Roadtrippin' boiled peanuts, car watering, 930 Blues & self-improvement

She crawls into my lap and begs for my attention. "Come on, sweetie, I'm trying to write!" I tell her as politely as possible as I attempt to plow ahead with my self-imposed work. I ask her to stop rubbing against my leg and chatting with me, but she insists on preoccupying my time, on getting her needs satisfied. She walks in on me while I'm changing, meanders through my room while I'm trying to sleep, and develops an attitude problem when I don't focus solely on her. And, sometimes, she brings me presents, like lizards and plastic balls.

I love Spotty and her fellow felines, Mister and Buddy, that rule JoAnne's house. They remind a lot of my beloved childhood cat Licorice with their quirky, curious spirit. Spotty, especially, with her beautiful black coat, tuxedo markings and mannerisms just like our old boy evokes nostalgia whenever she comes around. Right now though, I'm having a tough time typing as Spotty perpetually walks across my chest, from the left side of the red couch to the right and back with her butt in my face and tail swagging . Oh, cats.

930 Blues Cafe made every ounce my soul feel alive. I've never experienced live music so profoundly in a venue with such personality, at least not for a long time. The smoke-ladden, folksy bar with deep blue and red hued walls, sparkly lights and cramped quarters beckons you to climb its narrow staircase, grab a drink, listen to hours of blues that hearken to the Mo-town days, and move out on that tiny dance floor. You’ll find yourself singing along to song after song almost in a daze, unaware of how much you’re getting into the music, swinging your hips and imagining you’re just rhythmic and smooth as those musicians in front of you.

Maybe I’m exaggerating, which I tend to do when I find experiences to be amazing and hang on highs, but the musicians, many of whom I would guess were self-taught in their younger years, enchanted me as they performed some of my favorite classics like “When a Man Loves a Woman,” “Foxey Lady” and “Sittin’ by the Dock of the Bay.” That is, minus the creepy singer with greased back hair and a black, silk jumpsuit who pelvic thrusted and sang blatantly about sex.

The 60 or 70 something- looking guitarist, though, had an endurance to his playing that reminded me of Santana when he gets in his zone. At several points I lost track of my surroundings I was so into the music and looked over to see a bitchy-looking stereotypical sorority sisterish girl smoking a cig and laughing at me while I lip-synched and head-bobbed to “Whiter Shade of Pale.” I’m usually a self-conscious person, but you know what? I really don’t obsess anymore about what people think of me anymore.

“Guuuuurllll! Who you lookin’ at?” I wanted to reply, with a sassy finger snap. That, however, would have been heinously awkward coming from my mouth. I turned around and smiled, returning to the entertainment.

Despite my wanting to dance, I sat out most of the evening until the very end. Once Bryan hopped up there and good-naturedly danced with an intoxicated middle-aged black woman, I followed suite and danced with some crazy-tall and skinny red-head from Kentucky who asked me to come up. Being out there, even for a few minutes, reminded me of Anna’s birthday party in 2007 when we cleared the living room and danced our hearts out to “Dancing in the Moonlight.” I emerged from the bar reeking of smoke, hair stuck to my neck like a wet dog, sticky from the proximity to everyone, and incredibly satiated.

I’m elated from Thursday, still, and hope to return this week to 930 Blues, if my weakling, quasi-asthmatic lungs can handle a little more smoke coating. I love being 21 and getting into all of these cool venues. That probably sounds like a naive thing to state, but at least I’m not blasé in my 20s. Being here is almost as exciting as was being in a foreign country last summer.

Saturday was exhilarating in an adventurous and investigative reporting way–– its own right. I have vivid memories of following my dad around to interviews and events as a child. Once when we went out to Halsey for some meeting he needed to cover, he stopped the car and told me that he and my “mom had decided to move to the country with me and Anna to take up farming.” I think I almost cried and was certainly ready to jump out of the car and run away from him. Besides that experience, I fondly recall how fun and exciting it was to follow Dad around and stop in the newsroom to make countless drawings on scrap paper that he kindly hung around his desk.

Saturday I relived that same sort of childlike feeling of adventure but as an adult following Donna on one of her reporting expeditions. Now, because her story hasn’t come out yet, I can’t reveal exactly what we were doing, but basically we sought photos of a recently executed man (under the death penalty) from his mother.

For two hours, Donna and I followed the Natchez Trace road in my faithful and beautiful fire-red Focus that I’m never going to want to return, steeping into a drowsy lull that made us yawn constantly. Just as we pulled into Mantee, a tiny dot on the map in Northeast Miss., we decided to stop for some snacks so that we wouldn’t fall asleep at Mrs. Berry’s house.

Usually convenience stores across the board have a pretty decent selection of junk food, alcohol, candy, energy drinks, soda, and various other staple items but this place, with its disheveled aisles, lack of somewhat-decent food items and run-down appearance was the most po-dunk store I’ve seen, even in comparison to some of the Mexican shack stores. Donna and I bought the most disgustingly unhealthy collections of food and devoured it in the store’s parking lot we were so hungry. We downed sugary fruit drinks and cracked boiled peanuts in our laps, continually moving our hands from the peanut container to our mouths. On top of that, I ate a 1/2 can of Pringles and a package of m&ms.

Donna directed me to Mrs. Berry’s. And now, I can’t write more until further notice but I’ll just say that I learned a lot about reporting in tough situations and journalism ethics. After we finished at Mrs. Berry’s, we followed a dusty gravel road to Earl Berry’s (the son) grave. As the road continued further and further, ominous scenarios ran through my mind about what could happen to me and Donna. I was comforted by her idea that “we can’t live in a fear-based world.” As we stopped in front of a pink church with a well that sat in front of the cemetery, I grabbed my keys and stuck the biggest between my 2nd and 3rd fingers for good measure.

I watched Donna take notes about the grave and I snapped photos. Earl was buried next to his father in late May, just two months after James Berry died of cancer. Both graves are marked only by cheap, plastic things and Earl’s brother engraved a rock with his date of birth and death. Plastic flowers abound from the Berrys’ resting place, in looms of colors and styles.

As we wound our way back to Mantee and returned to the Natchez Trace, I felt glad to experience something more deep, dark and profound while reporting. If I’m going to be a writer, I’m going to do it right and try to work for change and meaning instead of writing stupid things no one cares about except me because I get a byline and blah clip.

On a side detour, Donna took me through her college town in Starkville (Mississippi State University). I thought campus was beautiful–– open, lots of modern brick buildings, a huge pond, beautiful and elegant maroon signs. Famished despite our afternoon feast at the po-dung store, Donna and I ate an overpriced Italian chain with fatty servings of overfilled manicotti. I enjoyed listening to her stories, just like I enjoy JoAnne’s. Donna and I think similarly about green living, vegetarianism, simplifying and supporting Obama this fall.

I love that she is an extremely talented, professional and incredible investigative journalist and alternative weekly newspaper editor, but she’s not closed about her political leanings or beliefs. She is both ethical and fair, but up front about her biases and as active a community member as they come. I appreciate how she gives interns so much room to explore what they’re interested in and cut their teeth at the JFP.

Sunday morning I meant to wake up at 8a.m. but after hitting the snooze button repeatedly for three hours, I rolled out of bed in my multicolor striped PJ pants and equally colorful tank top and walked to the porch after hearing commotion from the front yard. When I looked out and saw JoAnne’s car filled with greenery and her watering it, I thought I was going to pee my pants I laughed so hard.

She explained that she had to go out early that morning to collect greens from random yards and other public spots because she didn’t have enough of her own to decorate a space for a Eudora Welty teachers conference at Belhaven College. Beyond the greenery, she had 50 roses, a collection of vases, and other flowers in her car. I realized that she had the greens in vases and wasn’t directly watering the car, which was good. Still though, that initial imagery of her hosing the ferns inside the car put me in stitches.

Yesterday afternoon and evening, I walked for an hour in Spandex pants, which is something I’ve never done. I looked like a spectacle with my bright blue T-shirt, crazy frizzy hair, I-Pod, handful of carry-alongs, and book in tow–– I read while I walk to double task–– but I figured that while I’m down here I might as well do as much as I can out of my comfort zone and wearing Spandex in public is just that.

I jokingly tell people that my I-Pod holds some random songs, some of which are pretty stupid, sappy or overplayed but the more I listen to my mix, the more I appreciate my eclectic taste. Who else can say they have Disney Princess music, Carole King, Ben Harper, Ludacris and the Hairspray soundtrack all on the same playlist? I have crazy lioness hair that I don’t brush enough, wear clothes from Goodwill, eat too much chocolate, procrastinate my ass off, lack rhythm, and get shy at the most inopportune moments.

And, I’m learning to revel in and capitalize on my eccentricities instead of negating them and striving to be someone else. I’m all about self-improvement–– physically, emotionally, mentally, professionally, and spiritually–– but I’m also all about being true to one’s inner core and letting our freak flags fly, tride and true. It’s funny that as I’m least in my element–– in a totally different place–– I’m becoming most in synch with myself.

And that’s a freeing feeling.