April 20, 2005, 8:05 a.m.
Things Are Good
My sweet life. My sweetie, my car. Oh yeah, baby.

I drive the same car as Bono. He uses his Maserati Quattroporte to give rides to teenagers he doesn’t know and plays them cuts off his new album, and I use mine to take two grade schoolers to carpool and play Punchbuggy, the ancient game of VW beetle-spotting. We don’t do the punching part, just the spotting, which is good because it’s difficult to drive a finely tuned Italian sports car with a 4.2-liter V8 engine delivering nearly 400 horsepower while simultaneously leaning into the backseat to punch a six-year-old in the arm.

Ah, the Maserati Quattroporte. Say it with me. Allow your tongue to wrap around all those "r"s. Bono says it’s an arrogant name, because “Quattroporte” just means “four doors.” Have you seen your sunglasses, Bono? Should you be talking about arrogance? It’s possible I get a little defensive at times about the Quattroporte, but if Bono talks more smack like that, I may have to kick his African-debt-relieving butt.

Now let’s look at her. Mmm. She is beautiful, no? I first saw the Quattroporte in a hangar at the Santa Monica airport. We had been invited to the West Coast unveiling of the car, and I don’t really know why we went, other than that it seemed kind of cool. A small dark man addressed the crowd. He wore an impeccable blue pinstriped Zegna suit and spoke with a genuinely cartoonish Italian accent. “You must fall in love wizz a car zee way you fall in love wizz a woman.” A moment later, he pulled a glittering silk drape off the car, and I grabbed the nearest salesman and said, “I’ll take it.” Come to think of it, that’s exactly how I fell in love with my wife.

It was 18 months from that day before my car, which was completely custom-built to my specifications (I asked for it to be ultra-awesome), arrived at my local dealer. It made the long trip from its birthplace in Italy to the States by boat, and then it was crudely trucked to California, taking a route just circuitous enough to get here days after April 1, which apparently opened a loophole in the lease agreement allowing the dealership to charge me another five grand. The price of beauty. Look at this car!

In addition to an all-aluminum four-cam engine with continuously variable intake-valve timing and a TV in the dashboard, the Quattroporte delivers unexpected side benefits. For instance, I now know what it’s like to be Angelina Jolie. Men stare at me all day long. They lean out of their windows to yell compliments. They stop and strike up nervous, pointless conversations and ask permission before they touch. Women, by the way, couldn’t care less. You know what I say to them? Jealous.

Maserati claims they will produce no more than 3500 Quattroportes a year, 1,500 for the North American market, thus ensuring that my personal statement of elite status remains as close to unique as a car can —

I’m sorry, what? What did you say? Because it sounded like you said, “It’s just a car.”

A chill wind blows in through an open window. All sound in the room goes dead. Two frightened men scurry for the door. A woman clutches her baby close to her breast as I slowly rise to my feet. “Just a car?” I say. Someone’s trembling hand drops a glass. It smashes to the floor, but I don’t even blink. Then I smile. The light glints off my gold tooth. (Yikes, not really. Who am I, Nelly?)

Yeah, it’s just a car. It’s not a person, someone I or you love, or even a great idea, like freedom or democracy or even Social Security reform. Why get so excited? (On the other hand, if Social Security reform had double-wishbone suspension and a six-speed Duo-Select Ferrari-style transmission, maybe I would write about that.) As spectacular as it is, and it is spectacular, my Maserati is just a thing, and the modern idea is that things don’t really matter. “Imagine no possessions,” said the millionaire from his Manhattan high-rise, an irony I am not the first to observe. “My Maserati does 185 / I lost my license / Now I don’t drive” sang Joe Walsh in “Life’s Been Good,” a bitter attack on the agonizing ravages of success. Poor Joe obviously spent too much time hanging around notorious sad-sack Don Henley. (The next line is “I have a limo / Ride in the back / I lock the doors in case I’m attacked.)

Well, folks, I’m here to tell you that things are good. My car is my newest and most favorite thing, but I will also stand up in support of iPods, TiVos, laptops, elliptical trainers, Relax the Back chairs, and Sonicare toothbrushes. (A dental hygienist once confided in me, though she would deny it, that if I used my Sonicare every day, I really wouldn’t need to floss. No floss! What a world!) I don’t mean that things are “good” as opposed to “evil” — things don’t have moral content. But inarguably, things can make us happy. The Beatles sang, “Money can’t buy me love.” Exactly, Beatles — money can buy you things! Want to test the theory? Give something really cool to someone who doesn’t have anything really cool. Watch their face. That ain’t sadness and ennui, Mr. Aptly-Named Lennon.

Here’s another plus. A car like this reminds me every day just how unbelievably fortunate I am, and how many reasons I have to be thankful. I was born with something of a talent, and thanks to God and the US of A, I was able to apply it in an industry that rewards hard work with high pay. (Also, thanks to my agents, Mom and Dad, and my wonderful wife. Hi, kids, go to bed!) When I get on the freeway onramp, hit the gas, and bring my Maserati’s Italian tenor up to full song, I hear a whole chorus of hallulujahs. (On the issue of trade balance, I also own a gigantic American SUV. On the issue of gas consumption, remember that you can’t spell “Warren” without ANWR.)

In closing, I would like to introduce you to the teachings of my favorite philosopher, Jorge Fajl. Jorge is a superior man in Los Angeles from Uruguay by way of Brazil, and I was first exposed to his thinking as we sat on lounge chairs in my backyard. (Philosophy is for Jorge more like a hobby.) I quote him here:

There are many reasons why I moved to America. Some of them are very deep and have to do with my ideology, family’s well being, education for my kids, security, etc. Some are very shallow and involve a brand name: Best Buy, Starbucks, Banana Republic, Costco and Target. The truth is I love to buy stuff. I love the idea of affordable luxury. You name it, I want it. I’m not clear why I want it but I know what I feel when I finally own it and I love it. I come from countries where success and wealth offends those who don’t have it. I’m hopelessly seduced by the American way. Success rocks!

I may even let him drive the Maserati.

Um, not now. But soon. Maybe.

— Warren Bell, an NRO contributor, is a 15-year veteran of the sitcom business and a not-so-secret conservative. He lives with his wife, two sons, and their dog just outside Los Angeles, and he would like to answer in advance to any highway patrolmen or county sheriffs that yes, he knows how fast he is going.