It must be the only coal wharf in the world with a Grace Hartigan painting hanging inside the bunker house--along with canvases by Mark Rothko and Jack Youngerman and a Calder mobile. Used by its owner, New York's Governor Nelson Rockefeller, 59, as a private gallery during his vacations in Seal Harbor, Me., the old wharf has been thrown open to the public at $5 a head, proceeds to go to Maine's Republican Party. The tiny museum drew 900 visitors the first two days, including some indulgent socialites and many adamant Yankees who were pleased neither by the abstractionist paintings nor by the price of admission. Said one baffled down-Easter: "It's 100% rubbish, but I still like the Governor."

Indonesia's Independence Day was fast approaching, but where was The Flag--that noble, faded, tattered remnant of red and white cloth that had been run up the flagpole once a year since Indonesia gained its freedom in 1945? It was in a locked cabinet, and the keeper of the key was old Father Sukarno, 66, who was still mad enough about being deposed that he refused to hand it over. President Suharto even sent a delegation out to the Bung's "retirement" villa at Bogor to appeal to his patriotic sentiments. Nothing doing, said Sukarno: "This is my flag. My wife made it"--as indeed his first wife had. Nothing daunted, Suharto sent soldiers to break open the cabinet and bring him the flag.

The way Director Roger Vadirn, 39, planned it for his movie Barbarella, giant fans would blow 2,000 wrens into a cage occupied by Wife Jane Fonda, 29, exciting them so much that they would peck off her clothes For four days the fans whirred, birds swooped, Jane emoted--but nothing happened. In desperation, Vadim jammed birdseed inside her costume and fired guns in the air, which bothered the birds not at all but drove Jane off to a hospital with a fever and acute nausea. After three days of rest Jane returned to work, finally finished the scene with the aid of even larger fans and a flock of peckish lovebirds. It would all come out onscreen, said Roger, as a "whimsical, lyrical outlook toward sex in the year 40000."

As a jumper, the big bay gelding still needed some practice. He knocked a bar off one hurdle first time around the exhibition course, then knocked it off again on the repeat run. Even so, the crowd of 16,000 at Saratoga race track gave him a standing ovation, and that was only fitting because the horse was Kelso, who retired last year with a record $1,977,896 in winnings. Since then, the 10-year-old thoroughbred has been training for a new career as a show horse and jumper at the Maryland estate of his owner, Mrs. Richard C. du Pont, 53. "I'm just as nervous as if he were in a race," she said. "As a matter of fact, he appears to me as if he wants to run."

"I'm still involved in public affairs," he said, "but I have no official Government connection." Public or private, former Presidential Aide Theodore Sorensen, 39, continues to peek out from behind the world's thrones. Turning up in Moscow on behalf of unnamed "clients," the New York lawyer admitted that he was angling for a "major" increase in U.S.-Russian trade. The Rus sians seemed even more interested in quizzing him about Dr. Martin Luther King and other antiwar leaders of the American "New Left." Said Sorensen:

"I told them not to delude themselves into thinking American policy will be changed through such far-out movements." The Soviets are also keeping a hopeful eye on the "magic" name of Kennedy, he added, and Bobby's career is "regarded here with the most intense curiosity."

'Twas a fair summer's eve and eyelids hung low over San Francisco's Haight-Ashbury district as the pilgrim wandered unnoticed through Golden Gate Park. Dressed inconspicuously in denim jacket, flowered trousers and heart-shaped shades, and wearing buttons bearing a likeness of Bob Dylan and the message, "I'm the HEAD of my household," the walrus-whiskered visitor finally called for a guitar and began to play and sing Baby, You're a Rich Man. That tipped it, of course, and instanter the troubadour was all but drowned out by a swarm of laughing, giggling flower children. "If it's all like this, it's just too much," said visiting Beatle George Harrison, 24, and as the children trailed, he strummed and strolled to the edge of the park, and disappeared into the night.

As befits a great artist commemorating his 80th birthday, Marc Chagall surrounded himself with "my most beautiful works"--and with 150 of his paintings as well. The "most beautiful works" were his three grandchildren, aged nine to 14, leaders of a gay pack of 200 relatives and friends who ar rived at the Riviera village of Vence, Chagall's home for the past 17 years. The exuberant Russian-born painter read aloud a clutch of congratulatory telegrams, including one from Novelist Andre Malraux, De Gaulle's Minister of Culture, signed "your enslaved Minister." "Do you understand Chagall?" the master twitted as he surveyed his paintings. "I don't. After all, when you sit down to a huge steak, do you understand it?"

A right nasty range war has been aragin' in the badlands of central New Jersey between the pore homesteaders and a uppity cattle baron from the big city, Chester Huntley, 55. Chester, one of them yakety-yak fellers on the TV, bought hisself 303 acres of prime bottom in 1961 and put in nearly $500.000 tryin' to fatten up a herd of 900 Aberdeen Angus for market. Right away, he says, the homesteaders began afightin' him. They rustled his cows and fired rifle bullets through his winders and poured sand in the crankcase of his tractor until he finally sold out at a loss of $100,000. "It's only natural," Chester said, "when somebody comes in and has money and these people don't." "That's preposterous," said a homesteader. "His downfall came because there's no way on God's earth to make money on beef here."

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