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heartfullofleeches · 1 year ago

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This is such a silly and stupid idea but I am desperate for a Yandere x Reader where the Yandere is this extremely paranoid/depressed fuck who thinks the world is diseased and the only way for it to get clean is to get rid of all human life on it, they are willing to kill for a "better cause" and have absolutely no mercy...and then there is Reader (the only person they don't hate entirely), who is into Eurodance, is extremely positive and is a complete fashion disaster who believes it is good in everything and everyone.

This is very much based on my recent obsession with Planet of the Bass but let's not talk about it lol.

I just want these two completely opposite bitches to try and teach each other their points of view while one slowly falls in love with the other

[Here's a blurbo I had in limbo with a similar plot. Yan is indeed depressed/hates the world and Reader's moreso into rave because I dunno anything about Eurodance. Tw: themes of suicide]

This is it. Their final night alive.

They'd done all they needed. Returned a book collecting dust on their desk. Disposed of the tools used on corpses in some other lake to keep their name from more attention. It's crazy how in their last moments all that mattered was the thoughts and options of those who lead them to this fate. How disgusting. They did their victims a favor by leaving them nameless. The murky waters below reflect a dread known long before the plunge. There is nothing waiting for them. Not here. Not on the other side.

Their final night alive. Or so it would have been.

Right as they climbed on the bridge's ledge, back facing the sky, small beads of light rose from the hill adjacent. The tiny orbs merge into separate distinct figures on the horizon. Wheeling onto the scene, the group ride with vehicles unusual for the terrain. Rollerskates, skateboards, electric scooters. They wear some matter of bright clothing with glowsticks and lights dangling from their person in flashy jewelry and attached to headphones they wore. They all seemed to be equipped with some type of earwear and dancing to their own beat while still moving as one.

The group stop at the other side of the road, all oblivious to the shadow lurking across the way. They glared - climbing down from the ledge and sitting upon it, seething. The group may not notice them now, but they'd surely catch on at most inconvenient time. It would seem their presence wasn't completely ignored as one head turns their way. One of the figures wearing skates waves, pointing to one of the many necklaces around their neck. The shadow avoids their smile, praying they get the message.

They don't.

Sparkling wheels crunch over gravel. "Hey."

Silence.

They remove their headphones. "Hey!"

Nothing. Persisting, the person wheels over to the railing, leaning against it as they breath in the salty air. "Long drop down. Won't be quick."

As if that would deter them.

"I won't get on your case. We've all been there at some point. Life sucks, and then you did. Feels like your taking control by going out on your own terms, but you won't and may never will. That's why it's important to enjoy the little things. It's why I hang out with those guys. We get together every once and a while. Party on wheels as some of us call it. Lots of fun."

The party-goer takes off their headphones and places their music player on the railing. "This is what I listen to when I'm down. Maybe it can help you. Maybe not - but I'd like you to return it some day. My name is Y/n, by the way. Just so you know when we meet again."

You take off your necklace and offer it to them. They take it - just to get you to leave them alone. You solemnly wave again, returning to your group and taking over the mantle of carrying the portable speaker another brought with them. You take their arm, balancing skillfully on your wheels as you dance the fleeting night away with no care of the coming dawn.

Your type were the worse of all. Giving them more tasks to complete before they departed from this miserable world. They hated carrying the duties given by others on their shoulders so much they couldn't pass on, but looking at your smiling face, sorting through the music that got you through the toughest - they couldn't see themselves from fulfilling their end of the deal you set anywhere in the near future.

For once in their life living in someone's else's shadow didn't seem so bad.

#yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere scenarios #yandere insert #yandere blurb #yandere headcanons #yandere #yandere oc #yandere drabble #tw yandere

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radiaurapple · 4 months ago

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Lucid Dreams of New Orleans: Chapter 14

CHAPTER SUMMARY: IN WHICH Lucifer and Alastor go home.

FIC SUMMARY: Lucifer has always kept his distance from sinners. It’s what keeps him (relatively) sane — if he gets too close, he is haunted by visions of the tragic mortal lives that landed them in Hell. But in his new life at the Hotel, it is more difficult than ever to stay away — and when it comes to light that his daughter’s insufferable facilities manager is gravely wounded, it falls to Lucifer to deliver his soul from Death. In so doing, he falls headfirst into the sins, past lives, and heartbreaks of the one human whose contradictions he is powerless to resist.

we've reached the end-ish folks!!! I have an epilogue and some other ideas i want to go after this in the same universe--I am taking a week off next week though so expect the first epilogue on 6/27!!!

thanks so much to everyone who has read along and I hope you enjoy!! 🍎📻💖

[AO3 LINK]

The portal to Heaven closes in a puff of sparks. Lucifer is left behind, staring at the space Alastor occupied only moments ago. Without so much as a word to the hotel’s other residents, he opens a portal to his room, right over his bed; he steps through and flops unceremoniously onto the comforter.

He usually escapes into a memory in moments like these — when he’s alone and awash in self-pity, his mind a prickly hedge maze of grief. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to call up something pleasant.

It’s no use. There’s only one place he wants to be right now, and none of his memories of that place and time belong to him.

Lucifer sighs and flicks his wrist; a portal splits open in the middle of his room, spilling green light over the carpet.

Which is how he finds himself on Earth.

New Orleans. October. Sunset.

Lucifer steps off a cable car in the French Quarter and stumbles through the crowd of evening commuters. He inhales a lungful of a skateboarder’s cotton-candy flavored vape and coughs; the crowd thins, and he ducks into an alleyway and bends his form into a white pigeon. He flaps his wings and takes off.

He glides over the rooftops. As the millennia went by, Heaven seemed to care less and less about Lucifer’s intrusion here. He rarely interferes in the affairs of mortals — but from time to time, he likes to walk among them, to see them exercise the gift of free will in a wider range of hues than his skewed and gruesome view from the top of Hell. Every time he comes here, he discovers some new human creation that brings a smile to his face — that makes him wonder if he might have been right all along.

This time, he isn’t sure what to think.

Below, he spots Elysian Fields Ave., a few blocks from Alastor’s old home. He alights in the shade of a house between two garbage bins; he steps out onto the street in the same pale imitation of a human form he wore in Alastor’s memories.

The suburban street is quiet and still apart from a hideous, boxy electric vehicle that drives past on the road. He borrows Alastor’s sense of direction and heads northwest. Soon he’s lost — most of Alastor’s landmarks are gone, and only the shape of the streets is familiar. He circles Alastor’s block three times before he finally accepts that the houses where Alastor and Hollis lived are both gone, replaced by multi-story duplexes.

He finds what he believes was the lot of Alastor’s home and stands before it on the sidewalk, stares at the building that now occupies it, unsure of what he came here for. He wants to knock on the door and tell them everything that happened here — to tell them about the game nights, the lone drop of blood, cigarettes and violin in the rocking chair on the porch. He wonders if late at night, or during storms, the memories resurface like ghosts — one high and trembling note remembered in the sound of falling leaves. He wants to ask them if there’s anything left of those short human lives — any mark of their existence. The outline of a shoulder worn in the lacquer on the back of a violin.

As Lucifer stands there, the thread of linear time frays, and his consciousness splits between both places at once — the present world and the memory. Alastor is coming down the sidewalk, right now and ninety years ago; He steps right through Lucifer, like a ghost, and climbs the invisible steps of a yellow house that no longer exists.

The sound of a car door jolts Lucifer back into his body. He bends his form back into a white pigeon and flies up to look over the city.

He takes inventory. Most of Alastor’s places are gone. Economy Hall — the lighthouse that marked the edge of Lake Pontchartrain — the City Park pool. The park has expanded north of Florida Ave., which has itself widened from a street into an interstate. Many of the charming cobblestone streets downtown are now paved with asphalt.

The Francs Amis, the first place Lucifer really saw Alastor with his own eyes, is one of the few buildings that still exists. Lucifer perches on the chain-link fence across the cracked asphalt street and eyes the sign out front. A dry laugh escapes him — it has been repurposed into a church. Figures.

[AO3 LINK]

#lucid dreams of new orleans #hazbin hotel #radioapple #hazbin fanfic #hazbin lucifer #hazbin alastor #alastor #lucifer #mine #lucifer morningstar #ao3 fanfic

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maladaptivedaydreams-world · 11 months ago

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The Batkids as ways my family have injured themselves, inspired by breaking my ankle a few days ago, only a week after my brother cut himself up on his skateboard:

Dick: broke his ankle and leg doing tricks on trampoline to impress the kid he was baby sitting. (It was a cool trick i swear but it wasn't worth 9 hours in the ER on Christmas Eve)

Tim: modified an electric skateboard and turned off speed limiter, was going way to fast when he caught air on a hill, ended up with 3rd degree burns on back and arm from the road and grazes on legs, arms and back.

Damian: put his arm through a window trying to murder his older brother. Forgot how many stiches maybe he shouldnt have been trying to murder his brother.

Jason: gave his little brother a pocket knife as a present. Got stabbed in the back over a rock, needed 6 stitches.

Steph: Broke their arm racing the others down a massive hill on childrens sit and scoot toys. (Look it up and tell me my family lacks critical thinking when you see it)

Cass: third degree burns on her feet when sparkler bomb they made using a coke can an spaklers exploded too close to her. (We put gun powder in it because we thought it would look cooler, unfortunately for my little sister)

Duke: found a rope tied up in a warehouse so him and his siblings where taking turns swinging from one pile of boxes to another, the rope snapped and he broke his ribs.

#batfam #batfamily #batman #tim drake #dc #dick grayson #jason todd #red robin #damian wayne #stephanie brown #dc comics #funny #cassandra cain #i wish i was lying #but most of these actually hurt a lot #0/10 would not recommend

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donnetellotheturtle · 28 days ago

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Spider Bo Spider Bo Does Whatever A Spider Bo Does

Chapter 1

Bo stretched as they crawled out of bed. Sorcha was cooking, they could smell it. They did their morning routine and got dressed in a nice suit, combing their hair before coming downstairs.

“Cooking pancakes?” They asked.

Sorcha looked over, his twin chuckling as she shoved a plate in their hand and threw a pancake in it. She plated her own and the two sat down at the kitchen table.

“You look nice.” Sorcha said as she bit into a pancake.

“Got a job interview.”

“Already?”

“Yeah. It’s that science lab. They need a secretary.” Bo ate a quarter of their pancake in one bite.

“Doesn’t seem your style.”

“Jobs are my style. Especially if it’s not fast food…tired of coming home smelling like nuggets. Plus this pays more.”

She nodded. “When do you have to be there?”

“An hour. Can I take the car?”

“Better than a skateboard.”

They shoved the rest of the food in their mouth and saluted as they grabbed the keys and walked out the door.

The drive over was uneventful except for seeing a possum cross the road before leaving their neighborhood. They named the possum Frank.

They parked in the building parking lot known as Blackwood industries.

They carefully combed down their hair and adjusted their suit. They took a deep breath before getting out of the car.

The lab was nice, walls covered with different scientists with different projects Bo had never heard of. There was a woman sitting at a desk typing something. Her nametag read Lillian.

“excuse me.”

She looked up.

“I’m looking for Mr. Harker. Im here for the job interview.”

She smiled. “Third floor, two doors down from the elevator.” She pointed to it in the corner.

“Thank you.”

Lillian nodded, going back to her work.

Bo took the elevator up. It opened into a lab space where there were people working on different projects.

Bo looked around in wonder and then someone crashed into them, knocking them to the ground.

They blushed as they looked up at a handsome man. Around their age, dark skin, braided hair, bright blue eyes.

“Oh my god.” He said, and Bo could see that reddish tint on his face as well. “I-I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean-I-Um”

Bo chuckled. “I-Its okay. Um…could you get up?”

“I-Yes I’m sorry.” He pulled himself off the floor and then offered Bo a hand who took it and was pulled up. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Im fine.”

“M-My names Link.” He held out his hand to shake. Bo took it.

“Bo. Um are you-“

“Mx Caldwell.”

The two looked over. Mr. Harker was standing there.

“Oh. Hello.” Bo smiled nervously. “I’m sorry I bumped into-“

“I saw the whole thing. Mr. Herrons, please go back to work. We have an interview to conduct in my lab.”

“Sorry sir. Nice meeting you Bo.”

Bo smiled and walked Link walk off.

“Come along.”

Bo followed Mr. Harker through the lab space into a private office area. Bo looked around.

The space was filled with spiders. They all had habitats along the walls and seemed to be well fed.

“This is my passion project. Spiders are amazing creatures. Most of my experiments are about understanding these creatures. As I saw, you met Mr. Herrons, he’s based a few experiments off electricity.”

“That’s so cool.”

“As my secretary you’d keep track of all my calls, schedule meetings and appointments, and be the go between for me and the other scientists who work under me.”

“That doesn’t sound bad.”

Bo’s leg felt itchy. They resisted the urge to scratch it.

“Your off days would be Thursday through Saturday, 4 weeks of paid vacation…I read through your resume. It’s very impressive.”

Bo blushed. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“During highschool you interned under your uncle, Damien Caldwell is that correct?”

Bo nodded. “I didn’t want this job because of him.”

“I contacted your uncle.” He continued. “He gave me a glowing review…you helped him figure out how to make a similar serum to a spiders web. Strong enough to hold a person. While it’s still in the works your work on that project was a turning point…why didn’t you pursue it?”

Bo swallowed hard. They had expected all the normal interview questions but not this.

“I…me and my sister needed to put food on the table and get a roof over our heads. Didn’t have time, I guess.”

“I understand. I would love to have you on my team.”

The itching was up their back now. They tried not to squirm.

“Really?”

“As both a secretary and consultant. One good internship doesn’t make a scientist, but your creative way of thinking would be a valuable asset.”

Something sharp hit the back of Bos neck. Bo yelled, making Mr. Harkens raise an eyebrow.

“Ahh I’m so excited!” They said, then rubbed their neck. Their fingers brushed against something which fell off in a second. They smiled nervously.

“Great to hear it. Mx. Caldwell, welcome to Blackwood industries.”

The two shook hands.

“You start in two weeks. Get all your affairs in order. You’ll be sent an email for all your bank information.”

“T-Thank you sir.”

He nodded. “Have a good day.”

Bo smiled and left the room, grinning.

Mr. Harker saw a spider on the table. He offered a hand to it and it crawled up his arm to his shoulder. He smiled.

Bo walked back through the hallway.

“Hey. How’d it go?” Link looked over.

Bo smiled. “I got the job.”

“Tha-That’s great.”

“…do you always stutter?”

Link chuckled. “only around certain people.”

Bo smiled a bit, then swallowed hard. It felt like a knot had formed in their throat.

“you alright?”

The lights were so bright. They blinked hard as the sounds of the building suddenly rushed to their ears. Every air conditioner, electrical outlet, even cars outside.

“Bo?”

They looked up at Link and the world swam. “I…don’t feel good.”

They didn’t know how but they ended up in links arms.

“You’re burning up.”

Their mouth went dry.

“I’m gonna take you home.”

“C-Call Sorcha.”

Their hands felt wet and clammy as they handed him their phone. Something was wrong. They breathed shakily.

They didn’t process much after that. The world was blurred. One moment they were in their car, Link saying something they didn’t process the next they were being carried into a hospital. The next Sorcha holding their hand as an IV went into their system.

Then everything went dark.

“Bo...Bo!”

They were in an endless expanse of darkness. They looked around. Who was calling their name? They sounded so far away.

“Bo!”

The voice was unfamiliar but comforting.

“Who are you?” Bo called.

“Bo!” The voice repeated. “I can’t see you.”

“Hello?”

Bo saw a flash of light in the distance. They started heading towards it.

“I can’t see you.”

Bo started running as the light became brighter. “Who are you!?”

Bo gasped awake.

“Bo!”

They looked over and saw Sorcha. She smiled in relief. “I’m glad you’re awake.”

“Chacha, where are we?”

“Hospital. Your friend took you here, and called me.”

“…Who?”

“Hey.” They looked over and saw link who was holding sodas and snacks. “Youre awake.”

Bo nodded. “How long…”

“A week. The doctors didn’t know what was wrong with you though.”

Bo stared at him. “…You stayed?”

Link nodded.

They blinked hard, their head starting to pound.

“Lets get a doctor in here.” Sorcha said.

It was two full days of testing and monitoring before they were allowed to go home. Link and Sorcha there to keep them company.

Finally they were allowed to go home when the headaches and pain subsided and the doctors said everything was back to normal.

Sorcha kept a close eye on them as they came back into the house.

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“ChaCha, I’m fine.” Bo chuckled. “Now it’s my night to cook dinner. Are you gonna hover over me the whole time or am I gonna have to lock you in your room?”

Sorcha rolled her eyes. “Fine. But if anything goes wrong I’m taking over.”

Bo rolled their eyes as they walked into their room, going to change.

They pulled off their shirt as they looked in the mirror. Then paused.

Did they have some muscle?

Bo felt their arm and found that yes, they had some. Which was weird cause they never exercised in their life.

“The hell?”

“Bo uncle damiens on the phone!” Sorcha called.

Bo threw on a clean shirt and ran to the kitchen.

“How they doing?” Damien asked from the other side.

“Oh you can ask them yourself.” Sorcha grinned and handed Bo the phone. They glared at her a bit before speaking.

“Hey.”

“Hey kiddo. I heard you got the job. How you feeling?”

“Im completely fine. The doctors said so. Probably just too many over night shifts in a row.”

“Well im excited to see you put that brain to good use. It’s about time.”

“…You didn’t pull any strings, did you?”

“Other than giving you a glowing review, all of which was true, no. That’s all you kiddo.”

“Thanks. Why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow? We’ll make your favorite.”

“How could I say no? I’ll see you two then. I love you.”

“Love you!” both Sorcha and Bo said before hanging up.

“…You look freaked out.” Sorcha said, raising an eyebrow.

“…I have muscles.”

Sorcha gave them a confused look.

Bo pulled off their shirt, letting it fall. Or at least they tried to. It stuck to their hand. They shook it, trying to get it off.

“That isn’t funny.”

“Its stuck.” Bo used their other hand to try and pull it off only to find that, that hand was stuck. “What the hell!?”

“Don’t rip that shirt.”

“you try getting it off then.”

Sorcha rolled her eyes and grabbed the shirt, tugging, only to discover she couldn’t pull it off either. “Okay what the fuck.”

“That’s what I’m saying!”

Sorcha grabbed onto the edges of the shirt. “on three. One…two…three!”

The two pulled apart and Bo stumbled back and onto the wall, their hands sticking to it. “Huh.”

“What?”

Bo smiled and climbed up the wall, onto the ceiling.

Sorcha screamed.

Next>

A03

#Spider Bo Spider Bo Does Whatever A Spider Bo Does #spiderman #spiderverse oc #spiderman oc #Bo Caldwell #Sorcha Caldwell #Terrance Harker #My OCs #My Writing

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dollarbin · 1 year ago

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Dollar Bin #26:

Bob Dylan's Bringing it All Back Home

Ah, the initially alarming, deeply flawed, but ultimately classic, transition album:

Neil Young started his deep dive into the ditch with Time Fades Away's bungling fever; Tom Petty crept off the plantation in search of SoCal zombies and skateboards with the hodgepodge airplane crash of Let Me Up; Joni Mitchell jumped off her increasingly precious clouds and instead fed us mysterious brownies, terrifying electric piano trance music and street corner clarinet; Paul Simon abandoned Artie on their graceful bridge and dove straight into the troubled water he'd formerly avoided at all costs, determined to reunite Mother and Child; Ringo and his clever lads joyfully totaled their quaint and geriatric tour bus so as to embrace rampaging chaos.

Each of these artists would have made their fans happy by staying the course. The public wanted endless choruses of All Together Now from each of them. After all, no one ever wants to see their hero just do it in the road.

But thank god they all swerved into the ditch, transitioning through straight up weird songs like L.A., Duncan, Woodstock and All Mixed Up to new, previously undreamt heights with Tired Eyes, American Tune, Blue and Free Fallin'. Thank God Paul McCartney shrieked about monkey sex long enough to give us Hey Jude.

Like most concepts in the Dollar Bin, Bob Dylan charted the seemingly reckless course for each of these vital transitions. And so let's talk about Bob's own transitional mess/masterpiece of a fifth record, Bringing it All Back Home.

It's of course tempting to think of the record in terms of Sides A and B: Like the 66 tour that followed, Bob makes an electric declaration alongside a conciliatory acoustic compromise.

But I think that assessment is all wrong, or at least too elementary (for the tour and the album). Rather, I think Bringing it All Back Home has four different, mingled song sets to consider: there are a) two tossed off novelty songs, b) three hastily recorded future masterpieces, c) three sprawling problems, and d) two songs that are total filler.

Add a fifth category: there's also one - and only one - full success on Bringing It All Back Home. That's right, it's one of my favorite albums of all time and yet I think there is only one song on the record that Bob did right the first time:

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Despite the popular imagination there are plenty of Dylan tracks which feature great singing. At least once a decade Dylan reminds us that he's capable of nailing a melody alongside surprising and perfect phrasing.

Want a handy, 70 year long, left field list from off the top of my head? I'm happy to provide!

60's Moonshiner

70's Knocking on Heaven's Door

80's Blind Willie McTell

90's Lone Pilgrim

00's Nettie Moore

10's Long and Wasted Years

20's Key West

Dylan sings She Belongs to Me with similar elegance and personality, yes? The song is built on repetition and yet nothing seems to occur more than once. He tells us twice that his lady friend is an artist, he bows down to her twice and describes her firm footwork, you got it, twice, but he does so in such different fashions, stretching the second phrase in the second line of each verse just so, like a tableau vivant that has obviously changed - but how? - while you were blinking.

Indeed I've always thought of She Belongs To Me as the musical version of the album's cover, the most staged and ambitious of Dylan's career. Albert Grossman's impossibly elegant wife, the piles of rick rack and the precious kitty cat in Dylan's lap: like the song's title itself, none of these things actually appear in Dylan's perfectly paced, intimate and stately song. But every detail seems borrowed from the song's missing verses.

(It's too bad a literalist approach was taken for the Basement Tapes cover. I'd prefer images from the absent songs rather than the drunken tea party dress up vibe that was chosen. Dylan, at least, seems to understand this: while everyone else mugs for the camera he flips his stringed object 90 degrees and dreams about the door...)

Dylan of course opened his 66 tour each night with She Belongs to Me, and all the versions are successful. But none of them touch the arrangement from the album track: Bruce Langhorne's swaying, gurgling lead guitar, the unobtrusive but burgeoning drums: everything waltzes along perfectly together and insists that Bob keep up. And keep up he does, still finding chances to linger without ever getting sleepy. It makes for lovely, lovely music: perfect from the beginning.

But most of all we think of Bringing It All Back Home as an introduction to masterpieces that Bob, and everyone else, has been wrestling with ever since. Dylan recorded the whole album in 3 days so it's no wonder that songs like It's All Over Now Baby Blue, Love Minus Zero/No Limit, and Mr Tambourine Man are so complex that we're still getting to the bottom of them.

I'm not going to spend much time on Mr Tambourine Man here; check out the Dollar Bin (#6?) on Judy Collins' Fifth Record. Suffice it to say that Dylan's first version is great, but is obviously not the master take in that there were at least two competing versions that same year that were just as good.

But let's linger over Love Minus Zero/No Limit. It's one of my all time favorites, period. I have no real idea what Dylan is trying to tell us but the poetry never fails to knock me out. Consider the third verse, which echoes Proofrock's yearning, anticipates Get Smart and makes touchstones out of everything from chess to Daniel's prophesies about Nebuchadnezzar's faulty artistic future. This is Dylan and his most obtusely wonderful:

The cloak and dagger dangles, Madams light the candles. In ceremonies of the horsemen, Even the pawn must hold a grudge. Statues made of match sticks, Crumble into one another, My love winks, she does not bother, She knows too much to argue or to judge.

And yet the album's dense arrangement simply does not understand the song's greatness. The same backing players who both corralled and gave Bob space on She Belongs To Me here force Dylan to rush through his thoughts and linger over nothing; we don't need complexity behind such lyrics and the melody: works of art always look better without gilded frames.

Dylan knew as much; he knew he couldn't hope to contain the song's multitudes on first attempt so he gave up after two series of rushed attempts over two days. But on The Other Side of the Mirror, recorded the following summer at the Newport Folk Festival, we see him come much, much closer, as the wind howls like a hammer no less, to unveiling the song's full greatness.

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I'll make a nerd club comment quickly, however, about Bringing It All Back Home's mono mix. I grew up listening to this record on an 80's era CD that made everything sound like it had been recorded in Dylan's private vomitorium. Listening this morning to my more recently purchased, but almost 60 year old, mono record, I wondered if the album track is way better than I claim here.

When it comes to others trying to touch Dylan's own interpretration of the masterpiece I usually groan (when Eric Clapton tried to play it at Bob Fest, I, listening live on some barely-there FM station, almost shouted my famous farmer buddy Ned, who was driving his dad's ancient suburban, off a very windy mountain road. Thanks for not letting us die Ned!).

The best cover of Love Minus Zero that I know of is hardly a cover at all. Witness the Go-Betweens sneaking it in to their song Clouds (no, not that song Clouds; this is one of their own with that title):

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But even so, I'm sticking to my guns: Love Minus Zero is best unadorned and sung by Bob.

The album's other lyrical masterpiece, It's All Over Now, Baby Blue, has an even richer history and an even more questionable start. I can understand, wholeheartedly, while Dylan felt done after the album's eventual take was in the can. The swirling, melodic bass alone makes the track worthy of inclusion on this, or any other, record. Dylan adds impassioned vocals and sensitive harmonica; it all comes together into a marvelous flotilla of music.

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But the song still includes a straight-up, gasp-worthy, mistake. Check out the third verse, second line. According to Bob himself, the lyric is, and always has been, "all your reindeer armies, they're all going home". Following up on Bob's seasick sailors rowing home, this is a bizarre and perfect lyric for a bizarre and perfect song.

But Dylan sings nothing of the sort. Instead we get something that sounds like "your empty handed army-ers are going home." That's not the same thing Bob! Indeed it sounds like you were so into this take 1/2 way in that you blew it, then shrugged and went out to kick it with Nico or something. Dude, Bob, give us another take!

He did of course. Like She Belongs to Me, he made the song a centerpiece of his 66 tour, usually nailing it. And many others have given us earnest versions of their own, from Them's Beck-worthy cover to the obligatory Byrd's version, and so on.

But this entire post was inspired by Chan Marshall's just released take of Baby Blue. If you haven't heard all of the Cat Power re-creation of Dylan's Judas concert, get your act together, stop reading this and do so right now.

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Why, oh why, doesn't Dylan tour and record his next album right now with Chan and Fionna Apple sharing the vocals with him? You know both women are game, and I guarantee you both of them would remember it's reindeer we're talking about here, not armyers.

Okay, that covers the initially tossed off classics-to-be. Let's talk about the problem songs: It's Alright Ma and Gates of Eden. There's a lot to be said in favor of these songs. They both feature dense writing with bumper-sticker-ready tag lines. "Even the President of the United Sates Sometime Has to Stand Naked" and "The Savage Soldier Just Sticks His Head In Sand and Then Complains" are a bit wordy but there's plenty of room on the back of my 08 Honda Civic Hybrid. I'm ready to make people tailgate me and squint.

But Dylan delivers both numbers as dirges. Frankly I have to take a deep breath to get through them back to back. Listening is like doing your homework, and, while I'm a pretty good teacher, I'm a lousy student. Thus, they are problem songs.

But Dylan figured out one of them, It's Alright Ma, in a big way in 74 while on tour with The Band. He belts it out in frantic double time, creating the perfect Watergate Era protest song. Obtuse and direct, vague and fierce:

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I was negative 2 years old at that point but I swear I heard Dylan's holler in utero, beckoning me to join the argument here on Earth. I'm happy to have answered the call, and I hope I never see Trump naked. But jail would be sweet...

As far as I know, Gates of Eden has never been similarly salvaged but I'd argue it's ready for resuscitation. Bob's dense Adam and Eve tale is just sitting around 60 years later, waiting for someone other than Bob to finally give it some life. Check out the lyrics to the second verse; there's plenty worth wrestling with here:

The lamppost stands with folded arms, its iron claws attached To curbs 'neath holes where babies wail, though it shadows metal badge All and all can only fall with a crashing but meaningless blow No sound ever comes from the Gates of Eden

I don't know how a lamppost can shadow a metal badge under wailing toddlers, but the whole thing freaks me out in good ways. I wish Leonard Cohen had given Phil Specter the boot and sung this with Bob instead of Don't Go Home With Your Hard-On.

The third of the problem songs is problematic in an entirely different sense. Yes, I know that Maggie's Farm is historically important because Bob used it to help create punk rock in 65 by lighting up Newport's speakers and driving Pete Seeger into an axe-wielding rage, but the song has basically no melody and is, to my ears, pretty dull. Name me a good version. Dare you! Meanwhile, I ain't gonna talk about this song no more.

I'm afraid to say that the remaining two categories, Bringing It All Back Home's novelty songs and its filler, are less rich pastures for us to dwell in, but let's visit anyway, shall we?

First of all, I'm here to tell you that one of Bob Dylan's masterpieces, Subterranean Homesick Blues, is nothing more than a novelty song. By that I mean it's a gimmick: awesome once and then never worth redoing by anyone, ever again. I've never heard a Dylan live version of any kind - he knows better - and I dare even my famous brother to produce a quality cover. (And if he plays me the Red Hot Chili Peppers' take I will declare him no longer famous.)

Simply put, I think the song is a fantastic and spontaneous piece of wit that would go stale the moment it is ever retold. Do I like the song and its sweet one liners? Sure! I dare say I have even taken a fair bit of Bob's advice to heart over the years. No one's ever caught me hanging around an inkwell, that's for damn sure. But I never want to hear the song in any other context beyond the opening two minutes of this record or in the poster flinging alleyway bit.

Thankfully Bob feels the same way. Can you imagine a Budokan version, slowed down to a reggae beat and chanted with the ladies while Dickicus Maximus on the sax shows off his swaggering mass? Or imagine a Jesus phase rewrite accompanied by auto-harps entitled Jesus is the Answer Blues (Christ's in his Heaven's, mixing up the punishments; I'm on the pavement thinking about the rapture..), or a Neverending Tour take wherein no one other than Bob, including the band, even knows the song is happening (must be Cat's in the Well?) until Bob suddenly tells everyone to light themselves a candle, at which point everyone goes from stupefied to frantic because they failed to hit record on their smuggled-in iPhones.

Instead of covers or remakes we're left with a long line of other novelty songs in the same vein. We're talking End of the World As We Know It, about 1/4 of every great song in Elvis Costello's catalog from Pump it Up to Beyond Belief and, I'm so sorry because now it's stuck in your head, We Didn't Start the Fire.

Dylan knew his 115th Dream was a one-off joke from the get go, and so he added the hilarity from the first of its only two attempts onto the intro for the record. I never miss a chance to grin at the nonsense Bob and Captain A-Rab get into, but this song is not on any best of lists and, like Subterranean Homesick Blues, has thankfully never been attempted by anyone since.

Curiously, it's also the last "Bob Dylan's Dream" song we ever got from Dylan. I guess there are really only two of them, but I think of the two I Shall Be Frees and Talking World War Three Blues as additional members of the genre. Now don't get me wrong, I love Series of Dreams as much as any other Bobhead, but images of running and climbing are no substitute for another song from Dylan's ridiculous dream journal about harpoons and Bob being reminded that he is not Christ.

That leaves us with the filler: On the Road Again and Outlaw Blues are exactly that. Had he written them, Stephen Stills would proudly place these songs on his Greatest Hits package; they are that bad.

Dylan's made more than just this one transition record, of course. John Wesley Harding... Street Legal... World Gone Wrong... Maybe all his records are transitions!

Just imagine us ten years and three new Dylan albums from now. Bob is a spry 92 and has just added a cheap-enough-for-me lager to his whiskey line. And, at long last, he has invited me over to the bobpad as my famous brother's plus one; that's right: after years of rejecting interview appeals from even the AARP, the Bobster finally wants to talk, and my bro's more than earned the gig. Our plan for the evening is to quiz Bob about how he transitioned into yet another masterful phase way back during Rough and Rowdy Ways.

Now that's a dream I'd like to hear him sing about.

#Youtube #bob dylan #neil young #joni mitchell #paul simon #stephen stills still sucks

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