Issue 52, Summer 1971
I mean psycho can’t exist, entertaining invisible ideas about people, including yourself, means that they worry you. They make you a worrier.
The flash—the big one, off and on, then on again. And I'm flashing that you’re understanding me, standing there with your arms standing out as you wave them around and around and around and bring them down with a titanic crash on the drums of the great rock band you just joined—Norman Rockwell’s old band, the one the late Secretary of State ofthe state of Illinois used to get it on with...
Norman Rockwell never really wanted to paint Freud’s last portrait after all. It was an important commission and he knew some of the most distinguished Western personalities would be there, clustered around Freud's deathbed to witness the old man kick off. But Rockwell, although he was excited by the challenge of painting so many luminaries at once, just didn't feel right about it. Something about Freud irritated him, though he couldn’t put his finger on it until some years later when he saw a painting