In August of 2001, i stood in my parents’ front lobby watching Wilby’s sister repack his poor excuse for a suitcase, mere minutes before we had to be on the road to Pearson International to catch our Delta ‘buddy’ flights to Budapest. According to her, rolling your clothes was the most economical way of packing, creating extra room for him to stash his initial Rogaine treatments. Might as well be a complete rebirth. It was the end of an era in London, ON, with former jobs, abandoned apartments, failed relationships and a string of anal beads all being left behind in our wake. It was like Bill Murray at the beginning of Stripes.
Wilby, Killer, JB and i let out for Hungary in mid-August, heading off to reset 4 lives that had been fucked up in one way or another. My buddy Rich, having lived there for several years already, had hooked us up with a sweet 4ish bedroom flat, wired to go with phone, interweb, furniture and bedding. Waterbedding. Our landlord turned out to be Hungary’s waterbed king, and also a pot dealer, swinger, US importer/exporter and bassist that had once sat in with Link Wray. This apartment was to be our new sanctuary of work, play, more work, more play and occasional rest; our fucking Xanadu. We had decided to start an online IT news/research company, and figured Central Europe was as good a place as any – we knew peeps: we had hookups. It wasn’t. Read more