I wrote two short columns this week. I’m gonna say it’s in honor of Motorola splitting up into two companies, but that’s a lie. Hey, remember the StarTac? That was a great phone.

The Wilbur Limo

The Wilbur Limo mystery has been solved. In my last column, I saluted the then-unknown owner of a late-1980s model stretch limousine in the Wilbur parking lot. But now, our shadowy livery lothario has a name: Zavain Dar.

I’m convinced that there are two types of people in the world: those who let their mothers dissuade them from crazy ideas and those who don’t. Guess which type Dar is. At the beginning of last quarter, the sophomore had the chance to buy the 1987 Chrysler Fifth Avenue stretch limousine for $600. Of course, Momma Dar had some concerns.

“My mom thought it was one of the stupider ideas I’ve ever thought of,” he said.

Dar could have abandoned the idea, as so many others have, and gone to law school, a place filled with losers who didn’t have the balls to buy that limo in college. Zavain Dar considered his mother’s advice, but in the end, however, he decided to set his own course.

“When else are you gonna get to drive a limo?” he told me with a wink and a smile. We were on the phone, but no matter.

Dar still hasn’t taken the stretch for a whirl because the car has a flat tire and a dead battery. But the plan is to start a livery business that could ferry fresh undergrads to formals and Pub Night.

It looks like Stanford may end up expanding the undergraduate population. When it happens, let’s accept a few more wheeler-dealer-dreamer-schemers like Zavain Dar. They make the world a hell of a lot more interesting a place.

The Space-Time continuum be damned

I went to Rose and Crown last night, as usual, for Trivia Night. And, as usual, I ended up at Pizza My Heart, a consensus pick for Worst College Town Pizzeria in the Nation.

Inspired by “Back to the Future,” I drew on my previous experiences at PMH and wrote a letter to myself yesterday to be opened today, April 2.

Dear David,

You went to Pizza My Heart last night. You didn’t want to, but the bar stopped serving food at 9, and you were really hungry. You tried to order a plain slice.

“Can I get a plain slice?”

The girl behind the counter gave you a dull stare.

“Guh, you mean a cheese slice?”

The cheese slice was $3. It was terrible. The dough was so limp that the crust wouldn’t fold. Some grease dripped on your pants. It’s ok, I packed a moist towelette in your pocket. No, your other pocket.

As you were eating, a Russian woman meandered over and showed you some ornaments. They were $15. I think the money was for her church. I put all your cash in a back pocket so you could shake your wallet upside down and feign poverty. You’re welcome.

I’m glad you didn’t try to use the bathroom. Two Paly juniors were snorting nutmeg in there. They learned about it on South Park, I think. Or maybe from one of the homeless guys out front. Anyway, it smelled bad in there. It’s good that you waited to pee.

Oh, did you see the new surfboard they put up? No? It had green stripes.

Your pal,

David

P.S. Call Mom. She’s probably read the bit about not listening to your mother by now.

David’s mom and others can reach him at dherbert "at" stanford.edu.