If Marilyn Had Been a Car, She Would Have Been a Ferrari
I AM FLYING OVER THE TOP OF L.A. in the world’s greatest sports car, clocking speeds well above 100 miles an hour then quickly braking to a fraction of that to keep the Ferrari from sailing off a winding curve on Mulholland Drive and into a canyon below — and it’s like orgasming in a dream. I am either about to wake up or go the way of James Dean, hypnotized as I am by the Ferrari’s spine-tingling engine sound as enchanting as the seductive sirens of Greek mythology.