Recently in Creative Writing Category

This is a test of Writely.com's ability to post to my weblog. According to the ABC News Story: REVIEW: Writely Mostly Hits the Mark, By JESSICA MINTZ AP Business Writer:

From: REVIEW: Google's Writely Mostly Hits the Mark, but It's No Word Killer: By JESSICA MINTZ, Oct 5, 2006 (AP)

With Google's backing, Writely has a jump on its competitors, which include AdventNet Inc.'s Zoho Writer and ThinkFree Corp.'s ThinkFree Write. (There are even rumors Microsoft will jump into the online word processor space.)

But as several substantial open-source alternatives have shown, it's tough to take market share from Microsoft Word. Even with the search leader's name attached, there's little danger Writely will crush Microsoft or its pricey boxed programs any time soon.

Copyright 2006 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.

So,...lets test if it hits my weblog. OK. It did. But I had to go back to my usual editor: Ecto and make some adjustments to things like "category", even though Writely said I could assign them and to the Title of the post - which I did adjust in Writely, but it didn't take - and I had to clean up the line breaks a bit as well as the "quoted" text. But, all-in-all, I would say that in a pinch, or when using another computer with internet access, it works.

George and Raymond sat in their usual spot in Mizner Plaza - the outdoor tables of GiGi's of Boca Raton and talked about the day's business.  Raymond was the brains and George was the brawn that collectively made up the management team of Navarco, a boutique consulting firm that had dreams of playing in the big leagues of the financial world.  Or, at least that was George's dream.  Raymond owned the company and had already made a few bucks.  He was just seeking to hold on to them and make them multiply a few hundred times.

"Ray, if we just get NetMusic the cash it needs to close the deal with Morphus, we'll all be rich and I'll be calling you from my house in Tuscany," continued George.  They had been talking about a project that the two of them had started a few years back and turned over to a crack team of dead-beats and Navarco ATM subscribers - that's what Raymond called them; companies that thought of Navarco as an ATM machine but never produced anything.

Neither of them were willing to give up on the idea of their dream of building good company.  Nor were they willing to accept, openly at any rate, that it was already dead.  It was, they just didn't know it.

"I know, buddy," concurred Raymond, "Its just that the Morphus deal sounds too fishy.  They can't even produce a legitimate contract that proves . . ."

"Fifteen million a piece doesn't sound fishy to me," said George.  "Bite me Skippy.  With that kind of money, I'm out'a here and practicing on my future phrase.  Come on, you know it.  I told you before.  When I have enough to not worry about anything, the only thing I want to worry about is being able to say . . ."

"I know.  Fuel up the jet," mimed Raymond.

"Yep!," smiled George, rather proud of himself and the millions he'd just spent but hadn't made.

"Buddy, I want you to have that jet and everything.  Its just that I keep thinking that we're tossing good money after bad and don't know it yet.  Its like we want to believe its gonna happen so we don't let it die," offered Raymond.

George was busy chatting with someone who came by to shake hands with the "Mayor" of Mizner Plaza, or he was busy with someone who needed a favor by way of asking George to ask this friend about another friend about the thing with the other friend on Friday next week.  But it didn't matter as Raymond knew that George could multitask.

After George said his whatever to whomever he asked, "What's up buddy?  You seem out of it.  How's everything  Are you OK?  Talk to me."

"Yeah, I'm OK.  I'm just thinking about business and this deal."

"Come on Ray.  I've known you what, ten years?  What's going on?," pressed George.

"Dude, I'm fine. Really," said Raymond.

"OK.  But if you ever need to talk . . ."

"I know."

"I worry about you buddy.  You know you're my best friend," George explained.

"I know. I know."

While writing this, I played: I Cried For You from the album "Piece By Piece" by Katie Melua.

My favorite time of day is the witching hour, the time when all are asleep and peace meets your day at last. For me, its usually falls between 11:00PM and 1:00AM and if I'm lucky, all inclusive, although that never really happens. I am invariably stirred from my peaceful moments - time with my mac - time to write - time to look out the window and reflect on the days ahead and those in recent past.

There is a woman on my block who wears pink. Not just pink - God awful pink - a hideous cotton candy colored sweater. And if that were not enough, hot pink leggings complete the ensemble. My word, what a sight! But the image continues with a less than matching baseball cap, until you notice that it is of the same shit blue as her shirt hidden under that puffy pink thing.

And then there is the baby, as I am certain it's called. A fagot of a dog, wearing a shit blue ribbon somewhere around it?s retarded head. All furry and cute, and obviously lame -- as she, the pink lady must carry it. Its one of those kinds of dogs that even dog lovers would use for field goal practice. Although, most dog lovers, I know will use anything less than two feet high for some sport involving a foot.

Anyway, there she is as expected at 12:59 PM, carrying her lame dog down my otherwise un-pink block. All is quiet, (for Brooklyn.) Everyone is asleep. Nobody?s around to see this fashion disaster in pink and her butt-sniffing dog. I am the lucky insomniac. What a treat!

And then there is a car. 'Oh, no! Run pink, run,' I say. 'What if they see you?' The car stops. 'Christ, I think its the fashion police! Run.' The car backs up and then turns to block her path as she walks down my street. He gets out, and reaches out to her.

'Oh, God!' I cry, 'Pink's done for.' And then he pets the homo dog. He (wearing a matching shit-blue cap, I might add) rubs the gay dog's ears and says hello. 'Oh, I get it,' I admit. 'Pink has a friend... How odd.'

So, when you walk down my block, don't be late. For, if you wish to see love, at 1:05 you will have missed it. Note: So, here I am writing about some true love experience, and I can't help laughing about some pecker-sniffing, homo-assed dog that probably eats better than they do.