After last night's performance of Jukebox Stories: The Case of the Creamy Foam (where Brandon generously gave a random guy I pointed to a lap dance), a bunch of us went to Jupiter on Shattuck Avenue in Berkeley. I had a pizza that was almost as good as self-fellatio. (Almost.) It's called the Apollo, and it features sun-dried tomatoes, fresh spinach, garlic, feta, mozzarella, and marinara sauce—an amazing combination that was, for lack of a better term, a culinary explosion in my mouth.
Everybody else got drunk.