DATE: Sunday, May 4, 1997                   TAG: 9705020264

SECTION: CHESAPEAKE CLIPPER      PAGE: 02   EDITION: FINAL 

COLUMN: RANDOM RAMBLES 

SOURCE: Tony Stein 

                                            LENGTH:   76 lines

I WONDER IF THERE'S A SELF-HELP GROUP FOR BUBBLE-WRAP POPPERS?

Sometimes I worry about me. No, not the usual frets and sweats. My health is reasonably good, the bills are paid and if they gave medals for good wifery, Miz Phyllis would be at the head of the line.

I'm not sure my worry even has a name, but let me tell you about it. A couple of weeks ago, I got a package in the mail. There was a big chunk of bubble wrap protecting the contents. I opened the package in the car and left the bubble wrap on the seat.

I stopped for a red light and my right hand trailed over the bubble wrap. I popped a bubble. Very satisfying sound. Sharp, crisp with a sort of audio completeness to it. I popped another and another and another and felt a small tinge of regret when the light changed and I had to drive on.

I know I should have thrown away the bubble wrap when I got home, but momentous events often turn on small decisions. I left it on the seat next to me. Every time I got in the car, I popped more bubbles. I stopped listening to the classical music on WHRO. Bubbles, not Beethoven, soothed my soul.

I was hooked. Soon the simple pop them in a row was not enough. I needed more. I started squeezing them together so two popped at once. Sometimes one popped and one just squished. Desperate for the true, righeous sound of a double-bubble pop, I plunged on. But when at last it happened, was I happy? No! I needed more, always more. I would create the world's first 10-bubble pop, 20-bubble pop, 100-bubble pop. I would stand on the gold medal pedestal at the next Olympics while musically tuned bubbles popped the Star Spangled Banner.

That piece of bubble wrap became a sort of in-transit teddy bear. I looked forward to the reassuring rhythm as my fingers pressed down on yet another row. And Rice Krispies thought they had a lock on Snap! Crackle! Pop! Ha!

Not since I was 17 and got hooked on pipe-smoking had anything lured me like this. I loved my pipes and I loved the rituals that went with smoking them. Open the tobacco pouch and let your nose bask in the dual perfume of well-worn leather and fine tobacco. Pass a match over the tobacco and create halos of smoke like a mellow fog settling in. Not the quick puff, puff, puff destruction of a cigarette, but a slow, contemplative drawing.

Never mind the inevitable small holes in every piece of clothing in my closet. Never mind the tobacco ash and burnt matches in my pockets. Never mind the time I set fire to the waste basket in the newspaper's sports department when I emptied what I thought were cold remnants.

Eventually, I had about 60 pipes. I picked one for each day as carefully as some men pick their wardrobe. I probably smelled of Borkum Riff whiskey tobacco, but, like most habitual smokers, I wasn't aware of it. The Borkum Riff ads always showed a male smoker surrounded by Scandinavian blondes, but my pipe and my brown-haired wife were satisfaction enough for me.

It all ended one day at the doctor's office. ``There's a small spot on the bottom of one lung,'' he said. ``It's time to get rid of the pipes.'' I did. The Chesapeake Humane Society was having a rummage sale the next day and I took my pipes to the sale. I didn't wait to see who bought them and for what pittance. Too painful, like I was a farm wife watching the sheriff sell off grandma's quilt for taxes.

That was about 10 years ago and I have not had one pipe puff since. I miss it but not even a visitation from three Scandinavian blondes is worth lung disease.

So far, I have not seen any health warnings about my newest addiction. No package reminder that the surgeon general says bubble wrap poppers will grow purple calluses on their finger tips. Actually, it's not the physical side of bubble-wrap popping that worries me. It's the mental side.

I mean, will bubble-wrap poppers eventually be menaces to society? Will I need to pop ever bigger bubbles until I become like the creatures in those Japanese monster movies, triumphantly stomping bubbles as big as whole cities? Not ``Godzilla,'' but ``Popzilla.'' It is fearful to contemplate that I might meet my end in a rotten monster flick with bad dialogue that doesn't match the way the actors' mouths move.

Fortunately, I still have some control. I was popping with one hand while driving the other day and realized it was dangerous. How could I tell a judge ``Sorry about the accident, your honor, but I was popping bubble wrap.''

Unless the judge himself was a member of the bubble-wrap brethren. We're out there, you know. We look normal but - I'm warning you - be careful how you wrap your next package.

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