Poppin’ Off with Dr. Popov: On Katherine Perry

OK so I get it it’s been like beaucoup time since I last fired off a post around these parts, but the life of a professional misanthropologist is a busy one, and I’ve been busying myself with all sorts of fascinating things. For a second there, I even considered using the word scintillating, but then I remembered that I don’t really don’t know what that word means, and it really pisses me off when some brainy acting motherfucker goes and tries to drop some ridiculous fucking word in everyday conversation in spite of the fact that it only exists in the dictionary. You know what that shit is called? Sesquipedalian. You know where I learned that shit? The Muppets. I think. It was in some film I saw recently, I’ve seen many, as you might recall from my earlier post some months ago. If you don’t recall, go read it, because I intend to put a whole lot less effort into this one than I did into that one. For real though, at the end of a movie and I don’t remember which, some woman picks up a card on which her boyfriend has scribbled ‘sesquipedalianist’ and its definition, and this reminds her of the reason she fell in love in the first place. And you know what?

That shit makes my blood boil.

So let’s get down to the real meat and potatoes of what we all came to talk about here today.

Katy Perry.

See, contrary to everything that I stand for, I like Katy Perry. I think she’s pretty. I think she possesses the voice of a bell and a fun and peppy attitude that can light up a room, the stage, and our hearts. If there’s one reason that I drag myself out of bed in the mid-afternoon and head out into the world to face all of those, shudder, humans, it’s probably knowing that somewhere out there, Katy and All Powerful Pop Architect Max Martin are collaborating on the next musical sensation to take over the Z Morning Zoo. (This is the world we live in, by the way, the Z Morning Zoo, it’s a thing, Ryan Seacrest is on it, maybe, and well, it makes me want to perform cunnilingus on a twelve gauge shotgun, but that’s all besides the point).

The point is, not all Katy Perry songs are created equal, and if you really want to maximize the Perry experience, you need to pick out the best and listen to them the way they were intended to be listened to: on a loop while locked in a tiny room with a strobe light flickering six inches from your face (unrelated: I really like tiny bathrooms, because, while I poop in them, I pretend that I’m pooping in a tiny 1960’s spaceship, like John Glen or some shit. Give it a whirl, you won’t be disappointed).

So, here’s the breakdown of the best and worst of Katy and Max’s collaborations.

First of all, as far as I can tell, Katy Perry has never released an album. Ever. Instead, she cranks out singles about once every six months. I respect this because 1. Who would want to listen to all that music anyway and 2. It’s more dignified. Katy Perry churns out music the way human females birth their offspring, and not crapping out a whole litter of little baby jingles like all those lower forms of pop artists. So, all told, there are maybe six or seven songs we’re going to talk about here, the first is…

Hot and Cold, which is maybe spelled Hot n’ Cold, but who knows, I don’t, you shouldn’t, neither should you care. You shouldn’t care because I don’t like this song. It’s too old. Also, they wouldn’t air her spoof version of it on Sesame Street because parents and tithing men were offended by her cleavage, and felt that it was inappropriate for the children. To me, this seems entirely illogical and only further goes to prove that children should not be raised by parents but by a cold, hard, governmental mega-bureaucracy. Secondly…

California Girls (gurlz?). I liked this song at first, because I thought the lyric “nothing comes close to the golden coast” referred to Connecticut’s Fairfield County, home to all our hopes and dreams. But then I learned that the golden coast Ms. Perry was talking about was California, and for this reason alone had to write the whole song off. California is a sun drenched, pot riddled death hole that breeds a special brand of smug satisfaction which leaves this contented smile on all its inhabitants’ faces and draws their language out into some sort of lazy, non-southern drawl. Fuck that place, your trees are too big and you know nothing of seasons.

3. Teenage Dream. I’ve probably listened to this song over 50,000 times, and if you do as well, you’ll come to enjoy it as I have. It’s got everything you need from virgin/sluts to a bomb ass music video to a scintillatingly homoerotic Glee version, and well, it’ll make you feel young again, so I say, go ahead.

4. Firework. This is the kind of song that Max really ought to be writing more often. Though the music video equates being gay with being fat with having cancer with coming from an abusive home with being a street magician, well, it firmly and emphatically lets us know that all of these things are OK, because we are all fireworks and should just let our colors burst. Obama may have promised us hope, but Katy Perry gave it to us with this song.

5. ET Extraterrestrial. I think this is the name of the song, or maybe a Steven Spielman movie, but I don’t really know, because I don’t like this song. Especially coming as it did right after Firework’s release, we went from “you don’t have to feel like a waste of space/ your original, cannot be replaced” to “want to be a victim, ready for abduction.” You’re fucking with my self-image there, Max, and for God’s sake, what about the children?

 6. Last Friday Night. This song, about how life is great because there’s always room for some hard boozing and blackout adventures on the weekends, is the sort of thing you’d expect to come out of one of Stalin’s misinformation campaigns, or may have been one of the tin can pop songs that the peasants sang in Orwell’s Oceania. It manages to redeem itself with an epic sax solo, though.

7. The new one. It’s about like, some guy who got is tattoo removed and what might have been or something. I don’t remember the lyrics, and I don’t know how I feel about it. It’s too new, I don’t like change, nor do I like things the way they are.

Until next time.

About: Dr. Popov

Dr. Anton Popov has a Ph.D. in Misanthropology from a prestigious university. He has various other credentials that, frankly, are none of your business.

One single comment

  1. Steven Nelson says:

    Did "Last Friday Night" rip off "Friday" by that Rebecca Black character?

Leave a Reply