The journalists who comprise the rest of the New Times staff have long been extolling the virtues of the Bubble, a "concept facility" (or a place for drinks, music, and artistic freedom) that opened a year ago. Although sick of their constant exultant jabber, I stubbornly refused to check it out myself simply on principle. It was only through a kidnapping that I wound up there on a recent Saturday night to witness the spectacle firsthand.
Dear New Times staff, I'm sorry. You were right.
Bruised shoulders from all those self-administered pats on the back. Read on.