Risky Business in Egypt


How to sell out an aspiring democracy of the twitterized Imagepeople by the struggling people using the next dirty oil/mineral mega-development as means for the payoff? Sad, truly sad and another pissant slam in the face of the Egyptian Spring.* Money yaks how far can you jump and emerging liberties are swamped in The Nile?

The more enlightened countries of Latin America told US owned loan merchants and trans-nationals to get the f**k out. The people of most South American countries no longer want to be abused by banksters and corporate owned government foisting one more layer of oppression – debt restructuring going to default coupled to wholesale slaughter of the environment.

Debt restructuring comes with a slew of lethal conditions predicated not on progressive reform no matter what the IMF massages in its annual reports.

The Latin American debt crisis was a financial debacle originating in the early 1980s. Foreign debt exceeded a country’s economic earning power (duh?) and the government was incapable of repaying (ditto). Lower latitude Latins learned their lesson that the con of banksters helping “third world countries” to achieve less poverty is not through non-sustainble economics.

Costa Rica borrowed so much money the CR govt. went bankrupt attempting to pay the interest. Sound familiar? Predatory lending is not regulated to lower working class neighborhoods in America. CR was bailed out by promising to create national parks. Parks by the way loaded with rich sources of timber, minerals, water, and wildlife but for peep’s sake do not spread this around. China might find out.

Larger countries cause larger problems if they default (read Brazil or USA). The bigger a nation’s debt, the more damaging a default or a “haircut” will be to investors, and the more likely it is to damage the world’s economic basis and feed an expanding long term recession. It is the global casino. For example, Greece is a small country, and a Greek default can’t be managed unless you are a member of their 1% and then you stand to make another shit load of mola. But if a bigger country like Italy, Spain, or France goes into the crapper on the backs of its citizens the potential for damaging repercussions is exponentially greater. Collateral mis-calculatons by blinded govt. to bring about revolution and/or anarchy. Now wait a minute. Could it be the big tune in Les Miserables is the answer?

Capitalism as practiced is a faulty systemic neo-economic system creating wealth for the few while underwriting the worse characteristics of our species – greed, more is never enough, injustice, and inequality with war as the primary economic engine. Social democracy economics is a possible alternative. I am not a socialist nor a communist or a gung-ho Friedman follower. Maybe our species needs to eliminate the entire operating premise of money? Globalization with a heart will not happen unless each of us affects a 24/7 change to our consumeristic habits not just blabbering on about living with a small footprint.

My definition of globalization? Utopia is wholistically living a serene joyous life without borders with no passports and no import/export tax while taxing every Wall Street transaction and holding politicians and corporates criminally accountable for destroying Earth. Sort of a free-market worldwide nutso bazaar where bartering is preferred and money is worthless. Campaign finance reform and employees are vested in the companies they chose to work for where safety and advancement is built-in. Ambition is channeled to scientific research and development. Health care, education and the internet are a 100% given. Addictions are treated rather than using a war on drugs to finance the corruption of drug lords and tyrants. There are other attributes – yet let’s not get lost in the Himalayas, yet.

The Skippy example of what I am advocating. Skippy Peanut Butter costs ten USA bucks a jar in Costa Rica. It probably is GMO peanuts but I cannot confirm. Certain folks love Skippy. It is comfort food from their childhood. It is holy American. It is gooey and nut tasty with jam smeared inside two slabs of white bread. In my global economy Skippy corporation is operated and owned by an organic farmer cooperative. Skippy is traded not as an abstract commodity but inside direct fair trade exchange via farmers using actual sea-going containers. The cooperative sends Skippy around the planet. Skippy lovers buy it at their local cooperative for a fair price not slathered in corruptions like CAFTA and NAFTA. What do Skippy farmers get in trade? Organic coffee, or beans or whatever is needed on their end. Logistics are not a problem Big Brown (BB) can handle anything. If not BB (now employee owned) then a cooperative of ship handlers. Would it cost $10 a jar? It would have no money value. In a barter system Skippy is equal to organic farmer tasty grown coffee.

Want potato wine from Russia, or Sturgeon eggs from Turkey then come up with a trade for the next mousetrap beyond G5 iphones. Who makes the it? Not apple and not poor Chinese smucks. Science is the manufacturer and what it costs is the same price – worldwide and under $20. The folks who work the line making the gadgets operate cadcams and have degrees from Stanford or MIT or similar brain trusts so part of their apprenticeship is interning at the factory. A new twist on Teach America except it is Teach World. Now the factory is small not some mega complex. All the mega=complexes in my utopia were retrofitted to house, teach and make happy the children freed from Sudan and other hells on Earth.

Back to Risky Business

Egypt, please don’t sell out to a bi-polar future where default and concessions to continue repression are set in motion by debt restructuring. This is how Greece got jammed into the canister of austerity because Goldman Sucks funded the govt. into oblivion. Gov. Jerry Brown figured out how to ‘save’ the fifth largest economic base in the world (California) and put the state back into the black without further demise yet at what cost to the environment?

The liars, banksters and whores of administrations and their cronies will benefit in the millions and millions of dollars as these numbers for Egypt’s debt restructuring set up a perfected corrupt regime. Those who helped Egypt get stuck in the muck in the first place are exactly those who will benefit the most.

Bailouts are total bullshit – organized and administered to protect the weathly on the backs of working stiffs while feathering nests of the powers that be. Yet, even the rich and rude become unwilling pawns bought and paid for by even greater keepers (read Madoff and hedge funds).

Egypt desperately needs education and opportunity. The Morsi administration’s plan is not the pathway to solve the daily needs of a civil society flailing away seeking freedom, justice and bread. Letting the banksters and military own the means of everything by administering a draconian band-aide guarantees nothing but continued repression for the people.

Rise-up. Put the intelligent creative benign leadership in play not owned by a religiosity set of rules and/or by those waiting to line up at the trough to further engorge themselves with dominion power and Egypt’s newest con of colonializing wealth.

Egyptians who are free thinkers, secular in practice, and artistically educated to see beyond the wheat fields are more than able to stand united to bring about the promises of the Egyptian spring. It takes courage, solidarity and commitment. What is the reward? Freedom, justice and a sustainable economic standard not determined by those whose working values preclude honor or integrity for the greater good.

Why would this expat American give a hoot what happens in Egypt? It is personal. Maybe everytime I admire what ancient Egypt accomplished I wonder if karma did the country in? Could be I am ferreting out a gene pool of horny back-boneless princes who prefer the quick fix of prostitution over the longterm joy of building a new country? Possibly a humble visionary sees if Egypt becomes the first sustainable free country in Africa and the MiddleEast the table is set to infect the rest of the region.

My motives are not self-serving rather species-serving. There is nothing for me to gain by sticking my feathered neck out in the fray surrounded by the hoods of the Muslim Brotherthugs. If as an Egyptian, you prefer I mind by own business, my chant/retort is as follows: One world, One planet, One humanity.

Herewith is a sustainable economic plan taking wing to re-establish Egypt as a leading country of equality, thought and art: 1) Disband the military; 2) Dismantle the guns, tanks, and the planes (recycle the metal); 3) Close dirty oil down (go 100% rooftop solar); 4) Tell the Sauds to focus on their own ills; 5) Command United States of Hillary to back off and stop using Egypt as one of its military allies; 6) Separate ALL religions from the state; 7) Parrot Iceland’s dance to deal with the banksters; 8) Hold free elections on the Internet; 9) Hold free education on the Internet; and 10) Take porno and porno kings out of the civil society demise equation by instigating town hall meetings (not held in a mosque or church) to figure how to clean up one’s own neighborhood.

Making Egypt safe for every Egyptian wearing a Burka, or not, or a birdwatching American riding an Arabian horse alongside the wondrous Nile is not a short sighted goal.

Fulfillment of personal dreams to live in love with each other while honoring Earth is why we take up the wordy sword, Senor Nilo. You in your way, and me in this venue (and over at my blog bemacomber.com).


Anarchy, Trapped & Getting Real

 As the human world proceeds down its track of self-annulations, those of us who prefer life, ring-less freedom, and justice continue to sling the arrows of sustainability, truth, and humor.


How can one maintain lightness against the mega ominous cells coming across the plains of human stupidity and greed?


If you are O-Bomb-O you surround yourself with ego and bullshitters. If you are Morsi, you surround yourself with god-specialists and aging military. If you are Jerry Brown you find the brightest and most intuitive and do the John Kerry – marry a really rich broad. If you are I, you write, you have funky dialogues with like-minded folks, you keep the light on over the gate, and you peacefully soldier forward.


My spin is neither new nor especially significant. I am another nosey noisy nigga in the rotting woodpile except I am white skinned and a female. My rhetoric is not married to any specific ideology or political bent, anymore. I out flew these parameters. Some years ago I pitched every existing piece of cargo stored in the hole and headed up the ladder for the best view on the ship’s brow. Titanic or Queen Mary one goes to the top of the hill for the best view. Finca Vigia is the best outlook and it is a million dollar observation platform.


Living here a transformation occurred releasing crappy patterns of deadline addiction, fixing dumb cane politicians in a beautiful hometown American community by the sea, dragging my cross around contending politics are helpful and the other myth – shopping at Price Club was healthy living. I do not easily understand what has happened to me living here at Finca Vigia. Because of circumstances beyond all our control (death), I am the one who is going through these cosmic hula-hoops with three dogs, 342 species of birds and four troops of Golden-mantled Howlers. These and an ancient Egyptian disguised as a whack job are my teachers.


As an Internet survivor (been blocked on FB and been blocked by people I thought considered me kinda cool) human communication some days is exclusively digital. This may account for the advent of local interspecies communication becoming the real deal. Birds fly over and we talk. Monkeys come by to munch on wild nutmeg leaves and we hang. Thunder rolls around the Jungle Mountains and we thump. Anarchy and synchronization is happening in this jungle. No one is following any precept science is selling. Darwinism is not the order of the day or creepy nights. In the darkness snakes slither, roaches organize and spiders the size of my hands come out to hunt moths the size of my feet. Marlena, Dewey and Snooky Pants Rabalo (the canine corps) and I stay inside after dusk and do not come out of the cabina until the Chestnut-mandibled Toucans announce day is underway. We know how small we are in the greater scheme.


Lately, I am encountering men who some how cyberville materialize after beddy-by time. This last week there are three widely different human specimens. I push out the same caca I have spouted through my blowhole the last four decades, so why now? I am not being braggadocio, men sniffing around have always been part of my life. What is evident is that the current living threesome are trapped in their circumstance, or at least they have bought into living in a neo-purgatory of their own selection process? Wondering why we are the focus of midnight communications is superfluous to any real deal issue at hand. Let us say, I think it is because my initials are at the beginning of the alphabet and time changes. Any analysis is as valid as the one of your dreams.


One of these men squeezes my heart. I am pissed this poet was able to capture it when I apparently am trying to rise-up above the 19th century concept of living life as the newest widow on the hill. For the record, my husband is orchestrating the on-going movie from the other side. It took me awhile to figure out what is happening because grief moves in reverse slowing down forward movement to where the best one can do is forge ahead on a lateral. Sluggish is beyond the pale, literally. Senor Que Sera Sera is she-whore trapped in Brazil and spends 24/7 sopping down potato juice while ragging on about his home country under siege – Egypt. After midnight when she-w is safe in her coffin, he comes out to play with me. Sometimes the fun is too much to handle other times I instant chat as sweetly as possible when in reality I want to climb through the screen and smack the crap out of him. True cross culture love soaking with brutal honesty does this? I am a newbie to exposing myself thinly via the ethers plus we do not get Ann Landers down here at Latitude 9. As humans under a set of values and antique horseshit history, we do stuff when we love folks, and I am no enabler (anymore), from the edge of compassion. I cannot change Dr. Stoney. Love is the answer because there is no other option. Ride the wave, dude.


The second very recent entry makes me laugh with his right-on commentary. I click thumbs up on his ongoing FB bombastics and for the life of me cannot figure, why he does not have his own talk show. He is a funny funny guy with a wordy wit to match my husband – a gigantic compliment. Sardonicus is the name I bestowed upon him. He survives in Italy transforming from Zen’ish beatnik to parental caretaker and then back again. He and my husband carry the Italian gene and as such could be the wellspring and basis of an astute attitude with drollness. Like me, he too contends O-Bomb-O is a con artist in black face. There are now at least six of us seeing the light. It makes no difference what party in power in America or Egypt; they are prostitutes and pimps for the corporate colonizing of Earth.


The third male entity briefly beamed in from the Netherlands. Trolling on Skype, he sent an outreach. My name on Skype is Alice B. Toklas. Are you getting the alphabet soup connection, now? His occupation is so counter to my environ-ranting perspective I think God’s sense of justice and humor is expansive like her universe. He actually has a real job unlike the other two. His history of destructing the mothership is engineering oilrig platforms. As I write, I am seeing in my third eye the BP’s exploding 30,000 feet deep rig annihilating the Gulf. Yet, I attempt to teach myself tolerance and listened to the Dutchmen’s tale of woe. It is a horrifying story of Karma – lawyer wife murdered over a familial land deal and four years later, he can only connect to women who “want to have fun.” Barbie meets Ken at the Dutch smoking pot café? He keeps his son in a private school in London because he travels to Africa to exploit its resources. Does nothing change on the Dark Continent? He also pals around with the Sauds. Don’t’ all dirty oil types hang with the third level sheiks, and vice a versa?


Nit-plicking along it is important for you to understand a premise not readily visual or audio available. I live in the middle of the jungle. I do not get off the finca much except to deliver carloads of money to my mechanic. The Land Rover, Rachel, works three weeks out of 52. As a jungle hermetic, I am not seeking these encounters. Flotsam and jetsam floating into my digital world with no agenda on my part I must admit these encounters pique my scrawny brain.


Maybe I am starved for storylines? You know how us writers hang like geckos on the wall watching the world go by. I swear on a stack of Egyptian Books of the Dead, I am not putting any karma in motion. Okay, well, I am lying about trying to release Senor Nilo, the outdated Egyptian, from his self-imposed potato juice incarceration. He LED illuminates in from an ugly third world kitchen in a village so remote he cannot have Skype and Gmail up on his screen at the same time. Besides air-fighting his projection, Hesham gets the EMMY for drama-tortured sexiest brilliant artistic man I have ever met, on or off the little screen. And, I worked in San  Francisco and NYC – the artsy fartsy capitals of the world. Of course, he is only one of three men I have bothered to continue contact in cyberville excluding regular friends, neighbors, and family members. OE (outdated Egyptian) and I have been playing getaway closer now for maybe a year or one thousand years. I do not know. When one is in the blender of lost and loss, your natural sense of time on the continuum begins to warp and go colugo (Google it to improve your vocab?).


Male cyber-traveling partners on SDSers & Leftists FB closed group are part of the team of mules and red diaper babies trudging up the mountain but they do not count. They never unseal their enclosures or spin the dial of yin yang. Interference or influence of 1969 precludes them getting cyber-real.


Why bother, as my brother Dan would snort and retort? Our dim species is reaching the point of no return. The thunder-persons, the birds, and the monkeys are announcing a prognosis for Homo sapiens and instructing us to make arrangements. One hint is to be on the ship sitting by guys and gals who actually have something to say. The on-world ark trip is lengthy so why spend it in suspension when you can breath while one’s heart beats with joy yakking away the truth.


Anarchy is stomping thru the streets even though the Sheeple are not hip to what is happening. How do I know? The Internet told me so. Senor Nilo, Sardonicus, and Oily Dutchboy are not personal amusements. They are glorious living examples of the power of the Internet. If we let the machines take over our humanity becomes so clogged-up and plugged-in our charkas go ape shit and our brains bleet inside distilled jars.


Spontaneous and serendipitous are paper towels to clean up the messes in our nest. I prefer the natural recycled brown manufactured pieces of flying carpet to the cubic-corporate types. However, again I live in a world of amazing wonder surrounded by beauty, art, books, and a subset of our species – Ticos – who spill out genuine happiness like psychedelic dressed tree frogs at a gang-bang in a pool beneath an Alfombra waterfall.


For me, to be able to establish any form of enlightening communication with another species is a blessing. To create a connection with three men in three different countries while I am in a fourth is a miracle of the age, the antithesis of a Laffer curve (again, vocab building).


As I portend, two out of the three cyber-pals I write about h/w will read this. Those are damn good Sports book odds for our asleep at the wheel species making quantum leaps toward higher consciousness before we f**k up so badly Pachamama throws us lame ducks off the spinning orb.


Salute the wonder of a cyber age but for freaking sake, do not make it your god. It is another element, crystal, or dream catcher, in our medicine bag. Use it responsibly and let it go loosely around your bode and your brain. The monkeys and the birds think we are very silly cause they do not need the two-dimensional apparatus of an Internet. Their dulcimer is strung via para-normal simplicities.


Our waddling along Donald Duck species needs to hurry up and start deploying, again, the old way of seeing and being in the flesh (I know I am preaching to myself and the choir). I really believe this is our best shot to bring about a humanity where justice prevails and hearts (read human emotional system) exist inside a love-centered life. Diminished spiritual capacitors are at this instance attempting to short circuit our innate etheric antennae of the heart. Paranoid? Naw. Observant and concerned means I am prudent in my exemplary state from the view from Vigia.


Name the dog, Hope, Hoopoe?


B. E. Macomber


Temptress Vision

A temptress vision has encircled me like a . . .Image

willful shadow of a slumbering dream.
Is it the powerful light of purpose? 
If I squint with all my strength I may see it.
Always must it be inside of me
like a pilot fish inseparable from its host.
It fearlessly drinks my essence.
Such a bitter taste I muse.
Spit it out upon your table of perfection.
Compare this grain of sand with your galaxy.
This spire of sorrow with your deepest eye.
If my callous mind can see you,
there are no interventions.
No pathway away.

I am a lock-picker.
A tunnel-digger.
A fence-cutter of the wicked watchers.
A traveler that has sought 
the mystery that eludes all but the outlaws.
The wild-eyed, unrelenting fools of purpose
that remain outside the laboratory of wingless flight.

You are the eternal Watcher 
who lives behind the veil of form and comprehension, 
drawing forth the wisdom of time
from the well of planets. 
You cast your spell and entrain all that I am.
Am I just a fragment of your world?
A memory hidden by time?
A finger of your hand driven by a mind
unfamiliar with skin.
Touch yourself and you sense me.
Visions wild with love.
Splendor that beckons like a secret whisper of gladness
spread on the winds by an infinite voice. 
The sound of all things unified. 
I am part of that voice. 
Part of that sound. 
Part of that secret whisper of gladness.

This limitation must end in lucid flesh.
The dream of sparks ascending
quickening the cast of hope.
Avoid the brand of passivity 
the signs complain.
Shun manipulation before you are stained.
Spurn all formula and write new equations 
in the language of sand.
Heed no other,
nor listen to the seduction of holy symbols
standing before the windows of truth.
Define from a foreign tongue.

These are the battered keys 
that have led me to unlocked doors.
Doors that collapse at a mere breath
and behind which
lay more pieces to collect for the Holy Menagerie.
The never-ending puzzle.

All the stars in the sky
recall the purpose of your hallowed light.
Burn a hole through the layers.
Peel all the mockery away.
Enjoin the powers 
to answer this call:
Bring the luminous vision
hidden behind the whirling particles
of the Mapmaker.
Let it enter me
like a shaft of light that enters 
a cave’s deepest measure.
Ancient fires still burn in these depths.
Who tends them?
What eyes are watching?
Waiting for time’s flower to bloom.
To submerge in the relentless subtlety 
that moves beyond my reach 
with a jaguar’s stealth.
To dream of elder ways
that leap over time 
and leave behind the puzzle of our making.

O’ temptress vision
you steal my hunger for human light.
If there is anything left to hollow
let it be me.
If there is anything left to cage
let it run free.
If there is anything left to dream
let it be our union.

Que Sera Sera (Whatever Will Be Will Be) & Survival of the Piss-Ants

The girl next door beauty, Doris Day, made Que Sera Sera[2] (Whatever Will Be Will Be) famous. Pink Martini, Holly Cole, Corinne Bailey Rae, Motherfunkersband, and others went on with their versions, but Sly and The Family Stone is my favored rendition (play the youlube link[3]).

Sly has his issues but he and The Stone knew how to sell dat funky psychedelic soul, baby. They were from San Francisco (natch the late 60s), although Sly grew up in Vallejo, California, a town on the SF North Bay specific to my nautical Macomber family who built and launched backyard boats thereabouts, plus my mother ran for Miss Mare Island.

During WWII (1939 to 1945+), mom worked as a shop steward/gofer in Shop 02. The first half of the job usually regulated to a man. At a luscious tender age, she helped direct 400 people (Rosie the riveters[4]) as part of the necessary building and repairing of the American Pacific Fleet. By the end of this war Mare Island Naval Shipyard had produced 17 submarines, four submarine tenders, 31 destroyer escorts, 33 small craft and more than 300 landing craft. All hale the Navy and collective guilt to get 12 million girls working in the WWII sweatshops of the military industrial complex.


In 1968, my poetic gorgeous petite smart as a whip mother laid down on railroad tracks in Oakland, with me, and 4,000 other women and kids, holding hands, to say enough mayhem (this war that time – the Vietnam War). She was a MAW – mother against war – because she saw up-close the power of war machinery, the horror of men sent to die, and the afflicted soul-damage in those lucky enough to make it back home. Que sera sera?

Mare Island originally settled as a government installation in 1850, deactivated in 1995/96. The Napa River (I grew up in Napa Valley) flows between the island and the city of Vallejo. The island is actually a peninsula, up river from the Carquinez Straights and San Pablo Bay and essential to the upper marine habitat of the San Francisco Bay.

The conversion and reuse of Mare Island resulted in 3,075 acres (12.44 km2) of protected tidal and non-tidal wetlands providing wintering habitat for thousands of shorebirds and waterfowl. During migrating season, thousands of people flock to attend the three-day San Francisco Bay Flyway Festival[5] in February on Mare Island. The event includes birding, art shows, exhibitors, and music, marking the annual miraculous return of a million or more shorebirds, ducks, geese, and hawks to the North Bay Area.

Que Sera Sera is not a viable option if impending action is compulsory, and if one’s brain engages and one’s compassion is clear-headed. Any birder, backyard duck watcher, or surfer dude who sees not merely looks can testify to what is happening on Earth. Ending the continuum of mocus hocus by putting thicker sharper lead in your pencil and doing right action is not for the faint of heart. The deed takes breaking overwhelming chunks into doable pieces and carrying the load in infantile to engineered steps up the mountain. Analogous to building pyramids at Giza.

If whatever will be will be was the only thought of the day regarding Mare Island millions of wild birds and an entire integrated natural habitat necessary for marine health and human wellbeing is forever forsaken.

Listing successes of not buying into que sera sera would embrace me deciding to get sober and clean on the ides of March in 1985. I am a nobody on the radar. Every single revolutionary artist, thinker, pivotal doer, shaman naturalist, Egyptian poet, Hamptons fisherman/attorney, native healer, providence of scientific discovery, flying bird spirit, sobering buddies, and girl next door make a positive difference. They act-out the power of change belying inventiveness is intuitive based. An inner voice, if not a mollified trickster, speaks the imaginative way out of any quagmire. Tune in, don’t drop out, and turn on to love and life as one world.

The mammoth concern currently on the table for mitigation is global warming with rising seas as it affects the San Francisco Bay system, waterfront human settlements, and beyond. Here is a map of projected flooding:


(A disclaimer for you cynics: “This map is not a carefully surveyed and extremely accurate presentation. It is intended to provide a visual impression of which geographic areas might be flooded if global warming and climate change continue unabated.”)

As you can readily see on the map for Vallejo, Mare Island, and the North Bay these areas are no longer wetlands or human communities. They become additions to the Greater San Francisco Bay.

Global rising seas will inundate coastal areas around the planet so take a projected glance at the flooding maps for Florida, New York, Washington, The Nile River, Netherlands, and Venice by clicking their headers on the same link.

Que sera sera? If the blind continue to feather their 1% nests at the current rate of rude and rich Earth takes revenge, big, bigger, and biggest. Owning Greek Islands, hiding out in Brazil as a midnight Internet rider, investing in a seriously upscale mega-resort in Egypt on the Med, or being the mayor of Petaluma, California thinking que sera sera means you universally instill a global guarantee. A lack of action (deciding not to decide is a decision) portends whatever will be will become a disastrous state of affairs so beyond puny human ability to transform it affects the totality of humanity. We, meaning you, me, and every iota of what we daily experience, gets our wholistic come upin’s. The flipside of being one is becoming surviving leftovers paddling around in Waterworld[6], Neither a harmonious sight nor yogi blessed.

The future is ours to see, if we lower our defensive or insatiable shields of self-made fear and the disease of more, and take a hard-on gander at what is possible. If our species, individually and collectively, keep playing que sera sera the third rock from the sun will finish our wimp ass story for us. Using our brains, our struggling sense of self/species-value, our expansive love of wondrous life we can narcissistically erect personal arks or we can stop with the nonsense of geo-political boundaries. Working together vis-à-vis to solve the immediate planetary crisis demands we stop passing the buck, the yen, or the EGP[7] to repressive governments, corporate assholes, the banksters, and so-called worldwide NGOs. Action takes a slice from the Occupy Movement, or maybe it is the Occupy Movement[8].

I am hip I write in bulky mouthfuls of wordage, please keep reading or take a break – brew a pot tea or add ice to your secreted drinkie – your choice. Choking on the truth is life affirming over dying at 4 AM from a heart attack, any day of the week on any continent. Cough, sputter, puff on another Marlboro, or reach out for the life preserver floating in front of you. To see it, to grab a hold of it, you gotta wave away the spoiled hazy smoke one exhales.

Freewill is an unconditional gift bestowed the moment we take our initial inhaled breath outside the womb. Not news, eh? Whatever form of higher power you subscribe to, or not, your mystical or mythical entity is not going to get us out of the complicated box canyons we invent to contaminate. Earth killing caca is what we put in motion every single time we fire up the SUV, build another mega something or another, swig down the next gulp of Vodka, puff on a cancer stick[9], or sit on the aft deck of a yacht. We are on our own regarding our self-inflections (there is support, this is support). Yea, it is a colossal test. In my not so humble estimation, neither instigated not inferred by God. Doubtless, we are our own worse enemy, but the damage done is not limited to our individual bullshit. Is this beginning to detonate your denial?

Growing a backyard organic garden is handy. Putting up one-site solar is groovy. Operating an international fact-finding institute about bird populations is right-on. Creating Nilo Dreams® to inspire others is needed. But, we require a helluva lot more to thwart the extinction of species, including saving ourselves.

We are responsible, fellow magnificent human. We are the exclusive living force on Earth who continues to drastically mess with our one world nest. Today, we are twittering on the edge of a no-comeback for Homo sapiens.

The Internet is a life preserver. It is the ultimate global tool of freedom to stay connected to offer truth, awareness, art, beauty, and love while storming the citadel of prejudice manufactured by mind colonizing bastards who think they own our private hearts.

What I know is simple yet for any intellectual it is dripping saccharine, yet here goes – love is the answer. Love of self, love of life, love of Earth, love of family and friends, love of the one other, and if not love of change, then for friggin’s sakes at a bare minimum the emotional realization – nothing changes if nothing changes. Tough love is its own reward because no one you direct it at wants it, ever. This is how to recognize it in the tule fog.

Doris’s 1956 sweetie of a tune worked to mend the madness of WWII, to infuse fear of atomic warfare, and keep folks down in the ghetto burning down their hood and not Beverly Hills. It is today outdated beyond any perceived implantation.

These are the irrevocable days for ramping up justice, freedom, and equality.

Before our communal ticket to ride on the mothership is punched into oblivion, how can we change our nasty Earth murdering ways for the personal and greater good? 

You tell me, muse.

Rafting together, Power to the People,

B. E. Macomber

Que Sera Sera Lyrics

When I was just a little girl

I asked my mother what will I be

Will I be pretty

Will I be rich

Here’s what she said to me


Que sera sera

Whatever will be will be

The future’s not ours to see

Que sera sera


When I was just a child in school

I asked my teacher what should I try

Should I paint pictures

Should I sing songs

This was her wise reply


Que sera sera

Whatever will be will be

The future’s not ours to see

Que sera sera


When I grew up and fell in love

I asked my sweetheart what lies ahead

Will there be rainbows day after day

Here’s what my sweetheart said


Que sera sera

Whatever will be will be

The future’s not ours to see

Que sera sera


What will be, will be

Que sera sera…


[1] Attitude determines harmony. A pissant, also seen as piss-ant has its origin from the word pismire, a 14th-century term for ant. The term piss-ant can also be used as an adjective, usually as a pejorative, to mean insignificant and annoying. In conversations with his advisors during the Vietnam War, U.S. President Lyndon B. Johnson referred to Vietnam as “a piddling piss-ant little country”.


[2] “Que Sera, Sera (Whatever Will Be, Will Be)” first published in 1956, is a popular song written by the Jay Livingston and Ray Evans songwriting team. The song was introduced in the Alfred Hitchcock film, The Man Who Knew Too Much (1956), starring Doris Day and James Stewart in the lead roles.

Day’s recording made it to number two on the Billboard Hot 100 and number one in UK Singles Chart. From 1968 to 1973, it was the theme song for the situation comedy The Doris Day Show becoming her signature tune. The song received the 1956 Academy ImageAward for Best Original Song. It was the third Oscar in this category for Livingston and Evans, who previously won in 1948 and 1950. It was a #1 hit in Australia for pop singer Rowe in September 1965. See the lyrics at the end of my rant.


[3] Sly and The Family Stone’s Que Sera Sera:



[5] Link to the 17th annual San Francisco Bay Fly Flyway Festival held in February 2013:



[9] Cigarette smoke contains over 4,000 chemicals, including 43 known cancer-causing (carcinogenic) compounds and 400 other toxins. These cigarette ingredients include nicotine, tar, and carbon monoxide, as well as formaldehyde, ammonia, hydrogen cyanide, arsenic, and DDT. Puff on a cig and within six minutes, your brain receives the crap. Nicotine in small doses acts as a stimulant to the brain. In large doses, it is a depressant, inhibiting the flow of signals between nerve cells. In even larger doses, it is a lethal poison, affecting the heart, blood vessels, and hormones. Nicotine in the bloodstream acts to make the smoker feel calm.

As a cigarette is smoked, the amount of tar inhaled into the lungs increases, and the last puff contains more than twice as much tar as the first puff. Carbon monoxide makes it harder for red blood cells to carry oxygen throughout the body. Tar is a mixture of substances that together form a sticky mass in the lungs.



The Tri-Love Logs or Cogs?

60s poster

60s poster

The Bohemian Birder, is book one of a trilogy. The trilogy defines the depth of passions aligned with human love, creativity, home places, resonating wild creatures and wild habitats, and consciousness expansion. The innovative series crisscrosses eco-philosophy, contemporary culture, and love. Soul searching, crappy politics, justice seekers, along with extreme birding, fishing, and boating adventures define a really weird swirl throughout the enchanting series of one woman telling it exactly how it was and is. The consistent message of oneness as the basis to steward Earth and build community attempts to be strangely stylish for the forsaken and maybe the saved. The odd ending to the The Bohemian Birder as ethereal cereal challenges the reader to believe in the boundlessness of life. The finale in the series is up for discussion.

The 77,049-word count for the first book, The Bohemian Birder, wholly complete, includes footnote links to websites, YouTube, and supporting commentaries. The other two books are underdevelopment, in more ways than one, yet continue the author’s pattern of employing documentation as revealing sidebars.

Awesome Pt. Reyes, the glorious wilds of Old California (Thousand Palms Oasis, The Salton Sea, Humboldt Bay, etc.), the late 60s San Francisco Bay Area Love Generation happenings and horrors, a youth-bent psychedelic romance, and the birth of on-the-road rare birding are significant others to each other in the first tale. The storyline’s mega birder/shaman/naturalist Rich Stallcup, Dr. David DeSante, plus Bonnie, a mutant Tabby cat, a funky Buick, and the titans of birders are human harness in The Bohemian Birder.

Witty, super articulate super loved Capt. Arthur DiPietro, Esq. and his 41-year long career as country lawyer and communitarian in the Hamptons, NY, is the crux of the second book, The Hamptons Fisherman. A verbose second marriage while catching and fishing The East End of Long Island performing the sacred hunt for Striped Bass and community while hooked to a faithful sobriety makes up the new ruralism landscape. All are interlinked floating bubbles inside the The Hamptons Fisherman. Significant others not to be assigned lesser roles are hazy to noisy locals, dirty back porch provincial politics, the summer colony of the rich and the rude, the phenomenology of architectural graveyards, Cafe HeBird SheBird, Sophia the Italian Spinone, and Awful Arthur’s Bait & Tackle. Nearly nineteen years of togetherness concludes with the wonders and blunders of Costa Rica and a visitation by a Harpy Eagle.

Hesham Yeyha Attallah, creative genius sloshing around in the dreamy mud of The Nile, is the third molecular focus in The Outdated Egyptian. The tale covers the before and aftermath of the flailing Arab Spring with cultural inter-connections coming way out of left field. The mixer in this ancient Egypt redux of stony desert scenes, burning down businesses and poetry is cyber sensuality. At the entrance to the mystic cavern is a western/oriental simmering pot no one suspects – the limiting contrivance of social media. Yet, maybe this is how we devolve to a species of dimensional senses instead of mind gamesters hell-bent on wiping ourselves and other living beings off the planet pouring on more and more avariceness and fear mongering. At the threshold of The Outdated Egyptian is techno-tooled awareness in a subjective finding of how powerful love is, or is not, and if Nilo Dreams® is for real, or a sweet lover/ancient man’s indulgence.

Bonnie Davis DiPietro, writing as B. E. Macomber, is a former award-winning creative director in San Francisco and NYC. Bloodied by the stained-glass ceiling in the 80s she morphed into an international illustrator of stamps for banana republics and unsuccessful English mysteries. Her 70s baptism in AP/UPI journalism left a tangy bitterness so Bonnie did not return to unfeigned writing until 2007. Today living as an ex-pat in Costa Rica while operating Alfombra Bird Observatory is her perfected setting. She holds a decaying pile of professional accolades. Her daily joy is her last love and the wonder of exotic birding and inter-species communication. She is an ex-politician/politico but active eco-warrior who never gave in and never gave up.

This is her début as an author in the narrative non-fiction genre. She has published her eco-rants on and off the Internet for too long and in spite of herself. Her stories are informative, daintily droll, and some bravehearts dare to report sadly enlightening.