Another weekend, another tinder message, another reason to listen to Ariel Pink at a moderate volume

Another weekend is another paradox like soft rock or sweet and sour sauce. ˈper-ə-ˌdäks: “a tenet contrary to received opinion”. Weekends are conversation fodder for people you didn’t hang with. Weekends are also ways to get back at the system that likes to lock you up in an overly air conditioned office building.

Pink’s rock palate recalls a time of coke and alcohol fueled ballads and  what I like most about this aesthetic is his sensitivity towards his online audience. It’s like, he understands B2B and P2P entrepreneurship better than I do. I never pirate Pink’s shit. Pink is the singer who made me rethink my pirating habits. And for that I owe him a sock in the gut (probably because I want to see him spit in front of me while hunched over holding his stomach). He’s a pop guru. So when I go to my mom and ask her what she thinks I should do with my life, she replies “anything”. And when I listen to Ariel Pink and think, what kind of girl should I try and sleep with, he strums an F major 7 and sings “any girl in the world, bud”. To which I’m humbled and later frustrated by when she treats me like a piece of meat on a stick.

Oh Ariel, gone are the days of coke and alcohol fueled studio sessions with label execs throwing hundreds in the furnace. For that I offer my sincerest condolences. But when all is said and done, Ariel is the sort of guy who would’ve walked out of the studio too high to even grab his paycheck. So, when Ariel is sitting up in his lonely, wine stained apartment logging in and out of instagram, facebook or whatever app strikes his fancy, what he’s really saying is “I’m sorry I never got to fake a drug habit with my dad while the eagles played on a ghetto blaster- and I’m sorry that all my friends think I’m Sofia Loren in a man’s body.