Late last year, I moved to Portland, Oregon. It’s a wonderfully weird place. The locals actually say, “Keep Portland weird.” There’s a large mural of that saying, somewhere in the city. Everything about this place is quirky, eccentric, and hence, I should fit in here, just fine.
I also started a new job. I’m working in the mental health field. No, I’m not a doctor, therapist, and definitely not a psychiatrist. I just work for a company that trains us to assist people who have one or more mental health diagnoses, addiction problems, or who have lived on the streets, but are now in reliable housing, provided by the state. It’s a good gig. I get paid well, to help the people who really need help the most.
On Friday night, it started snowing, the temperatures were bottoming out as low as 18°F. That’s well below freezing, and it doesn’t even account for the windchill factor.
The other, less positive side of Portland, is that the homelessness crisis here is really bad. It’s almost impossible to go anywhere without seeing at least one car, RV, tent, or lean-to type shelter that someone is using to live in.
I first discovered this song from the band Junip. When I realized that it’s a cover of Bruce Springsteen, I found the original, and loved it, too.
This morning, it’s so cold outside, that neither my dog nor myself want to go outside any longer than is absolutely necessary. But, there are people out there, living in tents and sleeping bags.
I woke up to this song playing, I had left my phone on shuffle all night to help me sleep. I listened to it, looked at the weather, then became obsessed.
I’d never played this song before, but I learned it, then I recorded all the guitar and bass parts, and sang the vocal, and recorded it, and mixed it. Basically my whole Sunday went into this.
I plan to make a video for it, but I wanted to get this out, because I worked on it nonstop all day.
The Ghost of Tom Joad
Men walkin’ ‘long the railroad tracks Goin’ someplace there’s no goin’ back Highway patrol choppers Comin’ up over the ridge Hot soup on a campfire under the bridge
Shelter line stretchin’ ’round the corner Welcome to the new world order Families sleepin’ in their cars in the Southwest, No home no job no peace no rest
The highway is alive tonight But nobody’s kiddin’ nobody About where it goes I’m sittin’ down here in the campfire light Searchin’ for the ghost of Tom Joad
He pulls a prayer book out of his sleeping bag Preacher lights up a butt and takes a drag Waitin’ for when the last shall be first, and The first shall be last In a cardboard box ‘neath the underpass
Got a oneway ticket to the promised land You got a hole in your belly and gun in your hand Sleeping on a pillow of solid rock Bathin’ in the city aqueduct
The highway is alive tonight Where it’s headed everybody knows I’m sittin’ down here in the campfire light Waitin’ on the ghost of Tom Joad
Now Tom said, “Mom, wherever there’s a cop beatin’ a guy “The Ghost Of Tom Joad” lyrics Wherever a hungry newborn baby cries Where there’s a fight ‘gainst the blood and Hatred in the air Look for me Mom I’ll be there
“Wherever there’s somebody fightin’ For a place to stand Or decent job or a helpin’ hand Wherever somebody’s strugglin’ to be free Look in their eyes Mom you’ll see me.”
Well the highway is alive tonight But nobody’s kiddin’ nobody About where it goes I’m sittin’ down here in the campfire light With the ghost of old Tom Joad
“See, their morals, their code… it’s a bad joke. Dropped at the first sign of trouble. They’re only as good as the world allows them to be. I’ll show you, when the chips are down, these… these civilized people? They’ll eat each other. See, I’m not a monster, I’m just ahead of the curve.”
—The Joker, from the film, The Dark Knight
The school went on lockdown today
A report came in about an armed student Roaming the campus
Students were immediately instructed To go to their dorms, and stay put
After some five or ten, agonizing minutes, The determination was made, It was only a hoax
This is an old gag Kids get bored, Call in a bomb threat Just for giggles Or, to get out of a test
Maybe, it’s to cover their tardiness, When, one more late-show Would have caused them to Fail a particular class
But, these days, On the national level, There are more mass shootings Than there are Days in the year
Who’s to know When to be truly concerned? Or, when to be Merely annoyed?
The young girl on the news said The thing that bothered her most Was how no one talked about it, After the all-clear signal was given; She said it went on like a normal day, As if nothing had happened
She said it was as if Everything was fine, When really, underneath, Everyone knew that Nothing about it was normal, Much less, fine
The teachers didn’t address the issue The students didn’t speak To each other about it, either
One has to wonder, How many false alarms can occur, Before the security guards begin Dropping their guard? How many, before they stop Taking the threats seriously?
What happens, when The real thing goes down, And they don’t stop it, because They got sloppy, Because of too many False alarms?
This was one of several such incidents That took place on multiple campuses, All on this one, particular day
But, at the heart of it all, This was not one incident, Nor was it two, or even five
This, is the new normal The regular, daily pattern of Life in the United States, The common thread In the tapestry of America
This is the age of the Joker
Every card is wild
It’s not always an active shooter It’s not always a bomb threat It’s not even always about An event at a school
It’s sometimes a threat of Imminent war against other countries
It’s the news weather forecast It’s the stories of tornado victims, The death tolls of flash floods, Hurricanes, landslides, heatstroke
It’s the rumors, dog whistles, and Outright cries for civil war in America
It’s the empty shelves at the grocery store
It’s the ongoing, never-ending Supply chain problems
It’s requisite new vocabulary, Terms like “doomerism,” And the dusting off of classic, 70s hits, like “Collapse,” and, The Limits to Growth
It’s the shortages of needed medications
It’s learning the heart-wrenching truth about The children of Somalia,⠀ And many other nations like it
It’s the mounting lies that Erode faith in the system It’s the creeping groan of fascism, Sinking its fangs into The Statue of Liberty’s jugular, Insisting that she report her periods To the school nurse
That she burn all those lurid copies of And Tango Makes Three, The Bluest Eye, and Out of Darkness
Slapping the “woke” beer out of her hand, Making her spit out that “woke” chocolate candy
Making her subject to laws that Relegate her to the status of cattle, Demanding that she inform on her friends, Should they seek to cross state lines For any health care that involves Their naughty parts
Insisting that she never speak the Dreaded crimson words, Words telling of the flowing of blood, From the sacred place that Spawned each of us, Even those who, now, Refuse to speak of the cycle of life That is responsible for their Entire existence
She is soon to be muzzled, Disallowed from speaking anything Beyond, a pained statement of duress… “Yes, I am happy to bear your seed.”
She will wear a red burka, Shaped like a baseball cap, Peppersprayed with meaningless words, About a mythical nation that ever existed, One built on the backs of slaves, Slaves who she must never mention To her children
Ruby is only a gem, and a color, Bridges are but things we drive over, In our carbon-spitting SUVs
Parks is not a name, It is a noun, describing a place where People go to enjoy nature; Good, upstanding white folk, Standing on the skulls of Nameless hordes of ghosts
These ghosts whisper foul incantations, “We are here, too! We have names!”
They seek to possess good, caucasian children, Swaying them into the unacceptable madness Of admitting various lunacies, such as, “Yes, these are human beings. They have proud names, rich heritages, and incredible stories of Overcoming adversity.”
Insisting that the children Not be allowed to become The fodder of the Devil’s history, Declaring, as if it were true, “These were the Sioux, the Wichita, the Apache, The Chinese, Pakistani, the Mexican, The African, the transgender, and The women, who monthly bleed, As God saw fit for them to bleed.”
Surely, all will fall into ruin and chaos, Were the children to speak about Such horrors as boys, kissing other boys, Or, girls, kissing other girls
These are not things good folks discuss At the dinner table, or in places of learning No, these are things that must never See the light of day
After all, the clergy, and the Congressmen, They had the common decency To perform their fellatios on each other, And on the young children, Under the cover of darkness
“Why can’t these godless teachers Shut their fucking mouths?! Sorry, I cursed… forgive me, Jesus I just become so incredibly angry, When people have the unmitigated gall To tell our children that A huge, astonishing, astounding percentage Of the world’s population Thinks and behaves Differently than us”
Oh, the unruly, unkempt insanity Of spilling the beans about our actual, True history, soaked as it is, In the blood of slaves, migrants, And silently suffering “others,” Who we would not abide Who we would not allow To follow their natures, However discreetly they sought to do so
“Isn’t it clear? Don’t they see it? Don’t they see how immigrants Are coming to invade us? How these foreigners want to Take over this proud land that was Inhabited only by pure, white blood, For thousands of years?”
This is the golden age of the false narrative, Wiggling in “lies” about Murika being built By “people” from Ireland, Scotland, France, Africa, Spain, and even many other Godless lands
“They want our children to believe that We enslaved an entire race of coloreds I mean, obviously, we did, but… What the hell else were we going to do? That cotton and tobacco wasn’t going to Pick itself
“They want to murder The memory of our heroes, Our General Custer’s, and Our great General John Wayne Replace them, with lies about us Slaughtering innocents, and taking their lands I mean, obviously, we did do that, but… What kind of monsters want The children to know The truth of it?!”
They have enough to worry about, Trying to sort out who is the real President, Whether or not our elections are rigged; The same election process that put The other guy in the big chair, last time
Trying to decide if the man Walking toward them will offer help, Or rape, or murder
We can’t protect our children from Being shot at school, or from Getting high-powered weapons, And irreparably harming others,
Instead, we focus on preventing them from Getting a hold of far more dangerous items, Like condoms, and birth control pills
We rabidly foam on about the Tyranny of ideas, and events That are common knowledge
Mandatory background checks, For anyone who is trying to buy A semiautomatic weapon? Unacceptable
Clearly, anyone sensible enough to know That they need the protection of an AR-15 Is sensible enough to keep their names Off government lists!
It’s really quite simple… Childhood pregnancy? good Females bleeding? not good
Books, scary Bibles, awesomeness
Ar-15s, yes Disney, a total mess
Migrants (or women) crossing borders? No Barbara’s Bleeding Logbook? God bless
The collapsing climate? Must suppress.
Tax cuts for billionaires, they do impress
Lose an election? Just don’t confess More than two genders? We must redress.
The economy, must never recess Historical facts… “His story,” nonetheless
See? I told you it was simple. Try to keep up, stupid.
Below, you’ll find links to get your copy, music videos from Area 25, plus the super-interesting, totally true, absolutely not made up backstory behind the album.
The excellent cover art was generously provided by Dorian Strange.
It really helps me out a lot when you give the videos a thumbs up 👍 leave a comment 💭 and share your favorites on your social media pages ♥️
Videos from Area 25
Unchanged
Into the Fold
Three Day Beard
Hopium Blues
Scorpio
Tact
War on Venus
I Wasn’t Using It
All Around
Upbeat Dance Number
We’re All Gonna Fade Away
At the Bottom
Mandala of Sand, Pt. 1
Trent Boswell Bio
Kevin Trent Boswell is a thing that once blinked briefly in and out of existence. It made noises and gestures while it lasted. The exact nature of its demise is unclear. Some sources say it collapsed beneath the weight of entropy and time. Other tertiary facts suggest the possibility that it was destroyed by a predator, an accident, or perhaps even by itself. The truth of the matter is unknown. Luckily, no one cares.
The Story Behind Area 25
Area 25 is a traveler’s atlas for navigating endless, winding caves, wormholes, cracks in reality, tears in the space-time continuum, black holes, abysmal hellscapes, and all of the most common types of bottomless pits that comprise the modern world.
The somber, dystopian audio guidebook is delivered over an eclectic musical soundtrack of rock, psychedelia, pop, funk, and dire expressions of poetic mental illness.
Area 25 is an exorcist’s manual for the perils of life on Earth for Homo sapiens. It catalogues the sundry catastrophes that plague the upright ape, namely those of poverty, depression, rejection of the tribe, and failed attempts at relationships, friendships, and spiritual endeavors.
Not for the faint of heart (nor the “feint” of heart), Area 25 is a dark, gritty, and gloomy telling of the myriad ways in which hominids undo themselves, rend each other asunder, and even casually rip apart their sole means of survival, the ecosystem in which they habitat. Odd beings, at best; horrible monsters, at worst.
Genesis
An ancient evil spirit was once trapped for centuries inside a dybbuk. Through the foolish mistake of some human, the demon escaped.
The ghoul found amusement in tormenting one particular human critter, who’s name was Trent Boswell. The tortures took shape by possessing the human with an inescapable obsession to create something called “Area 25.”
The demon wanted the brainless exploits of humans captured on record, so it would have something to laugh about, later; much like you might watch an episode of Seinfeld, even though you’ve already seen it several times.
The dark cruelty of this promethean ordeal rested in the fact that the human was entirely lacking the necessary resources for the production of a proper, commercially viable product. It was working only with a ten-year-old Macintosh computer, an old version of GarageBand, an inexpensive condenser mic, a FocusRite preamp, a cheap bass guitar, a pair of 3 1/2” monitors, and a nice Fender Stratocaster.
What the demon didn’t expect, is that the human would actually persist through said tribulations of substandard working conditions, and complete the project. Much to the demon’s surprise, the human finished the project, despite the lack of access to a professional recording studio, or the backing of a major record label.
The end result, a tabulation of human follies and foibles, will now provide the escaped beastie with comedic entertainment for the coming aeons, long after humans have disappeared from the planet; which should be anytime within the next couple of decades.
I see the blood that spills in the streets Can practically smell the gunpowder air Tasting the ashes, bitter on my tongue I hear the explosions, but I am not there
I cannot claim to fathom their fear Or say that I know the depth of their dread I’ve not had to bear the loss of loved ones Nor have I the need to step over the dead
I live far away from the noise of the horror I close my eyes with no fear of sleeping No aid raid sirens awaken me rudely I read in peace, tea silently steeping
Pictures and articles pour in daily Videos making me a bit more aware I know it’s happening; I know that it’s real But the sadness I feel does not compare
I hear children crying, and nothing stops it I see the confusion and pain in their eyes I smell the smoke and festering wounds But the foulest odor is the stench of lies
A well-heeled madman’s misinformation Distorted guile drips from his tongue Slanderous justifications for the slaughter Of unknown thousands, old and young
But my food is hot; my belly is full I don’t hide underground or need to run There are no tanks parked out on my lawn My hands are empty; they hold no gun
I don’t have a gas mask close at all times My roads are clear, my home is intact The power to stop the storm is not mine It rages on, and the sky is blacked
I cannot order the attack to halt And to send in support is not my decision I don’t determine the fate of anyone else I need not defend my political vision
No sons or daughters go off to fight Because of anything that I say or do But war will not cease of its own accord No moving of money makes it less true
I can say kind things and show my support The only thing worse is not even to care The words I say, meaningless, useless It’s easy for me, for I am not there
If I believed it, I’d say, “Wait. Do nothing; Or else he may set the whole world afire.” I could say I believe to hold back is better But were I to say it, I would be a liar
Powerless, unable to stop a mass murder Intervention may mean the death of us all So, we answer the cry for help by saying, “We pray for you and hope you don’t fall.”
To cover our fears of atomic destruction Supportive words hang on digital display Perhaps if we allow the bully his toy He’ll go no further after getting his way
If only it were true that a taste of victory Made conquerors quit; one land controlled The wanton wishes of children who know Nothing of madmen, bloodthirsty, bold
I cannot assist in their hour of darkness Or insist that others answer the pleading My heart hurts for those brave defenders But my pain is painless; I am not bleeding
I cannot say “Fight,” nor can I say “Wait.” It’s not my problem or burden to bear After all, it’s easy to speak in abstractions It’s easy for me because I am not there
good morning, all you beautiful people you lovely, angelic folks i call friend i want you to know that i’m thinking of you though fiery days, together, do blend
whirling quick, down the drain of time not seeing your faces, hearing your voices distance and schedules demand this of us circumstance offering no other choices
i want to take this brief opportunity to say that you still mean a great deal to me i’d rather that we were conversing, laughing than where and how we happen to be
more often now, do i have these thoughts since all appears to be coming apart the wretched state of things all around us… i think of you, how i miss your heart
each moment is truly a blessing, unique neither taken for granted nor guaranteed i’d pray for you to have happiness, joy if i thought it helpful to request or plead
but alas, our time on the big, blue marble ephemeral, flickering, fleeting, concise disappears quickly, precious little warning like a glass of sunsets, smiles and ice
tumbler, carelessly knocked from our hands by a stupid stranger, passing by in a roar an ignorant ogre with a love of wealth a disdain of beauty and a love for war
beastly creatures, not one, but many loving too much, to climb and to fall punching holes in our collective boat though surely it sinks and dooms us all
the cup of this world, spills over with promise wonders of nature, so much opportunity carelessly ruined by the madness of kings who with stolen gold, kill with impunity
we, being lovers of kindness and good seeing their greed, the destruction it brings it hurts our hearts, we sigh and conclude “i guess that we just can’t have nice things”
as we watch them ripping it all into pieces everything beautiful, too soon to die i want you to know how much i love you i’d hate if the chance were to slip idly by
i want to tell you that you’re all in my heart and in my thoughts, your memories glow i’d not forgive myself if i wasted the opportunity to let each of you know
just over the horizon, a banshee wails as we near the welkin, do smile, once more i’ll be thinking of you, as we take that step through the long, strange and endless door
characters Heather and Burt Gummer, driven up onto the roof of their bomb shelter – from the 1990 film, Tremors (Universal Pictures)
“Food for five years, a thousand gallons of gas, air filtration, water filtration, Geiger counter, bomb shelter! Underground… Goddamn monsters.”
—Burt Gummer, from the 1990 movie, Tremors – lamenting the loss of his desert fortress, due to something he wasn’t prepared for and never could have possibly foreseen
The thing about bunkers and hunkering down Is they’re not supposed to be a permanent solution You can store up food and weapons, safely underground But what if it’s many thousands of years of toxic pollution?
If nothing is left to come back to, if you can never go outside If the world is never livable again, somewhere down the line A few years in, most folks will start committing suicide Rather than live in a subterranean box, after society’s decline
In a total climate collapse, everything would come undone It’s not like one nuclear bomb drop, in a single place on the map The whole of Earth, uninhabitable, you’d never again see the sun Any psychologist will agree, without sunlight, people snap
A few years after a nuke, the radiation may die down and then People might come back up top, from the way-down-there That’s if there’s any kind of habitat for plants, critters and men But what if it’s still too hot and you still can’t breathe the air?
There are snazzy bomb shelters, well-thought-out, for sure Decades worth of water, food, meds and every type of supply And lots of entertainment to help you psychologically endure But ultimately, you face the hard question; you need a reason why
If there’s never a return to safety, an opportunity to re-emerge Then, no matter how well you think you’re equipped If nothing grows up top, if heat and humidity constantly surge The very best bunker in the world is just an expensive crypt
WARNING!!! Take only as prescribed. Keep out of reach from children, pets, pregnant women and anyone who still has any hope for the future. May cause sleeplessness, fatigue, depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts or visions of impending doom. Some readers may experience weight… not weight gain, just the heavy weight of existential dread. User assumes all risk and releases the author from any and all legal liability. This book is not approved by the FDA or anyone else who enjoys being happy. May be illegal in your area.
Kevin Trent Boswell 