Prologue

On a business trip to an island, the name of the island I can't remember. I can't remember a lot about that trip. It's all kind of fuzzy. There are a few things that I do remember however. One is, I stubbed my toe and got charcoal all over my white pants. Brand new white pants I might add as I bought them just for this trip to the Island, which name I can't remember. The other thing I do remember and this is why I'm writing at all is a story I was told about a man named Dizzy Bukowski. The not so unattractive woman who told me this story was a bit on the cougar side. She had a few too many adult beverages and told me she loved me. I do remember thinking what a ludicrous thing to say. This is irrelevant and I'll probably delete that part later. Anyhow the evening is beautiful with a Hawaiian silky sky. The air smells of pine and Apple or maybe a combination of both would better describe it. So this is the beginning I guess, of me telling the story of a story. The Story of Dizzy Bukowski. The most famous jazz punk bagpipe player of the deadbeat generation.