I was standing under a lukewarm shower head, rinsing off the icy municipal pool water and debating whether I should just take the five minute car home instead of walking, when I heard her voice. That classic French accent dripping with luxury seemed so out of place in these decaying public baths. But the throaty lilt belonged to known other than CC McGurr, Williamsburg vintage shop owner since before that was a thing, and fashion icon. I had met her 7 years before when I interviewed her for a writing class, and here she was at the Metropolitan Pool.

Naked locker rooms being inherently awkward, it took me a couple more run-ins before reintroducing myself to her. It occurred to me that her story was the perfect tale for Savagecon, and I had just the recipe to go with it.

“Fishing octopus doesnʼt require much. A bikini and a spear, and like a good, nice, warm day. When I hunt for octopus, itʼs like when I hunt for great vintage clothing.”

It is, in fact, a good, nice, warm day at a backyard bar in Williamsburg. I am sharing dried squid and cocktails with CC McGurr, a buxom French blond who sounds like her vocal chords were dunked in honey. She has a way with words that elevates the mundane and ordinary to art and philosophy. We spent the past few hours down the street at her vintage boutique, Le Grand Strip, discussing everything from her childhood in the South of France, to Madonna (letʼs just say she knew her husband) and everything in between.

In a neighborhood teaming with vintage stores, Le Grand Strip is set apart by itʼs cohesive collection, fair prices, and quality garments. Not to mention an overall aesthetic that is both whimsical and sophisticated. Unlike stores where one fishes through racks and racks for that perfect find, CC is the fishmonger and she only displays the freshest selection.

“We are like mini compositions, like messages in a bottle, and I want my store to be the alphabet.”

CC grew up in St. Tropez and fell in love with vintage fashion at the weekend le puces, flea markets, in Lyon where her grandmother lived. There she learned the art of haggling and discovered the craftsmanship of clothing from the turn of the century. The flea market was a revolutionary experience for CC, and from then on she has always bought vintage.

“For some reason I was reconnected with something down deep inside of me, like the past. I was always looking to the past, I donʼt know, itʼs in your DNA or genetic. To me itʼs like these old clothes tell me a story, and I like story telling. That it already existed before.”

Perhaps looking so much to the past is what attracted CC to famed graffiti artist, Futura 2000. They met in Paris. CC hosted an erotic radio program on Europe n° 1 called Classe X. She interviewed prostitutes, transvestites, and “professionals of the red light district” in a late night program that was the first of itʼs kind. One can hear her sultry French filling the imaginations of bedside radio listeners. Seeking to innovate and expand, the station invited a group of emerging hip — hop artists from the US including Afrika Bambaataa, The Double Dutch Girls, Grandmaster Flash, and Futura 2000. Their romance traversed Paris and New York, finally settling state-side with the birth of their son in 1984.

Initially they lived in Manhattan, but soon moved to a large studio loft in Brooklyn. Though now separated after two children and 26 years of marriage, CC has lived in Brooklyn ever since, and describes the neighborhood and its village vibe akin to the neighborhoods in France where she once lived. St. Tropez, Le Marais, the Lower East Side and Williamsburg are all full of young, energetic people who speak CCʼs language. “They are almost like a flower calling to a bee. I have always lived in the hot spots.”

In the heat of the store, a rotating fan rustles a white chiffon slip and a woman enters the shop to have a look around. CC and I are talking about the vintage clothing industry. I had hoped to learn about where the clothes are sourced, but CC is unusually tight-lipped on the matter except to explain how she is drawn to a garment.

“When people ask me what I am looking for, I always say I am looking for the holy grail! I come from the world of beautiful things… I follow my nose.”

CCʼs nose always points her to something “smiley, feminine, and with a wink,” no matter the era from which it came. Like the veiled 1950ʻs summer hat with plastic daisies Iʼd been eying since I walked in. Itʼs resting on a table next to a killer pair of 80s white leather boots. What is most striking about Le Grand Strip is how each piece seems to have a life of itʼs own. CC nods knowingly, “I look at clothes like they are orphaned, separated from their mommy, like a dirty abandoned pet.” For this reason, she refuses partnership in her vintage hunts. She sees an item that most think is too haggard and fears they will talk her out of what she already knows will be a gem, after some cleaning up and loving care.

The customer has emerged from a curtained dressing room and asks if she can interrupt. She would like our opinion on the slip she is wearing as a dress. Itʼs demure and perfectly tailored, just past the knee with a glimpse of decolletage.

“Oh! I cannot sell that to you because it looks too good on you!” CC exclaims.

After some convincing and gentle arm twisting from the both of us, the woman makes her purchase. I know that feeling of having just scored a piece that looks like it was made for you. An item no one else owns but a lifetime of women have owned before you. Or perhaps just one woman with one great lifetime sewn into the seams.

Back at the garden bar, over a plate of dried squid, we have discovered that we both “have a thing for octopus.” That is to say we are both passionate about octopus. We talk of our favorite preparations — a la gallega, with tomatoes and paprika. Raw, swimming in wasabi Japanese style. Or the way her grandmother prepares it, using the cork of the wine bottle in the sauce.

“But you donʼt have a thing for octopus like I have a thing for octopus!” she finally blurts out.

This is true. I donʼt spend my summers in the Mediterranean hunting for them, an activity CC describes with as much gusto as her quests for great vintage finds. The process involves a hand-held spear and a snorkel mask. She patiently swims in depths of six to eight feet for hours while she hunts her prey. An octopus will peer out at her from the crack of a rock with a winking eye. His curiosity leaves him with a spear in his body. He clings to the rock with his tentacles while CC swims to the surface for air, only to dive back down and stab him again, repeatedly in this manner, until he dies.

“No one can identify them in their environment, I am the only one. I have the sense.”

“Who taught you?” I ask, completely amazed at the savagery.

“I taught myself! By being a child of the Mediterranean waters. I know the sun from the seaweed from… I just know. I am a hunter, and I always have the last word.”

At Le Grand Strip, CC has the last word, and the first word, and a few words in between with which to create your fashionable dialogue with the world. She often speaks of the “wink,” which to me is the acknowledgement that you are constructing an image of yourself which is being observed. So why not construct a poetic, playful image. One that brings joy to yourself and all the other fish in the sea.

“What happens when you put an Arab, hippy, pacifist and a bunch of armed ex-military together on a bucolic farm?”

“We get our hands in the dirt, and it makes us happy.”

On a brilliant May morning last year I went to visit my long-time friend, Hyiat El-Jundi (the aforementioned Muslim, hippy pacifist) in her new life as a farmer in Desoto, Texas just south of Downtown Dallas. It was one of those idyllic spring mornings with a hot sun and a cool breeze. She met us out in the lettuce field where rainbow chard, wild arugula, mustard greens, and giant heads of Tuscan kale, were exploding.

Here she told us about F.A.R.M or Farmers Assisting Returning Military, a non-profit farm dedicated to rehabilitating veterans struggling to transition back into civilian life. Almost all of the participants are veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, and with the internship they also get workshops on animal husbandry, sustainable farming, or owning your own business. This, coupled with occupational therapy, advocacy, and the regimented lifestyle of the farm can be invaluable for a soldier trying to reintegrate. But the heart of the rehabilitation is Dirt Therapy, literally getting your hands in the dirt. Studies have found that a strain of bacterium in soil triggers the release of serotonin in the brain which can elevate mood and relieve anxiety. The honest, hard labor of cultivating land, caring for animals, and feeding the community can bring an incredible sense of purpose for anyone, but especially for vets struggling to fit back in. As co-founder, James Jeffers explained to me, going from defending the country to feeding the country is a “good fit.”

Awesome indeed. Predominately a vegetable farm, the sheer abundance of this completely organic, pesticide free, 15 acre farm was impressive to say the least. Hyiat showed us fat tilapia swimming around in tanks of water that both irrigate and fertilize the land in a system known as aquaponics. Roosters roamed free, and a few hogs waded in a pond.

Bees yielded jars of famed Texas honey, and beautiful pea shoots were flourishing in their greenhouse. I love pea shoots, there’s nothing quite as delicate and “green” tasting as a pea tendril.

But as with all things that bring life, death loomed on the farm. A donkey brayed with a sorrow so profound, it pierced your heart. Hyiat informed us that twelve goats were recently slaughtered by a pack of ferrel dogs that were still at large. The donkey had grown up with the goats and her job was to watch over them. She had lost her keep in an horrific act of violence and was in a state of mourning. That this should happen on a farm run by armed and expertly trained soldiers did not bode well for the dogs. Plans were being devised, and an all out attack on the animals was imminent. The cycle of death and rebirth was on incredible display.

In the end, I took home bunches of blood red beets, bouquets of rainbow chard, and bags of peppery nasturtium flowers. That I would be making a feast of flowers from a farm run by veterans of our most brutal wars, was not lost on me. I recalled the famous Flower Power photo from Kent State, and had a bittersweet revelation: when a soldier on the brink can remake themselves into a farmer there is hope, but also the cycle of violence was as much a part of our nature as the slaughtered goats.

I went back to visit Hyiat on the farm a year later, and found it in less than idyllic conditions. F.A.R.M was due to lose their lease. The land owners were raising the rent, and the main house had a dire mold situation. Due to the uncertainty of when they’d have to uproot, or if they’d even have a place to go, they were behind on the planting season. Furthermore, the mold situation forced some to move out, and it destroyed the greenhouse. There were none of the pea shoots or sunflower sprouts, that not only I loved, but were a major source of income as they were sold to local chefs. Nothing tastes as joyful and delicate and hopeful as pea tendrils, and their absence seemed to me ominous. But Hyiat was incredibly optimistic! They were actively looking for new farmland, while also building a smaller urban farm in downtown. They had just been selected to partner with Carry the Load, a prominent organization dedicated to honoring and memorializing veterans. And the farm was boasting its own beautiful signs of rebirth. Where there had been a graveyard of goats, now adorable baby lambs romped under a huge elm, and a whole litter of heritage hogs merrily nursed their mama.

A couple of vets even showed off their Ketchup ’n’ Fries plant. A futuristic, grafted hybrid that yields a tomato on top and a potato on the bottom. What struck me the most, was the unwavering conviction everyone had that F.A.R.M would carry on even if they lost the land.

The day after my visit, Hyiat showed up to our spades game (more on that intense rivalry at another date) with a ragged little puppy in a box. She’d visited a property in Seagoville, a suburb just east of downtown. 200 promising acres with a water source that would be perfect for F.A.R.M. She’d found the puppy alone, near death, on the edge of the tract. Hyiat adopted her on the spot and named her Lucky.

Lucky has lived up to her namesake because the deal went through. F.A.R.M now has a new home. They have begun the painstaking work of uprooting and replanting. I have no doubt that given the mission, these vets, some of America’s best and brightest, are up to the task. That they should do it alongside a tenacious, bad ass Arab American woman is a proof of a healthier, and probably tastier future.

www.savagecon.com

www.farmvet.org

Jul 26

Transcendental Chiles

The crescent shaped window framed the treetops in full bloom above Clinton Street. She lay on the floor in shavasana and was acutely aware of their fleeting beauty. She picked herself off the mat and made her way into the midsummer dusk. The trees gave off an intensely heady smell, and their distinct aroma mixed with the familiar sounds of her neighborhood. Dominoes slamming on a wooden table, the buzzing of a tattoo gun piercing flesh, the whirring of a bike wheel as it cruised by. She passed the synagogue and heard Shabbat prayers echoing from its chambers. A cheer roared up from a corner tapas bar, and the chimes of the reveler’s clinking glasses fell away to the flip-flopping of her footsteps. She distinguished every sight and sound and smell that evening like an arpeggio pulling apart the individual notes of a chord. She made her way up the six flights of stairs to her corner apartment, and with each step mapped out the evening’s meal. Tonight she would make chile rellenos. A somewhat laborious dish with lots of steps and lots of cleanup, that she’d been looking forward to preparing for a few friends all week. Step one: roast ripe tomatoes with a clove of garlic and some onion in the oven. Step two: char poblanos on the stovetop then remove from flame and cover. Step three: make picadillo. Chop pine nuts and olives, onions and peppers. Sauté them with ground beef and spices. Step four: peel the poblanos, carefully removing their veins and seeds and refill them with the picadillo. Roll the stuffed peppers in flour. Step five: blend roasted tomatoes and garlic with a chipotle pepper for soup. Step six: separate the eggs and beat the whites until fluffy as clouds; then stir the yolks back in. Dredge the stuffed peppers in the eggs and fry them in olive oil. With her plan in mind, she ascended the last step and opened the door to her never-locked apartment. She was greeted by the gentle gruff and wet nose of her pup, and stunned by the fierce golden light of the setting sun. Her windows faced west across Houston Street, and at this time of year, the sun seemed to set right in her kitchen window with all the glory and arc of a three –point, buzzer-beating basket. She’d admired the affect so much when she first viewed the unit, that she’d painted the walls opposite the windows a dusky pink.

She washed up and went to turn on her kitchen radio, but withdrew her hand. The little park across the street with the gurgling fountain erupted in shrieks and laughter from city kids relishing a long summer night. The sounds of their play rolled through like waves, so that with the setting sun, she had a profound sensation of being at the ocean. She suddenly thought of her grandmother, could almost feel her sitting on the kitchen stool across from her. She smiled to herself and clocked the hour: 6:30pm. The meal would take about 2 hours, so she’d finish just as night fell and her guests arrived.

Her dog barked furiously at the buzzer screaming from the hallway. A car horn blared from the street below, and a mother in the park was screaming for Juan. It was dark. The Felix the Cat wall-clock with the swaying tail taunted her with the time: 9pm. She leapt up from where she’d been sitting on the windowsill bumping her head on the hanging fruit basket and spilling dried chilis and oranges all over the kitchen floor. On all fours, cleaning up the fruit, her mind raced: Had she fallen asleep? Did she burn the poblanos? Now her guests had arrived and there was no dinner! As she stood to face the kitchen, her heart skipped a beat and she let out an audible gasp so that even the dog stopped barking and stared at her quizzically. A shiver ran up her spine. What lay before her was an immaculate kitchen, and seven perfectly golden poblanos resting on a paper towel. The tomato soup was simmering on a low flame waiting to cradle its plump chiles. The stand mixer was washed and put away. The emulsion blender was back in the cabinet. All the cutting boards and knives and everything else required for this dish were dried and tucked away in their corresponding cupboards and drawers. The floor had been mopped. She ran to the living room. The hair on her arms and back of her neck stood on end. The table was set with candles and wine. The intercom buzzed again, and she heard her friends yelling at her from the street below.

“Drop down the keys!”

“Coming!”

She fumbled for her keys, and tossed them out the window down the six flights so her friends could let themselves in. Suddenly it was quiet again. The buzzer stopped, her dog was poised at the door eagerly awaiting her guests, but her heart beat out of her chest. She had completely lost track of two and a half hours of her life. How could she explain this? The last thing she remembered was the time, and the setting sun, and her grandmother. She hung up her apron, brushed off her hair, and opened the door to greet her company. It was Friday night, and they had some chile rellenos to dive into.

Years later she would describe the experience to an old, wise friend of the family’s. She had rationalized it to him with a yogi’s perspective, that the practice is an obstacle course for the mind. Lots of difficult, physical steps releases the mind from thinking about the past or future and allows us to be totally present. Perhaps having come from practice that night, she had found a way to truly release and cook on autopilot, so to speak. He smiled and nodded, but proffered her another theory.

“Our guardians are always present in a spiritual plane just above ours. From time to time they find opportunities to visit the physical world. Perhaps you were so present and open, as you say, that your grandmother used your body as a vessel to perform a task as quotidian and gratifying as cooking a Friday night meal.”

She smiled at him incredulously, but she liked the theory. Whatever it was, it was. But to this day, making chile rellenos, affords her an overwhelming sense of calm. She sees the rosy hues of her old corner apartment, smells the blooming trees of Clinton Street, and feels the steady pulse of her ancestors.

We’d been on several dates by now, and he’d invited me to his place for home cooked lamb chops. We both understood the pretext, and I was looking forward to it. I arrived around 9 with a bottle of Bordeaux my wine guy said would compliment the lamb. I wore an effortlessly sexy blue jersey dress, but really I’d spent the better part of a day deciding on it.

He was tall, dark, and handsome, from London, and in advertising. In addition to the aroma of slowly roasting lamb, his place reeked of ad-man chic. Maybe it was due to the leather and musk Joe Malone candle burning in the bathroom, or perhaps the vintage London tube map hanging over his white leather couch. Stacks of New Yorkers sat next to his all white Apple products, and London Grammar played out of a perfectly integrated Bose stereo system (also in white). The little picture window framing a view of the Empire State Building was just so… Perfect.

He had set the table just off the kitchen and was finishing up the lamb chops just as I arrived. He let them rest and opened the red, poured us a glass. I don’t think we had really even said hello at this point, all smiles and tension. The oven timer dinged. The pita was ready. I took my place at the table, and his hand shook just a touch as he spooned the meaty morsels and their requisite juices on to my plate. Oh, man. It was good, really, really good. The wine and food worked their wonders, and we eased up. He regaled me with witty, well-rehearsed stories about his Oxford days, and having to please “bloody impossible American clients” spending millions on super bowl ads. I laughed heartily at his perfectly executed punch lines.

We cleared the plates, and as he was about to toss the bones, I asked if I could wrap them up for my dog. He seemed charmed at that and went in for a deep kiss. When we came back up for air, we decided to have a scotch and a smoke on the fire escape. We needed more pretext I guess so we bantered about London versus New York: better fashion (New York), better theater (toss up) better public transit (London). It was really just a futile exercise to show how urbane and well traveled we were. It finally fell flat. We extinguished our ‘fags,’ and it quickly turned into HBO-prime-time-hot-make-out sesh. I mean backs slamming against walls, clothes ripping off. I knocked over a scotch glass onto his faux sheepskin rug (typical move of mine, but at least it wasn’t the Bordeaux).

“Oh no! Let me get that!”

“Leave it, love,” he said dripping in English charm.

He lifted me in his arms, and fireman carried me into the bedroom. Yesssss. After so many dates holding out, I was finally in for a long night of passion…

But then something inexplicable happened. In less time than it took for the passing siren outside to finish its wail, this bloke let out the most garish, and guttural of grunts, and then he collapsed. Like, on top of me. Like, he FINISHED.

What just happened? I almost started laughing thinking this was some kind of British sex banter I was unfamiliar with. Like maybe soon he’d pop back up and declare, “Right, love! I had you fooled there didn’t I? How about we give it another go, ya?”

I nudged him, but he literally was snoring in my ear and had cocooned me into his long spindly limbs. Did he have narcolepsy? I stared up at the ceiling for a few minutes perplexed, wondering what the technical equivalent to blue balls was for a girl. Even London Grammar had finished, and all I heard was the dripping of a faucet.

What a gyp. I mean I clearly hadn’t come for the lamb (pun intended), so how could he not deliver on the dessert? It felt like I’d fallen for one of his fancy ad campaigns, lured in by the packaging, but ultimately disappointed with the customer service. I had to get out of there. I pried his arm off of me. He barely stirred. I retraced our just-moments-before throws of passion to pick up my clothes and imagined what could have been. Oh well, truth be told, I prefer American. I re-dressed and headed out, but as I futzed with the lock he sheepishly called out from the bedroom.

“Where you off to, love? Aren’t you going to stay? I’ll make you breakfast in the morning.”

Sigh… food and sex, they’ve been going together since Bacchus. Too bad he hadn’t bothered to get up to make this last pitch, or I might have reconsidered.

“Uh, I have to… let my dog out, but thanks for dinner it was delicious!”

Oof… I exited to the hallway. “What a disaster,” I thought, shaking my head. But suddenly I stopped short (evidently a trend of the evening). Just before the self-locking door slammed behind me, I threw my heel in to catch it. I’d forgotten the lamb bones! I snuck back in and grabbed them off the counter. Between me and my dog, at least one of us would get her bone-in.

Them that’s got shall get, them that’s not shall lose. So the Bible said, and it still is news…

We found sanctuary in our little West Village café. Billie Holliday cooing from the speakers. The sounds of stirring spoons and whispered laughs mixed with the smells of freshly brewed coffee and eggs frying in butter. My friend searched my face before she pulled me in for a fierce embrace that lingered just a bit too long. Was she sick? In trouble? Did she need-

Money, you’ve got lots of friends, crowding ‘round the door. When you’re gone and spending ends, they don’t come no more…

She looked well. We exchanged pleasantries, but my mind wandered back to my unmade sheets still sweet with sweat. My husband had come home after a long year a part, and we were trying to start a family.

Rich relations give, crust of bread and such, you can help yourself, but don’t take too much…

We ordered steaming cups of black coffee despite the heat. And hearty breakfasts despite the late morning hour. She seemed preoccupied, nervous even. We had become fast friends over the past year, but she had never met my husband. Why then was she prodding me to talk about him? What precipice was she leading me to?

I acquiesced, and told her of our plans. With a deep inhale she looked towards the storm still whirling outside. With an exhale she clasped her hands and decided. The silver scarab ring she never was without clinked the table, ringing out like the chime of a Tibetan singing bowl, and in her apologetic eyes I suddenly saw why she’d brought me here.

Yes, the strong gets more, while the weak ones fade…

I needed irrefutable proof, so she handed me her phone. And there in that West Village café, I saw the truth scroll past my eyes: a betrayal as old as time, delivered in the most contemporary of fashions.

I saw a life in perfectly filtered pictures parallel to my own; a virtual world in which I was strangely absent. Where was I? Who was she? Who was that man I thought I knew?

As I scrolled, my eyes welled up, and the images blurred as though I were looking at them through the panes of the rain-soaked window we were sitting next to. Through these distortions, I saw the little world I had constructed begin to dissolve. Through the golden yellow yoke on my plate, I saw the children we would no longer have. And then I saw the café begin to spin.

My friend paid the check and swooped me in her arms as Lady Day sang on. She ushered me out to the stormy streets and we clutched our useless umbrellas; laugh/crying at the most poetic of New York rainstorms. I left her and headed east to the river. I was soaked, but couldn’t gauge where my tears ended and the sky’s began. It would be many months before I resolved to do what in my heart, that day, I already knew had to be done.

Mama may have, Papa may have, but God bless the Child that’s got his own, that’s got his own.