It's been a tough month for Katy Perry. First off, there's the upcoming release of her mother's memoir, which her father told Star Magazine a couple of weeks ago "has caused quite a bit of tension." That would be because Katy Perry's mom is an evangelical Christian who wouldn't let her daughter watch the Smurfs when she was a child because Smurfette was a slut, and Perry is now a person who sprays whipped cream out of her tits.
For her part, Katy Perry's mother (who is famous exclusively for being Katy Perry's mother) has insisted the memoir is not "some tell-all book about [her] daughter," even though the text includes spicy tidbits such as "no mother wants to see the top of her daughter's boobs." There's also the fact that, out of the thousands of readers who might crack open the book, less than four will read it for anything other than the parts about Katy Perry.
Ah, well, at least the pop star will have her rooms draped in soft pink or cream and her arrangements of fresh pink flowers to comfort her, along with an array of seasonal organic fruits and two egg chairs, one with a footstool.
Those are just a few of the weirdly specific mandates laid out in Perry's current tour rider — recently released by the Smoking Gun, which doesn't do her any favors by casting her as a preening horror show of demands and her management as a bunch of cigar-chomping fat cats skimming off the top. (For its part, management reserves the right to hold as many tickets to her shows it wants to scalp on resale sites such as StubHub; basically it's a ploy to cut out the middleman and inflate prices on the best seats. Nice!)
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Meanwhile, Perry has some extremely discriminating tastes, and she will require they be met both in the dressing room and in the car. Her drivers, for example, are expressly prohibited from touching any of her stuff and speaking to her unless spoken to. Particularly noteworthy, though, is this directive: "Do not stair at the backseat thru the rearvieuw mirrow," whose myriad spelling errors suggest this item was inserted either by Perry herself or a 5-year-old. She will do enough "stairing" at herself, thank you, because her dressing rooms must be stocked with full-length "mirrows." And when she is done "stairing" at them, she will perhaps enjoy the aforementioned flowers, as long as there are no carnations. For God's sake, "absolutely no carnations"!
That's stipulated in the tour rider, with an underline and all capital letters for emphasis.
Which makes one wonder: Why does Katy Perry hate carnations? One possible explanation is the carnation's symbolic weight. In Christian mythology, carnations first grew from the tears of the Virgin Mary as Jesus carried the cross to Calvary — no, seriously — and thus the carnation symbolizes a mother's undying love. Freud would have a fucking field day.
Add that to the ejaculatory symbolism suggested by the whipped cream spraying out of her tits, and you have arguably the hottest pop-culture Electra complex ever — hot enough, anyway, to melt your missing popsicle.