The OrphanAGE, Vol. 1.05
"Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt." —Kurt Vonnegut
First Lines
Hwæt! — Beowulf
Once there was a great club in LA called Madame Wong’s (there was also a Madame Wong’s East). In the late 70s early 80s Esther Wong switched out the Polynesian dance acts that weren’t pulling enough traffic to start booking punk and new wave. On any given night, one could encounter the likes of Black Flag, Fishbone, Boingo, X and so many more.
On one trip to buy leather and studs (you couldn’t get that stuff in bible-belt KC), I happened to catch a set by the band Daniel Amos (DA). CCM yes, and they were simply fucking brilliant! To this day, they remain in my to-listen rotation. Imagine my delight when DA guitarist Jerry Chamberlain agreed to let The OrphanAGE share a recent release! To offset that edge, a little beauty: seasonal collage, and a stoic’s lament for the passage of time.
Peace,
Dante
In This Issue
- Collage: New collage art from poet and weaver of animal yarns, Katie Szalay
- Essay: Some World Cup vibes from Lola
- Poetry: Richard Stimac whose second book of poetry will release on Spartan Press later this year
- Music: New music from LA/Nashville new-waver, Jerry Chamberlain
Katie Szalay
As our landscape begins to shake off winter’s numbness, our world lurches to avoid the encroaching Mordor-bleakness. With Guaraldi/Schulz-ian Little Birdie whimsey, Szalay’s naturalist collages mine unpretentious beauty. You can find her work at Prospero’s.
New Music
LISTEN: All the Rage, a fashionable war by guitarist/song-smith Jerry Chamberlain. [note: listen. show a little luv and buy the song. then repost]
Want to dig deeper? Check out Chamberlain's tragically overlooked LA band Daniel Amos.
The 11th Hour: The 2026 World Cup
In 140 days, our City of Fountains will be flooded with strangers. A minimum of 650,000+ bodies of various creeds, cultures, and charismas. The greatest number of unfamiliar faces the city has ever seen.
I remember the day it was announced: Kansas City would be a host city for the 2026 FIFA World Cup! I was standing in an ex-lover's bathroom in nothing on but lingerie, watching the live footage while curling my hair, when the words of my hometown spilled from the announcer's mouth.
“FUCK. NO.” I let slip, as if I were being held by knife-point. The former lover responded with some mansplained murmurings, and my day was ruined. I should’ve used my curling iron as a weapon in that moment, either to end it for me or for him.
Listen, I realize the picture I painted sounds like I could give a shit about sports. But the truth is I fucking LOVE sports - hence, ex-lover. And what do I love more than sports? Growth and opportunity. Corny, I know, but this global event is a textbook marriage of the two. What I absolutely despise is visible failure and community colonization. There are few things uglier than lipstick on a pig and I fear our fine city has said “pucker up” as a perceived solution to our dated exterior, lousy infrastructure, and NIMBYistic morals.
The population entering Kansas City will be larger than the number of year-round residents. Over 39 days, as the smallest of the 16 host cities, we will make tourists claustrophobic. Hear me out! We’re expected to generate over $600 million of economic impact as a result. But at what cost?
Something about this feels like war. I’m watching my city scramble to locate its identity, hide its faults, and pin neighbors against each other. The irony of the situation is that this is all landing as our homebase teams flee the scene. It feels like watching an 18-year-old apply for every out-of-state college to see how quickly they can get away from home. The state line is a tightrope for corporate cows and political pigs at the trough to straddle. Rejoice! The border war is alive and well - oh how agonizing it has been to force camaraderie.
What should be viewed as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity is stretching the rubber band of “Midwest Nice”
When did we lose our taste for hospitality? Did it ever exist? Or was it a deep fried casserole version of welcoming?
The dog whistle of community collaboration has blown but only a few can hear it. This city is no longer my playground. It’s my nightmare. Fuck, the nation is a nightmare. The global umbrella has already signaled a disposal of their tickets like used toasters on Facebook Market Place. You can probably fill in the blanks on all the horrid, inhuman acts that keep me up at night, not just based on this upcoming performance but this current life. The political potholes get deeper and my heart hurts harder.
With love, from the KC runaway,
Lola
Our bodies contain histories, inheritances from infinite past generations, each meal eaten, each injury, illness, scar, or hardened callus, each night slept fitfully or at ease, each laugh, or cry, fretted for we were born, each act someone performed on us, each act we performed on ourselves. The days we live culminate in the blood and the bone we name the self. When we grant each other a touch of a hand, or a face, a back, a lips, of each crest and depression that structures the corpus of our lives, we read the uneven lines etched into the skin. Thus is the privilege of touch. For this, I have grown into gratitude.
Rehab
by Richard Stimac
Like all relationships, I’d lived too long
with pain, or, better said, a mild discomfort,
this time, my body, the most intimate
of partners. I won’t turn my back on it,
as with the others who I’ve loved, in bed,
side-sleeping, pillow propped between my knees,
a shoulder folded underneath, my head
suspended on an arm, my neck held stiff.
My body is what’s called a “fixer-upper,”
some project always in the works, upgrades,
regrades, downgrades, vintage hardware replaced,
good bones, well built, foundational integrity.
I hold so many memories inside
these walls, rooms where love was made, children raised,
Thanksgiving meals prepared, a hospice bed
beside the picture window of the den.
Someday no one will fill this fragile frame
with new remembrances of tears and laughs.
I will not echo my voice through the halls
or clutter dark closets with souvenirs.
Where will I be, then, when the rot sets in,
my baggage drug behind me like a shadow,
a passerby unable to recall,
exactly, the man’s name who once lived there?
No, I’ll stay until the end with my cat,
my tea, my books, my words, fraught with a fear
I sold short, stayed too long, mortgaged too much.
You tell me, where else could I have gone?
Richard Stimac lives in St. Louis
The Big Quiz
- Where does our good guy/bad guy go to eat?
- What is dragged behind like a shadow?
- How many redbirds, how many butterflies?
- What is alive and well?