I laugh -- because of the really strange expression on Bob Dylan's face. It's priceless and so un-Bob Dylan-y. What on earth was he thinking about when they snapped this? (Over 40 years ago, I might add.) It looks like it had something to do with whatever was going on with Johnny Cash at that moment. He looks kind of intensely hopped-up on amphetamines, doesn't he? But then, didn't he always in those days?



Back when I was in the hoosegow -- oops! I meant to say the looneybin, sorry -- I was not only locked up, but they also forced me to go to school! That's right! Talk about adding insult to injury. I hated school, passionately. But because of some silly law about education they had a makeshift school on the grounds of the mental hospital. I think it was on my very first day of class there, they made us all listen to this tape recording made by Johnny Cash to, I guess, steer us clear of drug abuse. (Or continued drug abuse, I should say, since pretty much all of us in that place took more drugs than you can possibly imagine. This was 1975.)

I swear, the tape started off with Johhny Cash saying his famous, "Hello. I'm Johnny Cash." But then he went on to say, "I take 98 amphetamine tablets a day."

Okay, so this is a lot of years ago (a lot of drugs ago, a whole heck of a lot of cocktails ago) but I really, really remember him saying some startling number like that-- 98. It was too funny. We were all, like, "You have got to be kidding me! Why hasn't your heart exploded?" It didn't make any of us stop taking drugs but it was a very, very interesting tape to listen to; very heartfelt and honest. Not a bunch of bullshit. I have never forgotten it, obviously. I always thought that Johnny Cash was just so incredibly human and cool.

When I was a little girl, he had that TV show that I just loved. He was always causing scandals with it -- scandals that I totally did not understand, but then everyone in showbusiness back then was causing some kind of scandal or another, just because of the rebellious nature of the times. And I loved listening to his songs on the radio. Our school bus had a radio. I can remember vividly one afternoon in Cleveland in the late 1960s, as the school bus was making the rounds in my neighborhood, dropping kids off from a day at school, and Johnny Cash was singing that live version of "A Boy Named Sue." We were all just little elementary school kids, but we shouted out right along with him: "My name is Sue! How do you do!" We had no idea why it was funny, it just was.

That was never my favorite song, though. I did love, intensely love, "Folsom Prison Blues" -- the live version from San Quentin. When I was a little girl, I would play that record over & over & over & over. I knew (and still know) every single note, every single sound, every single hoot & holler; it is just one of the greatest country songs ever in the known history of the world. (I mean real country, not that stuff they have today.) It was so deep in my veins that in the summer of 1971, when I was with my family one August evening at the Ohio State Fair, we were standing outside of the area of the fairgrounds where they had the entertainment. And suddenly I heard it! It was plain as day, coming from beyond the wall: "Hello. I'm Johnny Cash!" and he launched into "Folsom Prison Blues" and the audience went wild. I was stunned. I cried, "Mommy, it's Johnny Cash! He's in there! I want to go!"

"You're not going to see Johnny Cash, Marilyn; we're going home now."

I was devastated, naturally. So close and yet so far. I couldn't even see a glimpse of him, the wall was way too high. I could only hear him and it was breaking my heart to be dragged away to the car. When I finally did get to see him, I was in my 30s and it was at the Ritz in New York City -- the very best place on earth to see Country Music legends because the venue was small and you could almost touch these guys. These legends that most New Yorkers didn't care about. It was one the most spectacular moments of my life. The place was packed, SRO, but he was so close and, you know -- there he was. This was just before his illness started to show. He was still the really robust version of Johnny Cash. Of course I cried. I couldn't help it. I didn't sob or anything, just tears coming that I couldn't stop; I was so incredibly happy to finally see him for real. And he sounded so incredibly good, like a legend is supposed to sound. Like he had the world in his hand, you know? Like it was all so easy; he could just toss it off. I wanted that moment to last a lifetime: the sight of him filling my eyes as he was singing and smiling and playing that guitar. Well, in my mind, at least it does; the vision goes on & on and lasts a lifetime.

When Mike & I were living in that tiny little apartment in Easton, Pennsylvania where I actually wrote the novel Freak Parade, Mike came into the bedroom one evening while I was watching Turner Classic Movies (of course) and he said, "Change it to the news. One of your heroes is dead." So I changed the channel and sure enough, one of my heroes was dead.

Of all the Johnny Cash songs I love, my very favorite is one that is only about 2 minutes long and most people don't seem to have ever heard of it. But here's a link to a download of it: "I Just Might Be Fool Enough To Fall." Here's him singing it on his TV Show but the arrangement isn't as great as it was on the original recording. It doesn't have that awesome piano or those fiddles & pedal steel.

Well, okay. I guess I'd better get moving around here. I still have about 300 more pages to go on my final edit of Freak Parade. Hope you have a great Friday, gang, wherever you are! Thanks for visiting. See ya!