Fictional Sanchez Threatened by Actual True!

In the early 90s, Kurt Cobain somehow took up the notion it behooved him to brownnose True?grunge completists in Sanchez's devoted audience are encouraged to read the Cobain-penned liner notes to Nirvana's Incesticide for its bizarrely passionate ass-lick of the English music press?culminating in True's pushing a hospital-dress-clad Cobain's wheelchair onstage at the Reading festival as a mocking retort to rumors of K.C.'s little heroin habit. "Which, the Sister of Sanchez interjects, was obviously a preposterous notion," interjected the Sister of Sanchez. The unfortunate outcome of this was that squatty, homely Everett gained an inexplicable amount of actual juice. Sanchez fondly recalls being at Max Fish in 1995, during the CMJ festival, watching a super-fucked-up True ricochet sousedly between the bar and the pinball machines. Later that same night, True would forget which hotel he was staying at, and an obliging A&R guy from the West Coast would ride around in a cab with True for an hour, circling midtown as he struggled to recognize his hotel and periodically throw up out the window. But there at the bar, Sanchez was conversing with the head of a significant British indie label, who cheerfully pointed out that he would be escorting True to a showcase for a new signing of his. "Do you know how I know if a record of mine's going to be a hit?" asked the label head rhetorically. "If Everett True is throwing up in my bathroom at the Rhiga at 3 a.m. during CMJ, it's going to be a hit."

Recently True split the UK for Seattle, where he briefly edited the music section of The Stranger, only to be replaced by former NYPress writer/receptionist double threat Erin Franzman. The sources of all-seeing Sanchez report that True claims to have been driven out of Washington state and to Australia due to some unmentioned nefarious deed done by his girlfriend. Unsuckerable Sanchez, however, posits that True?who has, numerous times, in print, before the eyes of God and the citizens of the Western World, asserted that there is some esthetic worth to the Kelley Deal 6000?was unqualified due to his inability to tell the difference between his own asshole and a techno record. And, in any case, realistic Sanchez believes that his own pudgy and disgusting self will be involved in a hot threesome with Countess Vaughn and Melissa Auf Der Maur before any woman deigns to touch True.

"'All this,'" tsk-tsked the Sister of Sanchez, "'and space-conscious Sanchez was still unable to recount the time he witnessed the horror of True boogie-ing to the Verlaines at CBGB,' the Sister of Sanchez tsk-tsks."

Perhaps sour Sanchez's vehement grousing should be rescinded in the face of the far more tactile woes being suffered by his roommate, Glum Whitey. It appears that the chorus hook to a signature tune of Glum Whitey's perennially non-unit-shifting pop combo has been rather blatantly bitten by a pretty-boy singer recently in vogue?a constant presence on TRL, a sales force, and clearly an act who can afford a legal bill a lot bigger than Glum Whitey could ever dream of paying. Hence, it would seem that Glum Whitey will not receive even the tiniest crumb of financial recompense. Taking matters into his own hands, Glum Whitey has recently been cooking up a counterversion of the ripped-off song, which samples the pop singer's bite of the Glum Whitey-penned chorus, and otherwise consists of long, detailed verses about fucking men.

"Lick the balls, balls, lick the balls, balls," crooned Glum Whitey in the next room as he gently strummed a G chord.

At this point the Wookie entered, wearing an oversized ass-mask fashioned out of foam?her Halloween costume. "Who am I?" asked the Wookie eagerly, the foam cheeks vibrating as she spoke.

"Ted Rall!" yelled superdeductive Sanchez and his Sister, correctly and simultaneously.

NEXT WEEK: Soothing Sanchez continues to give his people the hope to soldier on in a post-Carson-and-Love world!