Honoring Malcolm Young's 63rd Birthday

In honor of dear Malcolm Young's 63rd birthday, the team took a vote and decided to share this lesser known AC/DC tune, found by Aurora. 

It's heartbreaking that Mal can't remember writing or playing songs like this one, even more that he can't remember the people he was with, including his brother and soul mate. 

We mean soul mate in a platonic sense. Anyone reading something pervy into that statement is, in the immortal words of Bugs Bunny, a maroon.

We also take this time to affirm our belief that those who blather that "AC/DC always sound the same" are maroons. Sure we like the stuff that got radio play, but sometimes deep cuts like this one are better indicators of the band's heart and soul than the more popular stuff. We love the bluesy sound on this one.

Malcolm was AC/DC's nerve center. They are a different band without him. A good band, yes. A band with several of the same key components, yes. A band that he would be proud of, very much so. But nonetheless, a different band. Anyone who doesn't realize that isn't really listening.

We love you, Malcolm. We are sorry for what your illness has stolen from you. We are sorry for the suffering of your family and friends. We know that in the end, you will be free. Your soul will never forget the truth. We believe this in our hearts and souls.

Written by Cie and Aurora

for

Team Netherworld

Wordless Wednesday: Tiny, Delicate, Heartbreaking

Photoshop: The Real Cie

Original Image Copyright: / 123RF Stock Photo

If I'm Living on Borrowed Time, Do You Think I'm Gonna Waste My Time Conforming?

Current age: 62 and has no memories of his accomplishments or his family and friends.
Age at onset of dementia: 55 (and fuck you, Universe)

Lewy Body Dementia discovered post-suicide Age: 63

The Real Cie's aunt: probable Lewy Body Dementia, age of diagnosis: 72

Me: Age 49, will be 50 on February 15.

TRIGGER WARNING: DISCUSSION OF SUICIDE IDEATION

Here's what I'm noticing. This kind of shit seems to be happening in younger and younger people. I'm not a scientist. Nor am I particularly given to believing in conspiracy theories. The Illumin-Naughty seem as likely to exist as the Illuminati, as far as I'm concerned. But I do see a pattern.

I think our world is polluted as fuck, and it's killing us in various and horrible ways. I think all the people succumbing to these shitty forms of dementia have been poisoned by our toxic environment, and it isn't going to get any better anytime soon.

I evidently have a genetic trigger for this shit, and I have been thinking. I may be living on borrowed time. And if I am, I'm going to off myself when I get the diagnosis. I've taken care of people with dementia for all but five years since 1988. I am not putting myself or my son through that shit.

Given that there's a fair possibility that I'm living on borrowed time, do you know what the fuck I'm not going to do?

Care about a bunch of rules set down by a bunch of stodgy, imagination-impaired, heartless, inflexible assholes. 

Believe as I do. Don't believe as I do. I really don't care. But don't fucking tell me how to think and feel. I was never going to conform to your standards anyway. Given that I may only have five or ten years left, I'm going to conform to them even less.

I have an open mind about metaphysical possibilities. I'm not going to close my mind because my beliefs make some people uncomfortable.

I love what and who I love. If you have a problem with that, take a look in the damn mirror as you point your finger at me. Then take a look at the three fingers pointing back at you.

I'm actually not afraid of this possibility. I'm pretty stoic about it. I've had suicide ideation pretty much all my life. I'm not afraid to die. My life hasn't been an easy one. Sometimes I think the easiest thing in the world would be to down a whole bunch of pills with a butt ton of alcohol and just let the world fuck off at last. I'm sick and tired of hearing what a fuckup I am echoing in my damn head all the time.

I'm not doing it today. So don't get your hackles up searching my URL to try and find out where I'm located. This isn't a "right now" suicide note. This is a "if I'm diagnosed with dementia I'm offing myself" note. Because fuck that shit.

So anyway, if I believe in the possibility of ghosts and incarnate people communicating with each other and maybe even becoming friends or falling in love, who the fuck is anyone else to tell me I can't believe that? 

If I believe the personality survives the death of the body, who the fuck is anyone to tell me I can't believe that?

If I believe in an afterlife, but not an afterlife that adheres to some particular set of dogma created by a bunch of stodgy old fucks to control the masses, well, that is what I believe. If it brings you comfort to think of me frying in a fiery pit because of my beliefs, perhaps you're the sick fuck, not me. 

If I believe in reincarnation, how the fuck is that hurting you?

People are always so all-fired hot to tell other people what they should and shouldn't think and feel. I've had it up to here with that shit. None of us knows for sure what happens after we die. My theories are as valid as anyone else's. More to the point, I don't shove them down anybody's throat. 

I guess my point is this. I don't know if I'm living on borrowed time or not, but I damn well could be. Do you think I'm gonna waste that time trying to please anybody by conforming to their particular reality? I can't live your damn reality, nor do I want to. I can only live my own. 

Stop trying to tell other people what to believe, think and feel. As long as what you're doing isn't hurting anybody else, it's nobody's damn business.

One thing I aim to do. When I do get to the other side, whenever that is, I am going to give both of the dudes pictured a great big warm hug, because they both touched my life for the better and both pulled me through when I was a very sad, lonely, and bullied teenager. I wished both of them could be my friends.

I totally shipped "Mork" as my best platonic friend back in the day, and you will never guess which band was Mork's and my favorite. When you're a sad and miserable twelve or thirteen year old, that kind of thing can mean a lot.

When people judge another person's reality based on their own set of experiences, they do the person they're judging a great disservice.

Both Malcolm Young and Robin Williams taught me a lot. The biggest thing they taught me is that having compassion is the most important thing. As neither of them are conventionally attractive, they also taught me that true beauty is in the soul. Not that either of them are ugly, but neither of them would ever be considered "hunky" by any stretch of the imagination.

Both of them struggled with depression and addiction issues. These are certainly things to which I can relate. 

These are beautiful people--truly beautiful people, not Hollywood hyped beautiful on the outside hollow on the inside glamour seeking glory grabbers. If I do end up being one of the many succumbing to the horror of dementia, at least I will know I am in glorious company. I love you Mal, and I love you Robin. And I do not give one single fuck what anyone thinks of that statement.

I guess I've said what I need to say. It pretty well boils down to this. Quit fucking judging. You do not know what another person is going through or what they have been through. Since you haven't experienced their life, you aren't qualified to judge it.

I can't live as if there's no tomorrow, because my Last Day may be here sooner than I ever would have imagined. I have to get what I can done in what time I may have left. I'm not wasting that time conforming to anyone else's bullshit standards.

~Cie~

Why this Gritty, Non-Descript Little Man is My Hero

I know everyone is sick to death of hearing me talk about why this man means so much to me and why his horrifying illness is so devastating to me.

 A fuck I don't give. I will speak of it until eternity if I want to.

Ah, your unsolicited opinion regarding the things I care about?

Still looking...

The Daily Post asked me who my hero is. Actually, I have a few, but this one goes way back.

"But Cheese," you might say. "That dude totally does not look heroic. He's really low key. Heroes should dazzle!"

He does. He's just not flashy.

However, even though the music was the first thing I noticed, this isn't why he's my hero. A lot of people are musically talented (although this not flashy musician was kind of special.) That makes them admirable, but it doesn't make them heroes.

It's when I found out about the people behind the music that they became my heroes.

I was one of Those People. 

I was one of those people that other people put down to try and make themselves feel big.

I was ugly, or at least that's what I heard all the time.

So I deserved to be picked on.

So it was said.

I hated myself.

But I loved music.

I loved the raw power of this new music that I'd just found out about.

When I found out about the musicians behind it...

I knew they were making the music for people like me.

They didn't give a fuck about appealing to the cool crowd. They weren't part of the cool crowd. They'd probably been ostracized by the cool crowd, just like I had. 

They didn't approve of being shitty to people who didn't fit in, I could tell that. These guys weren't some trend, they were real. 

Someone like me really needed to know that people like this existed. People who would have been nice to me, even though I wasn't part of the Cool Crowd. People who would have told the people who were bullying me to go fuck themselves.

Gettin' it done low budget pre-MTV style.

"Well, that's all very nice, Cheese," you might say. "But you're a heterosexual female, and I guess the little guy has kind of a cute face, but a woman needs a real Manly Man to be her hero, and this dude looks like he'd blow away in a strong breeze. A hero should look something like this and make all the ladies swoon!"

Image Source

Well, ya know, who doesn't love them some Val Hallen? But what makes a person truly heroic is strength of character, not muscles or epic hair. Now, Val is a nice guy, and he does have strength of character, so I guess that makes him something of a hero. Still, I want to talk about why the little guy is my hero even though he doesn't look like one.

For someone living with mental illness, he was something of a role model. He was very shy, but bravely went into a career which meant being in the spotlight a lot of the time even though he was uncomfortable with being scrutinized. He struggled with depression and managed to overcome alcohol addiction in spite of the fact that without alcohol he would no longer have the ability to have a shot of Sociability.

He was known for being self-sacrificing, and even when he became extremely ill he didn't want to burden others with his problems. He was more concerned with the effect his illness would have on other people than with the effect it was having on him.

That he no longer knows what he did during his remarkable life, who the people he loves the most are, or even who he is breaks my heart in a million pieces. I will never forget him or what he did for a badly bullied, mentally ill girl through his music.

You are my hero, Malcolm Young. I love you. I don't care how saying that makes me look in the eyes of those who are concerned with keeping up appearances. You taught me not to give a fuck about those who look down their nose at those of us who are different. I know you struggled with some of the same things I struggle with. I think you were and are beautiful both inside and out. You are always in my heart.

Love always,

Cie

(Not So) Wordless Wednesday: Never Forget

Let us never forget the inspiration behind so much of our recent work. 

Click to enlarge the image

Photoshop manip by Cie

Original Eye in the Sky image:

Copyright: zadvinskiy / 123RF Stock Photo

This wasn't long ago, but it was prior to the massive cerebral degeneration that leaves him unable to remember anything about his life. Even at that juncture, the eyes that were once bright and alert were now bewildered and frightened. It breaks our hearts.

He and others like him are worth remembering, even though they can't remember.

If caring is uncool, then we're proud to be uncool.

We won't ever forget.

Forget any of the supernatural horrors that we create. Those are small potatoes. Even they run crying for their mommy in the face of real-life abominations such as this.

Lewy Body Dementia is an evil force which steals the light from beautiful, bright eyes. It is a sociopathic murderer which kills dreams and memories. It is a thief that strikes in the night, leaving a sharp mind broken in shards like a fragile artifact smashed on a stone floor. It is pure malevolence. It must be stopped so no more lives are destroyed this way.

Tempest

for

Team Netherworld

Aww Monday: Dear Malcolm

So, on Awwww Mondays, people usually post pictures of cute kittens and puppies and such. 

Cute guy with pretty smile is not a kitten or puppy. He does have nice hair. We might want to pet it, but he wasn't anybody's pet. He was an independent thinker, highly intelligent and very creative. So, why are we posting his picture?

He makes us say "awww," but he also makes us cry.

Not because of anything he did. It isn't his fault. He was a nice guy. He didn't like hurting people.

Sure, like anyone else, sometimes he hurt people. But he tried not to.

He makes us cry because he's dying from a really terrible disease. This disease has robbed him of everything. It doesn't even allow him the favor of knowing that people love him. It doesn't even let him remember all the things he created during his very remarkable life.

It would make us sad if he was dying from cancer, but this disease adds insult to injury.

We're posting this picture because we want people to remember him. Not just because he was nice to look at, but because his heart and soul were so very good.

We think you're beautiful in all the ways that really matter, Malcolm. And we're so sorry. We already miss you very much, Baby.

Love and many tears,

DJ Opal

Quiet People Have the Loudest Minds

Quiet People Have the Loudest Minds

I

In an industry that praises a man for being a blackguard

You refused to behave like a swine

You were tolerant, but not amoral

You chose to cleave to what you deemed important

Refusing to be some sort of cog in the machine

Your voice was an understated baritone

Your style in no way operatic

You preferred to let your axe do the talking

Coming up from a humble background

You led the poor in a quiet revolt

By teaching us to be unashamed of who we are

If anyone had ever referred to you

As a knight riding in on a white horse

You would have laughed

But you were a hero to many of us

We saw you as strong in spite of your diminutive stature

Which is why we were shocked when it was revealed just how fragile you are

There was no antecedent to predict

How swiftly and fearfully you would be felled

II

When I found out the reason

Why the world would never again hear your restless thoughts poured out in music

It made me shiver and sway

My soul was left a jittering mess

Tumbling into a sick, hellish abyss

My heart landed in the basement

And there is no consolation

Nor any chance for denial

My eyes are swollen from crying

Everybody knows that something's wrong

I never was any good at hiding behind a mask

This is the worst, the absolute worst

Because not only are there no expectations for recovery

There's nothing left of what you were in your head

Although the curtain's not yet drawn on vital functions

The obituary for your soul's been read

I thought it might be whiskey that would take you in the end

She was the one mistress you had trouble resisting

Because she temporarily quieted the voices of self-doubt

That screamed behind your placid demeanor

Quiet people have the loudest minds

I loved yours

Love it still

Love it always

Cie and Mo

for

Malcolm

Writing Prompts:

Mindlovemisery's Menagerie

The Reverie

Cross-Posted to:
Dream About Me Sweet Brother
(Warning: Blog contains explicit, unapologetic slash/erotic gay fiction)
KHEL 666
Poetry of the Netherworld
Rattling Bones Undead Musician Magazine

Notes:

Morella La Muerte (Mo) is the primary writer on the first poem, The Real Cie is the primary writer on the second.

Mo wanted to use the words from both Wordles but became overwhelmed. She emailed Cie asking for advice. We've been collaborating since five this morning! Three point five hours in, we've finally got it cooked to delicious imperfection.

Delicious imperfection could also describe the subject of the poem, although that sounds kind of lecherous. We actually are referring to his personality. He was flawed, but extremely well-intentioned. He created wonderful things without knowing just how wonderful they were. He was also extremely hard on himself. He never measured up to his own exacting standards.

I doubt we'll ever stop writing about this situation. We certainly will never stop thinking that it's a steaming pile of crap on the part of the Universe. We'd have been sad to have the man killed off, but to destroy his mind on top of it, that's fucking insult to injury. His was a beautiful mind. The world has been robbed of a real treasure.

Ignoring the fact that we have to get a spotlight over here because Angus is taking off his clothes again, could we just for a moment pause and ponder the absolutely solid foundation of this very tasty blues-rock number?

Angus spoke about his admiration for Malcolm's style in a January 2014 article from Guitar World:

"Sometimes I look at Malcolm while he's playing, and I'm completely awestruck by the sheer power of it. He's doing something much more unique than what I do-with that raw, natural sound of his. People like Malcolm, Steve Cropper, Chuck Berry and Keith Richards-they're all doing something better than the rest of us. I can't deny that Eric Clapton's and Eddie Van Halen's lead stuff has influenced a stack of people, but for me it's the rhythm thing that's way more impressive and important to a band.

Malcolm is a big inspiration to me; he keeps me on my feet. Even when I'm tired from running around the stage for two hours, I'll look back at what he's doing and it gives me that boot up the backside I sometimes need."

Absolutely.

What a great loss, not only to the world of music, but to the world as a whole.

Photoshop manip by Cie

Original Eye in the Sky image:

Copyright: zadvinskiy / 123RF Stock Photo

Monday's Music Moves My Broken Heart: AC/DC: TNT Live 1981

We love you so much, Malcolm Young, forever; and my damn broken heart feels like it's gonna fall out on the floor.

Love Always,

DJ Helena

for the KHEL 666 Krew

This week’s theme our spotlight dancer, Joyce Lansky wants ..

It’s called the Brevity Challenge.  

#1 Write ONE sentence or less on your post.

#2 Post ONE song that is under three minutes.

#3 Visit and post a SHORT comment on EVERY blog that follows the rules.

So the video is more like three and a half minutes and I totally don't care. In fact, just kill me or something. I already feel like my heart's been crushed to a pulp. Fact is, the only reason I'm participating in the blog hop is to make people aware of this horrible disease and that people who have it are still people deserving of kindness and respectful treatment; cause I sure don't feel particularly social right now.

~DJ Hell's Belle~

Wordless Wednesday: We Love You Angel

Original Eye in the Sky image credit:

Copyright: zadvinskiy / 123RF Stock Photo

Photoshop manipulation to add Lewy Body Dementia awareness ribbon:

DJ Cheesy

Six Word Saturday: Words We Can't Say Enough

We love you always, Malcolm Young

Like anyone who allows themselves to age naturally, Malcolm's face became wizened by time. He was a tiny person. However, he never looked frail until recently, and he always looked alert, as if he was taking everything in and processing it, figuring out what came next at all times. In recent photos, that look was gone, as if he was struggling just to get along. It's heartbreaking.

Dementia sucks. It sucks. And then it sucks some more. It robs its victims of their minds, of the light in their eyes, of their ability to recognize even those they loved the most. It robs those who love the sufferer of his or her ability to give the gift of themselves. 

Fuck you, dementia in all its forms. Just fuck you. 

I wish I had something more intelligent to say. Unfortunately, that is how helpless such a condition leaves everyone it touches.

~DJ Blooming Psycho~

Angus and Malcolm Young: Real Brotherly Love

 

We have learned that Malcolm Young's dementia is so fast-moving that his wife had to put him in a long term care facility. He doesn't remember things that happened just minutes before. His short term memory has been totally wiped.

Some of the team have gone through this sort of thing with parents or uncles and aunts, or grandparents. But to endure it with your sibling, your best friend, must be a hell beyond compare.

Angus has said of Malcolm that he felt that Malcolm was actually the better guitarist. He wasn't flashy, he provided a solid wall of sound. But Malcolm, according to Angus, could kick anyone's ass, including Angus', had Angus ever acted like some sort of prima donna.

Malcolm Young put up with no shit. He was scrappy. But he was also a generous, caring soul. He took it upon himself to call Bon Scott's mother personally following Bon's death, so she wouldn't have to learn about the devastating loss from the news. He said it was one of the hardest things he ever had to do, and he agonized over it for a long time afterwards. He believed that Bon told him that he "did good," stating that he felt a hand on his shoulder and the presence of his departed friend.

Malcolm believed in doing the right thing. He once walked off the set of a TV show after they tried to goad him into swearing to make him look like more of a bad boy. He was moved to tears by the crushing death of fans at an ill-planned concert venue with general admission, and was deeply saddened by the deaths of the children at the Waco disaster.

Malcolm was married to his wife Linda since the late 1970's. He has a daughter named Cara and a son named Ross. It would be heartbreaking to see the love of your life and the father of your children decline so badly so quickly that you had to opt to put him in a nursing home because you could no longer properly care for him yourself. It would be heartbreaking to see your devoted father decline into a state where he no longer recognizes you.

For Angus, watching the person who was not only his brother but also his best friend fall into a state where he no longer recognizes those who mean the most to him must be a hell beyond compare. Only two years apart in age, these guys were close as could be. Both stated that they scrapped at times when they were younger, but it certainly didn't keep them from forming one of the deepest bonds we've ever seen. They didn't have to say it in words: they love each other and each would do anything for the other. They were inseparable.

We can only offer our sympathies and our greatest respects. There will never be another Malcolm Young. He was one of a kind. He always had such a spark. Who would have imagined that his life would play out in such a tragic way?

We never know what awaits us. We have to treasure the moment; we truly do. This sort of thing could, sadly, strike any one of us or someone we loved with great depth; perhaps someone we thought would always be there.

A bond like that which exists between Angus and Malcolm Young can never really be broken, not even by a tragedy of this magnitude. Their unmistakable loving filial ties will outlast both of them. A friendship such as theirs is forever.

All of our love to these two iconic brothers. You are in our hearts always.

 

Blooming Psycho

for the KHEL 666 Krew