July 3, 2007

-- Remember how I was bitching a few weeks ago because I didn’t have Microsoft Word on my laptop, and was forced to use some kind of crapola like Wordpad, or whatever? 

Yeah, I had the original install disc, but everybody I talked to said Microsoft is really strict about that sort of thing, and I probably wouldn’t be able to use the program on more than one computer.

Grrr…

One of you guys suggested a free program called OpenOffice, which I downloaded and installed. And I liked it, except for one thing: it saves files in a format that nobody recognizes. Like .lmnop, or something. 

So I’d do a little writing at my afternoon office, then forward it to myself. And my PC at home would say, “The shit’s this?? Some kind of crap from the Czech Republic?”  

No seriously, that’s what it would say. 

I didn’t want to install the program on my home computer (it seems to want to take over your system, and set itself as the default for everything), so I just went back to using Wordpad.

Until yesterday, anyway. I was writing another “special report” at the bread company, got highly irritated, and threw a minor temper tantrum that included the absolute destruction of a French baguette.

And when I returned home I defiantly started the process of loading Word onto my laptop. Predictably, I got all the way to the end, when it asked for the Product Key, thought about it for a few seconds, then said, “Um, no. Try that again turdlips, and we’ll contact Interpol.”

So I called Microsoft. 

And shockingly enough, I was put straight through to a real, live human being. She listened to my sob story, chuckled, and said she’d take care of it. And within seconds I had a new Product Key, typed it in, and everything is now right with the world.

I still can’t believe it. It’s been so long since I’ve received quality and speedy customer service, I feel like there must be a catch. 

How’s this one going to come back to haunt me? I'm going to pay, aren't I?

-- When we arrived at the campground in Myrtle Beach on Friday afternoon, my parents’ camper was already set-up and waiting for us. They’d leveled it, hooked up the water, electric, and sewer, and the air conditioner was even blasting.

There are a few things they won’t mess with, and I had to take care of those. Like the awning, for instance. They won’t touch the awning, or the slides either. So I spent thirty minutes or so on the phone with my Dad, while he walked me through the process.

We’d never seen this camper before. My parents sold their big Shania Twain tour bus, because they didn’t enjoy that style of camping, and bought this “new” one last fall. I was really paranoid about screwing something up. Everything was in perfect condition; the spikes for the outdoor carpet were even rubber-banded together, and possibly hand- waxed.

But in short order we were set-up (without incident) and ready to roll with our big summer vacation. 

As I mentioned before, our site was right up against the ocean, so close we could literally hear the waves crashing from the camper. Very cool. And right across the road in another direction: the pool and arcade, and all that stuff. I couldn’t believe our good fortune.

Toney wanted to go out and buy the entire week’s worth of groceries right away, then try to never leave the campground again. But I was starving, and suggested we check out the Friday Night Fish Fry first, which was just cranking up.

So we walked over there and it was complete pandemonium. The price was eight dollars per head, but it was all-you-can-eat, and also reportedly kick-ass. It felt like everybody in the entire campground was there, mouths a-watering. I sighed theatrically, and just fell into line. What else could I do?

The food was good, I guess, but not as good as I’d hoped. The best part of the meal was the sweet tea, which was obviously fresh-brewed and mighty tasty indeed. 

I went back for several refills, and accidentally collided with a guy on my final visit. He acted like he was pissed, then started laughing, and said, in an incredibly thick Hee Haw accent, “Oh, I’m just fussin’ at ya, buddy.” 

Whatever, dude.

After our deep-fried dinner from the sea, I dropped Toney off at Wal-Mart, and the Secrets and I made a beeline for the fireworks store. That’s where I talked to the guy who had an encyclopedic knowledge of cherry bombs and the like. 

I noticed he had something in glass jars beside the cash register, called M90s. They looked exactly like the old M80s, and were 25 cents each. I asked if they were any good, and he said, “No, they’re crap.” And no further explanation was offered.   

We bought about twenty dollars worth of explosive materials (no M90s), and went back to the grocery store to wait on Toney to finish up.

Then we returned to the campground, put the groceries away, and popped the tops on a few beers. Toney bought four six packs: Harp, Bass, Blue Moon, and something else I can’t now remember. There were also several containers of the golden elixir still on ice. Yes, we were set for a while.

I’d forgotten my expensive Nike flip-flops, so Toney picked me up a pair that cost three dollars at Wal-Mart. After a couple of adult beverages we decided to take a walk on the beach, so I slipped-on those ridiculous items and we went walkin’

There was no bend to them, it was just hard plastic shells. Within minutes I was bleeding, and that’s not a joke. An hour later, upon our return to the camper, I saw that both my feet had also turned the color of plums. Needless to say, the Secrets laughed for a good long time.

After they turned in for the night, Toney and I sat outside and had another beer each, and listened to the “musical” group performing across the street at the pool. I think they were called The Statler Brothers, Only Much Much Worse. But I could be mistaken about that.

And I’ll continue the story tomorrow, in a special Holiday Edition of The West Virginia Surf Report.

See ya then.



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