“OSR Tapes is the logical continuation of the Elephant 6 collective!”
you scream at your mother as she hovers over the stove preparing your pancakes
and bacon before you head out to catch the bus for school. (Why a high school
junior who still takes the school bus rates pancakes and bacon for breakfast
before school is beyond me.) She visibly stiffens, but doesn’t turn around;
instead, she closes her eyes and licks a bit of bacon grease from her thumb
while silently cursing Zeus (she worships the old gods) for allowing a son like
hers to be born into this world. She slowly shakes her head and returns to her
work as you lean back in your chair until it crashes to the ground. Unhurt, you
again scream at the top of your lungs: “Asher Horton is better than Miles
Kurosky!”
Dammit, your mother thinks. He’s in my Asher Horton tapes again. She
takes a deep breath before turning around and glares at your prone form with a
stern look of disapproval on her face. You’re no help as you flail dramatically
on the ground, like a turtle with your feet and arms in the air – you just
can’t manage to flip over in order to right yourself. It’s a loud, violent
process. There’s no question anymore in anyone’s mind why you don’t have your
driver’s license yet – you’re a dangerous klutz. “Mom, MOM!” you scream again,
your personal volume cranked outrageously to twelve, because it’s one goddamn
unit of measure higher than eleven, and Nigel Tufnel can suck an egg! Your
mother, patient beyond patient, a saint, a goddess, but still radiating
sternness that would require bio suits and a Geiger counter, reaches out her
hand and helps you stand. There’s no amount of gentle, jangly guitar pop that
could soothe her. Maybe…
Slamming your fists on the kitchen table in frustration and hunger, an
unnecessary amount of times that results in orange juice splatters all over the
place, you reach into your backpack and pull out an old tape recorder, the kind
with the handle on the front, and proceed to play Asher Horton’s Mystery Bones in its entirety, making
you late for school by like an hour. Your mom, though, becomes a different
person: the cloud of frustration dissipates, and a sunshiney smile of
contentment overcomes her face. She finishes making breakfast and slides your
plate across the kitchen table, bacon broken into a smiley face over a single
enormous pancake. She tips over the maple syrup and lets it ooze onto the
plate, smooth and sweet as Asher Horton’s voice. The syrup becomes a lake, then
a river that cascades off the table and onto the floor, first taking a detour
to your lap. The orange juice drops cover your white Marcy Playground tour
t-shirt. You’re going to be sticky for phys ed. You scream at the top of your
lungs in utter fury. Your mother doesn’t respond.
This is why you have no discipline: you know your mother’s secret
tranquilizer, and it is Asher Horton.
--Ryan Masteller