Ferrari | Things That Rhyme with 'Cars'

Today was a day of tragedy. It was a day of heartbreak. It was a day of joy. And it was a day of triumph.

If you couldn’t figure out what was what, tragedy struck in Oslo, heartbreak occurred when the talented Amy Winehouse succumbed to a never-ending drug addiction, joy came to the Yinzer faithful and city of Milledgeville, Georgia when Ben Roethlisberger married his girlfriend and solidified an end to his search for love. May sorority sisters everywhere sleep better at night because of it.

And triumph occurred. Triumph. A full-circle conclusion to a six-week-long search for one car. Pft, that sounds ridiculous with so much going on in the world of more importance, but this actually meant something, if ever-so-trivial to me, a realization of what I thought LA was.

I finally saw a Ferrari. Well, three actually.

Last night, I posted on the excesses of Los Angeles. I know this city is as superficial as Las Vegas in many respects, sans the fact that people have real jobs here and the architecture doesn’t look as gauche. But there’s a vibe of lots of money and trying to hard to spend it in much of this city. Today, I finally got to go to Beverly Hills, Hollywood, and the parts with more money than sense. I got the tour from my friend, Joe: “Oh, that’s the hotel where Lindsay Lohan went for her coked-out binges,” he explained among other factoids you’re just not going to get on the Star Tours.

Beverly Hills is excess turned up to 11. It solidified my opinion of it as a fairy tale world, one $30 million, er, ~~$60~~ $85 million house at a time. Aston Martin, Bentley, Lamborghini, Maserati, AMG Mercedes, BMW M, Porsche — being honest, Beverly Hills, as well as LA in general, has taken the glamour out of seeing so many of them on the road. I’m sure my opinion will change when I have the opportunity to drive some of them, and I still hold all of them at dream level, but they’re pretty much like the idea of wrapping Mila Kunis in a burqa to me — what’s the point of looking gorgeous if they’re homogenized to the point of anonymity? To the people who can afford them, I say this: Buy a Noble. Buy a Lexus LFA. Buy a Spyker or a Morgan. Buy something with a little less “me-too”-ness to it.

Rarer than any cars I had seen — and likely intentionally so — are Ferraris out here. You wouldn’t think that’d be the case, but with two-year waiting lists and $100,000 fees to jump to the front of the line, a 458 Italia suddenly looks overpriced when you can get a Lamborghini Murcielago roadster for the same kind of money — and the Murci is an open top. You know, see and be seen: the motto of Beverly Hills.

The Hills was the last place I had not been that could possibly see a Ferrari. So we went there. I’m really digging this urban exploration thing if you haven’t figured it out.

I saw the usual round of uber cars. I thought that there could be a chance that today would once again not be my lucky day after seeing an Aston Martin V8 Vantage and a Vanquish back to back. But then I saw a 599. Wow, the first one I had ever seen of those. And shortly after cruising the roads leading up to the Playboy mansion, I saw a 355 Spider.

And all good things apparently come in threes, so when we stopped for dinner, out cropped a 612 Scaglietti to complete the cycle right across from Hollywood’s favorite Starbucks. Ah, what a great end to the day.

So to all of you annoyed to the point of insanity from my incessant “Ferrari Watch” ranting, fret no more. I’ll find something new to obsess about now. Come on, my longest-standing worry since I landed here June 9 has been to see a Prancing Stallion on something from Modena. I saw one, er, three tonight.

I’ve got to say that if that was my biggest worry, I’m now through with it. Thank goodness. Life’s pretty good right now.

With J-Los, R-Pats, and an alphabet soup of people with more dollars than sense, it shouldn’t be too hard to see a Ferrari around Los Angeles, right?

Well, I guess that all depends on where you are. It’s not like this place has been a dearth of exotic automobiles. On my second night here, I saw a Maybach 57 sedan parked right on Spring Street downtown. On my first day of work, I was passed by a black-on-black Bentley Continental Super Sport convertible on my way to the 105 (that’s how you say highway names out here — not “Interstate 105” or “I-105”). But not counting what might’ve been a Ferrari California a mile down the road and a few “lesser” Maseratis, I’ve yet to see an Italian Stallion. I know they’re in lesser supply around here these days. Nic Cage had to give up some of his collection in the aftermath of financial meltdown. It’s even gotten to a point that I’m sure is annoying with my coworkers that I have created a game called “Ferrari Watch.”

I’ve not won yet, obviously.

But for crying out loud, I saw more Ferraris in North Canton, Ohio than I’ve seen in what some people consider the mecca of rare and exclusive cars in the U.S. Part of this could stem from the fact that I have yet to visit Beverly Hills and too, too much of Orange County where the rich and famous roam the real estate. No, I’ve stuck mostly to my spot near USC, Long Beach, and Van Nuys, where I’ve now been twice. This isn’t to say I’ve not seen rare and eclectic cars abound. Lamborghinis and Porsches are like the sun out here — not a day goes by when you don’t see one.

And even in my lower-middle class area, there are tons and tons of Jihadi-spec old Toyotas that you may never see in your life if you live in the Rust Belt. It makes me not wonder so much what Afghanistan is really like, sans the fact we don’t have IEDs here.

But getting back to Ferraris, they were never meant to be seen so much as the Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, Aston Martins, and Lamborghinis of the world in spite of the fact that just a decade ago, you could pick up a new 360 Modena for less than the price of a new Mercedes S600.

When a wine maker and tractor producer bought a Ferrari back in the 1950s, he fancied the Pininfarina design and sporting character. But let’s be honest, it was harsh and as reliable as getting your money back from an impoverished meth addict. So that man went about creating a car that could carry the same sporting nature while providing a bit more practicality and refinement. That man’s name was Ferrucio Lamborghini.

Ferrari, on the other hand, fancied his street cars as a means to an end; a way to get funding so he could build his world-beating race cars. He couldn’t care less if your car broke down so long as you bought another one. And it wasn’t until the 1990s that Ferrari stepped up its game in provocation from Honda with the NSX, a car that proved sporty didn’t have to be unreliable. Really, up until Ferrari realized most of the people lusting after them couldn’t drive stick, its cars weren’t about luxury or getting your money’s worth in creature comforts. With the F40 in 1987, you could see the glue runs on the door seams where Ferrari had fastened the car together. It was the last car Enzo himself worked on before he died that year.

Here I am, wishing in a place with probably the largest disparity of wealth on Earth that I’d see just one of the handbuilt sports cars — just one. Of all the people who buy them out here, you’d think that would be the case. But until I venture over to the western corridor of this city, I’ll likely have to settle for my Porsches and other ego-mobiles that just aren’t Ferraris.

Pity me.