. Remy then noted Campos eyed Zobrist carefully all the way to the dugout, perhaps hoping to get an ejection.

Later, Orsillo noted that, although the Red Sox are generally successful at Fenway, they dropped their first two series there this season. He added that playing the Yankees and the Rays - two excellent teams - might have had something to do with this depressing (to Boston fans) stat.

Baseball as background stuff is wonderful. Sure, the game moves slowly at times. But in the hands of good announcers, it doesn't seem that way. The Red Sox are off to a rough start (4-8 at this writing) and this pair made no attempt to hide that fact. But they didn't dwell on it much ... nor did they make excuses for the locals. It sounded like two old friends chatting away while the game unfolded. I didn't need to look up often to know what was going on.

In an era where TV is full of screamers, it is simply wonderful to have a game on in a relaxed but fun background.

Another simple pleasure renewed: browsing through bookstores

One of the things I have learned quickly in this book business is you must keep hustling. So it was that I found myself out and about the other day talking to various book store owners, extolling the wisdom of getting copies of my book so the currently rabid Twins' fans could learn more about the team's past.

Two of my stops the other day had an ulterior benefit: it allowed me the pleasure of rummaging through old fashioned, independent bookstores.

Micawber's, tucked into a residential neighborhood, is near my house. From the outside, it has a musty look. Inside, it is as clean as can be and simply stacked with books of all shapes, sizes and titles.

When I wander through bookstores, I rarely have a specific title in mind. It is my version of a scavenger hunt - you never know what treasure you will find. In this case, it was a copy of hundreds of letters written by the great E.B. White, longtime editor-writer at the New Yorker in its heyday. Even if you don't know some of the people he is writing to (or about), you can appreciate precise English and nifty turns of phrases. John Updike, no literary slouch himself, edited the book and added commentary when needed. I'm looking forward to a long, casual read.

Later, I found myself at Common Good Books, which is located in a busy area near downtown St. Paul. This is a place in the downstairs of a bustling coffee shop. Garrison Keillor opened it a few years ago and it has treasures galore in it. ( I had a lot of choices but settled for an oldie but a goodie: Roger Angell's first baseball book: Five Seasons. I have read it before but lost my copy of it. The stories are about baseball from 1962-71, an era when I was young and impressionable. I attended (or watched) several of these games. After reading Angell's observations, I discover I missed a lot.

Memo to self: pay attention to everything this summer when watching games.

Seeing my little treatise among these gems is flattering but the real bonus is getting to spend time choosing which book to take on next. You can never have too much peanut butter.

Simple pleasures are still the best

Don't tell anybody at the St. Paul Police Department this but I broke a law this morning.

I think anybody saw me do it. But I gladly confess my sin here because it was worth it to see the result.

Basically, Pete, The Happy Dog (scroll to the end to see a picture) has a good life here. He gets fed twice a day and goes on (at least) two good walks as well. He has the run of the house and, when the weather turns better, has the run of the backyard as well. Although we don't feed him from the table, he gets plenty of treats, including runs to the local ice cream place six blocks away. All in all, it's a pretty good dog's life.

Every now and then, however, one just gets the urge to extend the pleasure a bit. It is a law in St. Paul (and, I presume, most other places) that your dog has to be on a leash when he is being walked. There is a playground a couple of blocks from our house. It has a baseball field and a couple of softball fields that turn into soccer pitches in the fall. We go by it often during our daily treks through the neighborhood. Occasionally, we'll walk through it. As you enter it, however, there is a sign warning dog owners to get their pets leashed.

For reasons I can't explain, I decided to go rogue this morning. Nobody was around when we entered the playground. After whispering in his ear to come back when called, I let Pete loose in left field. Mon cur didn't need any encouragement. He shot quickly along the fence, sniffing delightedly. He zigzagged across center field like Willie Mays catching Vic Wertz's ball at the Polo Grounds. I wandered over by second base, called his name and he came tearing to me at top speed.

Then we romped around the bases of the baseball field. Although I encouraged him to slide in safely at home, there is a limit to dog understanding. He prefers to go in standing but with a smile on his face.

He trotted over to a softball field and, in classic doggie fashion, paid his respects.

All in all, we were probably on the field for 5-7 minutes. In that time, however, I saw a seven-year old dog revert to puppyhood again. He ran joyously but came back upon request. As we left the playground, he graciously accepted going back on the collar and we headed home.

Once back at the house, he got his standard treat for a job well done and headed to his regular backyard post to sleep it off -- hopefully, dreaming happily about running free for a while.

I'm not sure who enjoyed the scene more - Pete or myself. There is something so basic but pleasurable about seeing a happy dog running full blast untethered. I guess we all have the urge to run free on occasion because, most of the time, we rarely get to do so. When we see another (in this case, a dog) rock and roll alone, we watch and enjoy from afar.

Indeed, as the old soup song goes, simple pleasures are sometimes the best.