I love Bubblegum, the color, the smack. Chewing.

It’s been a lifelong pursuit to get the perfect blend of sugar and chew. Bazooka’s pretty good, but a little too hard so it hurts. Bubblicious flavor wears off and Trident just feels too healthy. A couple of the long packages with gumballs will do for a road trip, and Double Bubble will get me through a long night.

But the supreme mother bubble, eureka. I finally found it. My heroin.

At Bogie’s Liquor on Fountain Ave in Silverlake, he’s packing Super Bubble on the DL, so contraband, you need a password for it. Not the cubes, the oblongs.

The tall Korean guy with his short spikey hair and hip glasses lodges the bubble smack, probably years old, between the whiskeys and the cigars. Just for me, because who else buys the stuff? I only cave in every few months. When I walk in, he has to move the small whiskey bottles to pull out the box. Though his customers are late night cigarette and booze buyers, he warns me about the poison. He shakes his head, “This stuff is lethal.”

One time, he was closing. The gates were already drawn. I had told this date to come over to Bogie’s to pick up my heroin. The guy believed me. He really believed me when we walked to Bogies, and the guy thrust a paper bag at me through the metal gate. “Take it and leave.” I thrust two dollars into his fist, and we slunk off our separate ways.

The date was awestruck. Then, when I offered him some, he shook his head, scared, but impressed. I carried the bag of bubble on the date, playing it up, smelling the contents. The date kept asking questions, when I was going to do it. “The smack?” Yeah. “You want to watch?” Yes yes, he said eagerly. “Here, on the street?” “Please, yes, yes, yes!”

I skillfully unwrapped a piece inside the bag. I popped a single Super Bubble in my mouth. The burst of sugar, the slow plodding of the mandibles, then each outburst and explosion of sweet — Oh the ecstasy. It’s only good when your spine shivers and your teeth go cold.

According to Wikipedia: A superbubble is a cavity hundreds of light years across, filled with 106 K gas blown into the intersteller medium by multiple supernovae and stellar winds. That’s light years from describing the sensation of that first tingly bite.

The date was visibly disappointed and thrown. He finally laughed it off, but realized I was child’s play. Certainly, not hipster heroin morose.

So, when I wear this shirt, I get phantorgasmic tingles and want to chew myself. Here’s a link to the bubblegum t-shirt on this exclusive bonus video I did with my son, singing my song “Apoco-LA-lyptic Freeway Hell” on Bravo’s “LA Shrinks:”

Apoco-LA-lyptic Freeway Hell

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