orcasaintkillrs

The other two album versions of the songs were not as popped-out. They are more fittingly produced. One thing's for sure, they are so much more tasteful and relevant than "I Kissed A Girl" or "Ur So Gay". While they are produced, with back-up vocals and such, their lyrics are about something that a Josephine Shmo could easily relate to in one way or another. At present, I am listening to "Hook Up", as song about how she doesn't just want to hook up, but wants to have a relationship and be respected: "I don't hook up, I go slow, so if you want me, I don't come cheap, so keep your thing in your pants and keep your heart on your sleeve." This song is another example of what awesome potential Katy Perry has as an artist who could be recognized for her songwriting abilities and her unique voice. But right now, she seems to only be famous because she came out with a controversial song about a bout with a chick and too much to drink. 

From a songwriter's perspective, it makes no sense to me that she would have gone the way she did. She could be known for something so much more sincere...I just feel like she bent to the will of the people who wanted to make money off of her. I don't get how someone would want to disregard their honest songs and do that song first.

Feces and Feathers

He had a loving family. He grew up in a beautiful city. He could have been handsome. He could have had a fine physique. He could have been impressively intelligent. He could have been desirable. He could have inherited his family's wealth. He met a beautiful woman who loved him, but he could not love her back. He could have traveled the world. He could have been fulfilled; he could have had everything anyone could ever ask for. But from the time he was a child, all he had ever wanted to do was breed pigeons.

His passion for the birds cut him off from the rest of the world. No one could ever fully relate to his obsession, and he could never think of anything to talk about but the common park pigeon. The only human who ever came close to reaching him was the aforementioned beautiful woman. She was an ornithologist, and found his enthusiasm for pigeons irresistible at first. However, she soon realized that he had gone far beyond any reasonable level of enthusiasm. She had thought that being an ornithologist would bring them closer to each other. Over time, she found instead that he struggled more to connect with her than with any other person, precisely because she was an ornithologist. While he could not understand why no one else had a passion for pigeons, he had long since concluded that no one else had any passion to speak of. But in the case of the ornithologist, he could not understand why ― with any passion at all, especially one for birds ― one would not choose pigeons above all else.

He began studying what he considered to be the art of pigeon breeding just before he reached adolescence. He would go to the library, under the guise of reading books for school, and would sit reading in the pigeon books aisle for at least two hours every day. If he could come up with a plausible school-related reason to give his mother, he would stay longer by at least half an hour, sometimes more if he got lost in his books. One might think that there couldn't possibly be that many books about pigeons in one library, and one would be right. However, the librarians grew to know the young pigeon enthusiast well, and had libraries from far and wide send whatever pigeon books they could spare. By the time he was 14 years old, he knew everything there was to know about pigeon breeding, and had even developed his own theories on how to more effectively create the perfect pigeon.

For two years, his parents would not allow him to keep pigeons of his own. But he would not lose hope, and bided his time until a window from which his hopes and dreams could fly would be opened. During those years he managed to just barely quench his thirst by continuing to spend time at the library, perfecting his knowledge, although by this time he was re-reading books for the sixth and seventh times. Finally, when he was 16 years old, not one but two windows were flung open simultaneously. In what would have been considered a tragic accident to anyone else, the boy's parents were singed into oblivion when the family's guest house blew up without warning. The couple was in the guest house readying it for company when it exploded. Even now, no one has discovered the true cause of the accident; the only thing detectives know is that the boy's whereabouts at the time of the explosion are impossible to verify. He could have been anywhere, and thus suspicion ran throughout the neighborhood that the boy himself created the explosion.

So all at once the boy was able to begin his life-long dream at last. He went to the largest park in the city and began wrangling every pigeon within reach. He tackled pigeons left and right; he captured them under homemade traps; he lured them to him with seeds packed with tranquilizers; he even strung a giant net from the tree tops, lowered it at a painstakingly slow rate, and dropped it on the unsuspecting poultry when it was just a foot about their heads. One might wonder, if he was such an expert — albeit in theory — pigeon breeder, why he would capture so many pigeons when thus far one has been led to believe that his true desire was to breed them. In short, he was simply overcome with joy at his new-found freedom, and admittedly got a tad carried away in his efforts to begin his work.

After four days of relentless wrangling, he had caught 167 pigeons from parks across the city. When he was not in the parks, he was at home, converting the enormous and elegant house which his parents had built, into a pigeon sanctuary with all the necessary equipment to breed his flock. He replaced the glass of every window in the house with bullet-proof Plexiglas, to make it impossible for anyone to break through a window and either harm or release his pigeons. He put double-thick steel doors in place of the original wooden ones, and installed a locking system that required a code for both entering and exiting the house. He knocked down walls on the inside and used the wood from these and the wooden doors to build cages of his own design for the birds. He got rid of all household appliances, so as to diminish the disturbance to his precious flock, and bought a few heat lamps for the rare occasions when a mother was unable to sit on her clutch.

After a few years, he had increased his flock from the original 167 to a healthy 208. All of his equipment and precautions had been working fabulously, particularly his steel doors. Their coding system, as mentioned before, involved a code for entering from the outside, and exiting from the inside. The system was designed to be changed every 14 hours. Ideally, it would be changed manually at 14 hours and 55 minutes, so that the operator would know the code. But should the operator forget to change the code manually, it would change itself, and a specialist would have to be called over to override the system. One day, the man was having a rough day with his flock. They became quite riled up, and seemed to have developed the urge to escape. For at least an hour, the man wrestled with several of his otherwise favorite pigeons, trying to keep them in their cage, which proved nearly impossible, since they had learned how to open the cage latches. Not only did these pigeons unlock their own cages and fly about the room in a frenzy, but they also took turns unlocking other cages while the others flapped around madly and pecked at the man's head. Unfortunately, during this hour of efforts in vain, the 14th hour was passed. Even more unfortunately, if the reader remembers, the man had long since ridded his pigeon sanctuary of household appliances, the first of which to go were certainly the telephones, with their obnoxious nest-disturbing rings.

The man was trapped. No way for him to get out, no way for anyone to get in. No way for him to reach the outside world, no way for the outside world to reach him. He was truly and utterly trapped like a rat. And slowly, he began to starve, though he took hardly any notice, and never complained; he never seemed to care much at all that his imminent death was approaching. He was strangely carefree in regards to his dire situation, because he valued the extra time he was able to spend with his pigeons. He survived on water for three weeks, and in the fourth week, he collapsed in a crumple amid the plethora of cages and discarded feathers.

While the man starved to death, the pigeons apparently realized their scheduled meals were declining in regularity. It seems that the man had forgotten to intruder-proof the attic, and the birds had found a small hole in the roof, which was ancient by that time. The pigeons began coming and going as they pleased, but continued to return to their sanctuary, since it was warm and dry when the outside weather was cold, and inexplicably cool and refreshing when the weather was warm.

Approximately two and a half weeks after the man locked himself inside the house, neighbors began to worry in earnest. Cops came to attempt a forced entry, but found themselves slighted by the bullet-proof windows and steel code-locking doors. Detectives came to investigate the possibility of a hostage situation, but they too were thwarted by the man's excellent mechanisms for keeping anyone and everyone out. Finally, four days after his death, a specialist was called from the company that made the steel doors. He managed to open the doors, and a search began throughout the house for any signs of a human presence, dead or alive. After a week of searching, the man's body was discovered, surrounded by his ultimate flock, covered and perfectly camouflaged by a heavy build up of feces and feathers.

And as he spoke he spoke ordinary words

Although they did not feel

For I felt what I had not felt before

And you'd swear those words could heal

And as I looked up into those eyes

His vision borrows mine

And I know he's no stranger

For I feel I've held him for all of time