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Based upon how much Crossfade covers the Bubble and Surfer Blood and, uh, Nonpoint, readers might assume that we're a bunch of skinny-jeaned, asymmetrically coiffed brats over here, and they'd probably be kind of right. Although our occasional drinking buddy Tara Nieuwesteeg depicts other writers as "trendy hipsters who refer to their craft as 'narrative nonfiction,'" she did manage to have some fun at the Bubble -- and
wrote about it.
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.
