Two years before I wrote Finger, I heard about the tryst that inspired the song from The Mistress himself. He and I were buying Four Lokos in a Philadelphia corner mart because we had plans to get underage drunk- homie and I were, in fact, homies at the time. The Mistress nonchalantly brought up the whole scandal and I responded with a punch-in-the gut, bout to puke on the sidewalk look on my face. I guess he thought that my cheating beau had dropped these deets on me a few years back, but no such thing ever came up. My ex-bf was long gone by this point. However, discovering that The Mistress had pressed him up against a rainwater shower, while we had been involved, was still a less than savory experience.
So, petty is as petty do like petty be. I wrote a song that very night and put him on blast on the internet.
However, I was still too close to the event in question. I couldn't write something that captured the true extent of it all. Its pathetic to say, but it took me another two years to fully process everything and write "Finger."
Ms. Time - her ticking of seconds on everyone's grandmother's grandfather clock- became my Confucius, Socrates, and Rabbi Jesus all wrapped into one. She made me realize what was really popping off in my heart of hearts: It was that Jazmine "Bust the Windows Our Your Car" Sullivan, Carrie "carve my name into his leather seat" Underwood, Beyonce "bat named 'Hot Sauce' wielding" Knowles kind of righteous fury. Hopefully, reader, you can hear that pulsing in the lyrics.
And, I'm hoping you can hear some other stuff too! You see, I'm actually a pretty low-key, California, zippity doo dah kind of dude. So, when I went to (t)werk on this song, instead of addressing everything in that classical, arch-typical, rough and tumble method of the chickas I name-dropped above, I went for cheeky. I needed laughter like a junkie needs rehab and, above all, I didn't want to have to relive the hurt of it all in a melodramatic way. So, I cooked up this tune with that brassy af, Kacey Musgraves sauce I had absorbed from listening to her all damn day everyday and added in that Jewish "laugh to keep from crying" spice I inherited from my ancestors. Praise country and praise my rabbis.
And, reader....reader, reader, READER! Some day soon, I truly hope - in a begging on my knees sort of way- I get to play this song live for you. Because, the true treat, the real McCoy of this whole shabang, is that there's always some old, Georgia broad in the audience bursting out in an Antebellum cackle when she hears this song. She knows. Oh yes, that wrinkley, Southern belle KNOWS: them boys may fuck up, but we get to have the last laugh.