To get to P!nk's house in Middle of Nowhere, California, you pass through what feels like every documented biome on earth, watching as palm trees give way to cacti and as tree-covered mountains flatten into dusty grasslands. You follow a 10-step, bullet-point list of instructions involving multiple gates that, from the outside, appear to only lead to horses and dragonflies. Her assistant -- who spent about five years doing logistics for the Obama administration -- will likely pick you up in a golf cart and drive you across the 200-acre property. And when you finally get to P!nk’s house -- so neatly tucked into a grapevine-covered hill that it’s almost shocking when you finally round a corner and see it -- you may find her, as she was one balmy September afternoon, goofing around on her kitchen floor with her 2-year-old son, Jameson.
“Hey, can I have a kiss?” she asks the wriggling toddler before getting up to greet me. P!nk’s a hugger with a dimpled smile and silvery platinum Peter Pan hair that is more iridescent in person. Her home looks like a psychedelic Mexican restaurant, or, as she puts it later, “like Dr. Seuss threw up”: The walls are yellow and turquoise, the pillows every other hue on the visible spectrum. Some Halloween decorations are up early, but it can be hard to tell what’s seasonal and what’s permanent; on her kitchen table lies a crystal ball and a half-burnt bundle of sage. She leads me over to a lunch spread, retrieved from her favorite restaurant in town, and opens a bottle of a biodynamic white wine that tastes sweet but looks, well, a little like urine. “It’s pretty funky and weird,” she says, “but I like funky and weird.”