rap-art lovers of New York have had their chicken salad shat upon this week with the news that their beloved The Gates of Central Park, a conceptual-art project by French artists Christo and Jeanne-Claude consisting of 7,500 orange gates strewn throughout the famous park, may be in jeopardy. A lawsuit filed by Microsoft headcheese Bill Gates over copyright issues would have the famous art-things torn down from their current location in the park, then re-erected on Gates’ front lawn.

The enigmatic uberdork Gates first attempted to purchase the art installation earlier this month, after seeing it on USA Today and screaming “I want those things!� to the various electronic henchmen whirring about his family’s high-tech Medina, Washington home. But despite being the world’s richest man, and crying like a little girl during the negotiations, Gates was unable to sway the money-hating French.

At first, Gates reacted to the snub by ordering Microsoft engineers to build a replica of The Gates on his lawn. Unfortunately, several of the gates crashed during construction, killing three itinerant laborers. Gates then turned to his current lawsuit, which he hopes to win in the name of the nameless Mexicans killed in that frustrating tragedy.

Surprising all and completely wrecking the commune betting pool, the rismurfulously wealthy Gates granted this reporter access to his heavily fortified Redmond home, which is rumored to hover five inches above the ground at all times to cut down on worm noise, for an exclusive interview.

“Art should be enjoyed by all,� explained Gates from deep within his lair, perched atop the earth’s crust. “And I hardly ever get a chance to go to New York.�

Gates also gave this lucky reporter a tour of this cutting edge techno-hovel, which is completely computer automated with voice activated controls for temperature, ambient music, and air ionification. In addition, the entire house goes apeshit when you say the day’s secret word: “Ziggy Stardust.�

The home is also ringed by a miniature monorail system which delivers food and other essentials to the hard-working frabjillionaire. Looking like a cross between the mechanical rabbit at a dog racing track and the trolley in Mr. Rogers’ house, Gates explained how the monorail system works while he reprogrammed the house’s secret word, due to this reporter’s inability to construct a sentence that didn’t include “Ziggy Stardust� and the resultant epileptic fit suffered by Gates’ dog, Bytes.

The installation of The Gates on the Gates’ front lawn would replace a small placard currently located near the home’s main entrance, which reads “The Gates.�

“It’ll be a bit more high-concept, for sure,� explained Gates, turning a dial to remedy a smell that this reporter certainly didn’t deal. “And I always hated that damned placard.�

The thrust of Gates’ lawsuit lies on The Gates’ visual similarity to the heavily-copyrighted Windows logo, which is some kind of weird little flag thing made of plastic-colored nacho chips. This week’s opening arguments also touched upon the obvious plagiarism involved when the French artists named their epic art installation after the computing pioneer. Gates, whose name is a registered trademark in 397 countries worldwide, has thus far been unsuccessful in applying the same protection in several English-speaking nations, including the United States, where the word also means “a thing to keep in the dog.�

This case is thought to be a slam dunk, however, since Gates has already promised to help the judge install a wireless network router on his Windows PC, a task thought to be otherwise impossible.

When faced with similar challenges to the Gates brand in the past, the Microsoft founder has often struck back with his wallet, including his 1999 purchase of Rodin’s massive portal sculpture The Gates of Hell from the Musée Rodin in Paris. The Gates of Hell currently serve as a thoroughfare between Gates’ home office and bedroom.

No stranger to appropriating popular art for his own uses, Gates drew criticism in 1999 for using the 1977 David Bowie classic “Heroes� to promote some kind of Windows bullshit in a television commercial. Though some were equally critical of Bowie for selling out, most were understanding when it was revealed that the Microsoft honcho had persuaded Bowie by offering to rid his PC of the nefarious Michelangelo virus.

his week marks the 119th birthday of Buford “Old Man� Scarsby, the world’s oldest living human and recipient of the 2004 Marco Polo Award for getting lost in a famous way. Despite many spirited attempts on his part to disappear however, the famously lost Scarsby remains found at his family home in Cutrow, North Carolina this week.

As hardly a newspaper-reading soul in the country could have missed, Buford was lost for over 45 minutes last August, after wandering off and climbing inside a hollow tree, where he was later found, terrified and smelling of owl. Family members blame the resultant “media circus� on poor communication between Buford-finding family members and the newspaper-calling members of the Scarsby clan.

Scarsby, born in 1886, has lived a rich and varied life, none of which he remembers. The one fact of which he is sure, however, is that he was born in 1886, thanks to a faded daguerreotype photograph of a newborn Scarsby wrapped in that day’s newspaper in lieu of the expensive blankets or towels of the day. This compelling evidence convinced world standards-bearing organizations to verify Buford’s claimed age, despite the fact no birth records can be found due to no one being sure of the man’s real name.

Family members began calling Scarsby “Buford� in the 1980’s, following the lead of Scarsby’s then-98 year-old wife Emma, who thought she was talking to Buford Cubbins, a local pharmacist. Since his great-grandchildren grew up calling him “Buford,� Scarsby’s real first name is thought to have been lost to the ages. Scarsby himself believes he forgot his name around 1982.

“Lemon time,� explained Scarsby, clutching a packet of powdered lemonade.

Though certainly the most famous, last year’s incident was hardly a first for Buford, who has been wandering off and becoming lost on a regular basis since his early 80’s. In one notable incident in 1992, while on a walk Buford climbed into the back of a mail truck and fell asleep on a sack of letters. Buford was returned to his family later that day, thanks to a return address sewn into his trousers after a similar incident with UPS in 1989.

Some advocates for the elderly have decried Scarsby’s fame, arguing that the media’s handling of his frequent confused forays into lostedness only serve to foster stereotypes about the aged. Relatives, however, claim that Buford’s ways have nothing to do with his age, citing as example the seven years he spent wandering around lost behind enemy lines in Germany during and after WWI.

Buford’s great-grandchildren, who now care for and corral the remarkably aged man, had hoped that Scarsby’s longtime wife and sometimes companion Emma might reveal her husband’s true name on her deathbed in 1993. Emma Scarsby, however, had different plans, leaving the world instead with her immortal last words, “cartoon pussy.�

Though certainly happy that the old man is staying in sight these days, Scarsby’s great-grandson Lewford Scarsby remains guardedly optimistic about the future.

“There’s no way we can keep an eye on him 24-7,� explained Lewford. “But we’ve gotten pretty good at learning this old guy’s tricks and keeping him reigned in. Ain’t that right, Buford?
Buford? Aw, shit.�

Good people, I have had one of those experiences that only happens to other people. I have been abducted! And not by aliens, as you might first suspect, and even hope. I was abducted by beatniks!

It starts like any other story of abduction. I found my car stalled, by myself out on a rural road, away from the bright lights of the city—even the stars themselves seemed dim that far out. I tried to start my car once again and only got that whiny "enh-enh" sound going. Immediately, I got out and began walking, naturally fearing a UFO would show up and give me a super-suit to fight crime with. I don't have that kind of time, bossy Neptunians. But something more incredible happened!

Beatniks, tooling around in their convertible jalopy, motored alongside me like something out of a Ginsberg dream. They chatted me up and asked me if I wanted a ride. Of course, I never take a ride with beatniks, like mama Finger always said. But they wouldn't take no for an answer. I found myself soon bound and gagged, tossed into the back of the jalopy like a sack of potatoes.

I couldn't imagine what they wanted with me. For a short time, I even imagined they were aliens disguised as beatniks, in order to draw slightly less attention to themselves—but that made no sense. I invited them to probe me, and though one of them mulled it over for a long time, none of them took me up on it. They instead seemed to concentrate on writing poems about me, asking me what my bag was, and then reading said poetry to me while they charged me a lot for a simple cup of coffee. No mistake; these were beatniks.

Why me? No one can say. But they did say—apparently I'm one major-domo angry cat. Or, as Pie-Daddy said, "Yo, normally we ain't down with the anger thing. Some bad-mood Charlie starts his mantra on us, we all like, 'Chill, Franklin.' But your rage, man, it's like a thing of pure beauty. That kind of rage glows forever, like a firepit in a down-and-out steel mill that burns in hopes of one day…" And at this point I stopped listening. What he clearly said, as far as I can tell, is that my anger is better than everyone else's. The rest was superfluous.

I figured I would stick around with them, for just a short while, and give back something to the artistic community—especially since we've tried to remain good friends, the community and I, ever since that truce we signed back in 1971. If I can take a few hours out of my busy schedule and inspire a whole new generation of beatniks, it's the least I can do. But no more than a few hours, I told them, because I have shit that isn't going to do itself, frankly.

But these cats (check me out; I'm catching on already!) weren't content to just let me sit around and be a muse. They kept asking me questions, like how I grew up, what my relationship with my mother was like, and what made me so damned disappointed with life that I had to go around in a constant rage. I could only tell them I'm just lucky, I guess. But they still pressed me. Answer this, answer that! Only they had actual questions instead of "this" and "that," which actually aren't. I got bored of all that fast. I have angry columns to write and X-M radio distributors to boycott, I can't waste all of my time answering questions. Sitting around not answering questions, much less of a drain on my time. The questions had to go.

We couldn't come to an amicable agreement, the beatniks and I, so I crafted an elaborate escape plan. I carved an exact duplicate of myself out of soap (the nose was particularly hard to get right) and then, once I had it all tucked into my bed, announced I was going to the local grocery store to get enough soap to do models of them as well. It worked brilliantly, and I, of course, never returned.

I feel a little bad, abandoning a life as inspiration to the poets of tomorrow. But Rok Finger's always been a doer, good people. Not a doee. Nor a doe—ignore any type-O's suggesting that.

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