Remember Dagwood and Blondie Bumstead?
Their children, Alexander and Cookie?
Don't forget the dog, Daisy.
You're seeing this because last night, at about 1:30 AM, I awakened with a driving hunger pang. I ran out to the fridge, opened 'er up and the first thing that flashed before my imagination's eye was this:
Once I got over the shock of the first wave, the first thing that came to mind was, "I wonder how many millennials know who this is?"
Then I started to muse about the value of such a memory. Why was I covered by a cloud of "Dagwood-ism?" What was the value? What was the Lord Almighty trying to tell me? I was really mystified and I am still digging around in the spiritual centers of my being to see if I might find something important to learn about this experience.
In the fog of reflection and quasi meditation, I never got an answer to my mental probing about how Dagwood ever did get to wrap his mouth around the monumental sandwiches that he was fond of contructing.
One thing did come to mind: The difference between Daisy and Snoopy. Daisy never did quite make it the exhalted level of Snoopy. She never strutted around on two legs like that most famous of all Beagles.
Finally, as I was going about the business of taking the lid off the agenda of the new week, all the while reminiscing about Dagwood, I began to try to count the number of jobs I have done in my lifetime.
Now, that, as you may all imagine, is a story for another day.
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