ne of baseball’s most time-honored traditions came under fire this week after numerous fans were injured during the Oakland Athletics’ yearly “Every Fan Gets a Chair Day� promotion. This year’s incarnation ended in a tragic photo-op when Tuesday’s game with the Texas Rangers came to a stop after Texas reliever Frank Francisco hand-delivered one fan her chair at a high rate of speed, both breaking her nose and possibly damaging the highly-collectable folding chair.

This latest bloody melee to rock the Oakland Coliseum has caused some to question the wisdom of giving drunken fans and emotionally unstable ballplayers metal folding chairs in the first place, a conclusion that Oakland fan Steve Teehan feels is misguided.

“Don’t jump the gun and assume that Chair Day is a bad thing just because a bunch of people get the shit beaten out of them with chairs every year,� explained Teehan, bleeding profusely from a chair-shaped gash in his forehead. “This is tradition, and families love it. I still remember the first time my dad took me to a Chair Day game, and he got arrested for braining the pretzel vendor over an exact-change dispute. We don’t want to rob our kids of these memories just because the riot police are too lazy to do their job.�

“I have a chair from every season since the A’s moved from Philly,� bragged local packrat Lester Chumrow, who is constantly being bombarded with chair-borrowing requests every time someone he knows throws a wedding or opens an AA chapter.

“Hey, don’t sit on that!� Chumrow repeated, a variation on his near-constant mantra.

Though fans are nearly unanimous in their support for the popular promotion, some in the Oakland organization have tired of the yearly spectacle.

“You give these assholes free chairs and then nobody wants to sit in their assigned seat,� complained beer vendor Hershel Lucas, bitching profusely from the mouth. “Everybody’s got some bright idea about how they’re gonna sit in their new folding chair and block the whole aisle, or some princess wants to put his feet up. Then you get the wiseasses who stack their folding chair on top of their regular seat to get a better view, and inevitably the guy sitting behind him has to push the whole mess over the railing just to see some close play at the plate.�

In the aftermath of Tuesday’s melee, which included the first reversal of the usual fan-to-field flow of thrown chairs in recent memory, officials for both teams have sounded off on whether blame for the incident should lie with Oakland fans or the Texas pitcher Francisco.

“Actually, Athletics fans are really polite,� insisted A’s vice president of stadium operations Dave Rinetti, while ducking under a chair flung from the upper deck. After a shouted “Sorry!� echoed down from the nosebleed seats, Rinetti waved a dismissal “It’s cool� in response, smiling meekly. “You should try coming here during a Raiders game. Those animals will throw you at the chairs.�

While the Rangers have claimed that Francisco had little choice but to defend his honor from vicious Oakland hecklers when he let the chair fly, some have questioned what exactly was said to the Dominican-born pitcher, and whether it was even said by either the fan whose cranium first deflected the chair or the woman who ended up with the WWF-style rhinoplasty.

“All I heard was her yelling some shit about how Francisco had mountain goat balls,� testified Oakland fan Teresa Marks, who was seated nearby. “I don’t even know what that means, but maybe he’s sensitive about his balls or something.�

“Nah, man, I heard she said his mama was Eric Chavez’s bitch,� contradicted fellow fan Sam Wilkinson, heaving a promotional chair at a security guard. “That’s cold. I’ve definitely thrown chairs for less than that.�

Francisco, who was somehow singled out for arrest during the stadium-wide chair throwing melee, claims he yelled a fair warning of “Duck, bitch!� before hurling the chair. Rangers officials expect video footage of the incident to prove Francisco’s alibi once the case goes to trial.

he part of the world not the United States was shaken by the gruesome events in Beslan, Russia, where a two-day hostage situation ended Friday after claiming the lives of more than 350 non-Americans.

The confusing terrorist incident, not in any way involving U.S.-protected interests, centered on a group of separatists rebels taking a school in the Russian province of North Ossetia hostage. During the two-day standoff between the terrorists and government forces, hundreds were wounded or killed—the majority of them children. American officials are calling the event a "horrific, far-away tragedy."

The foreign nightmare began when armed terrorists took parents, children, and teachers hostage on the first day of school. The rebels consequently demanded Russian forces leave Chechnya, falling on the time-honored method of murdering helpless women and children to gain sympathy for their cause. U.N. Secretary-General Kofi Annan condemned the attacks, saying, "What the fuck?"

American media covered the non-American catastrophe with a watchful eye, splicing in some video of the horrors between soundbytes from the Republican National Convention and previews of the upcoming Fall TV season. U.S. politicians were quick to provide commentary on the situation, in case something happened to make it a lead news story on any of the national networks or worked its way onto page six of the print news.

"This is yet another grim reminder of the lengths to which terrorists will go to threaten the civilized world," said President Bush, in another grim reminder of the lengths he would go to extort the agony of many to climb a couple of points in the polls.

Across this country, the reactions of average Americans were wide and diverse.

"What a shame," said Jerry Kimler, an office manager from Trenton, New Jersey. "We should all mourn for Russia. We, too, have suffered at the hands of Al-Qaeda. You are not alone, our communist neighbors."

"It's a disgusting crime, especially since it was committed against children," sobbed Agnes Walker-Rush, a cashier at a Winn-Dixie in Napalm, Georgia. "Once the Russians were our enemies, and now, not so much. I'm severely moved by their plight, and sickened by the images I might have seen on TV if I had known anything about this before you told me just now."

Ginger Oliver, a caterer from Concorde, New Hampshire: "I can't believe it. How could this sort of thing happen. Bill Clinton needs heart surgery? Why? How? He's not even that old. Things like this don't happen to presidents."

A different response came from professional wine-taster Gerald "Skeeter" McCloy: "Nope. Can't work up any real concern. You sure there weren't any Americans killed?"

New York University Sociology Professor Jean Winstead took a break from typing up her resume to frame the numb reaction some Americans express to the nightmarish human calamity.

"Geographically, we've always been an isolationist nation, and have retained much of that sensibility in the years since, even though we've become a world superpower with interests across every continent," said Winstead. "Our media reflects this nationalism, and keeps us focused on America as the center of the universe, so to speak. Plus, with all the useless information floating in our heads, from knowledge about the workings of the electoral college to nostalgia about 1980s new wave groups, it's amazing we have enough brain space left over to even remember other countries exist out there. By the way, do you know anyone who's hiring?"

Dear readers, I have never been a religious man. I have trouble believing in anything I cannot see, unless it is revealed to me by a trustworthy patron of a familiar bar. But all that has changed—I am now a believer, for I have been touched by an angel. Or not quite touched. Pulverized might be the word for it.

Yes, there is a God, and he deemed I should get the beating of a lifetime to prove it. Or, it's possible, there isn't a God, there's just the dead. Bodiless apparitions hauling ass here and there in our corporeal world, and occasionally taking time out of their schedule to kick our asses. Maybe there's a God, and if that's what he wanted to impress on me, just send me a warning. Not the full-blown throttling I already received, just a slap across the face or something. Just to really drive home the point.

Come to think of it, I'm not really sure what the angel wanted to impart to me. He didn't say much. More of the "talks with his fists" type. But you can't really make a point that way, not a coherent one anyway. He growled and ranted and muttered things here or there, but they mostly concerned some guy named Donnie and the money Donnie owes him. I suppose he thought I was Donnie, it was hard to tell with a ghostly fist boxing my ears.

You may be thinking I have surely seen ghosts before, or had otherworldly encounters—aliens, the sasquatch, time-travelers from the future. And then there's my dead reporter friend Mordecai "Three-Finger" Brown, but frankly I've never believed he was really dead, it all just seemed like a tax dodge. None of that prepared me for seeing a real, actual ghost in my bedroom, demanding from me money I didn't have, and then wiping the bedroom floor with me.

It began as a simple enough evening, in my matching red pajamas and nightcap, monogrammed, of course, turning in for bed. I had clapped off the lights and turned my TV to the late-show reruns of M*A*S*H that I so love. I must have dozed off, because I woke up to complete darkness and the sound of drunken mumbling. I could hear also, beneath the drunk talk, the sound of footsteps. I opened my eyes, but could see nothing but darkness. Then, I saw the outline of a hunched-over figure, and heard him dragging his heels toward my bed. At first, I thought it was Rascal, my manservant, playing another prank, but then I realized Rascal is quite the big fellow, and this figure was more of a modest size, like myself. Then I thought it was me, playing some gag on myself, but that made no sense.

Before I could figure out exactly what was happening, a cold hand grabbed my leg. Then, I was yanked out of bed and pummeled. Icy dead knuckles, like the hand of a skeleton, smacked the hell out of my face, fattened my lip, blackened my eye, and held me down against the hard wood floor. I tried to get up, but he couldn't hear my pleas while he was rambling about his money.

Being the investigator I am, I immediately went to find out as much as I could about the penthouse apartment I live in. Quite a fascinating history, if you must know. It turns out a very successful man named Gatsby once lived there, a long time ago, and may have even been the Gatsby F. Scott Fitzgerald based his character on, at least I've heard great things about him. He was a well-to-do-man, like myself, and very generous, which is where the comparison ends. But those who remember him, like the door man to my building, stress that while Gatsby had been a very generous man, he didn't just give things away. He expected to all debts to be repaid, and apparently had a hell of a drinking problem. I grew excited right away, and was asked to step away from the door. A ghost of a man much like myself! I can't wait to find out more.

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