Hey, you! Yeah, you! Your Ferrari sucks!

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Ferrari 599 Gtb

So I got this email this morning. And it got me to thinking. And then, out of nowhere, the $250,000 Ferrari 612 Scaglietti seemed a lot like a Toyota Camry.

But about that email.; It was someone who was upset that, in our article on the Ferrari 599 GTB,; we said that the 612 Scaglietti lacks soul.

This is the way things work in the magazine bidness. We write what we think, and the car manufacturers either love us or hate us for it. Way of the world, and all that.

In case you're a little out-of-touch with what Ferrari makes these days, this is a 612 Scaglietti:

and this is a 599 GTB:

So, there we were, standing around the water cooler.; I mentioned the e-mail I had gotten, and someone spit out the following:; "I think we all pretty much agreed … the Scaglietti; lacked that certain something we expect in a Ferrari. The car didn't sound exciting; it was kinda weird-looking, too."

"Weird-looking." Got me thinking. I was lucky enough to visit Ferrari's Modena factory (oh, crap, what endless cool THAT was) earlier this year. The difference between the 599 and the 612?

The 599 didn't suck.

Standing there in Modena, at the end of a long, long line of 599s popping and snarling and crackling into life, I had the chance to think about all this in . . . shall we say . . . a proper setting. Rows of engines on ready-made, dry-break dyno stands. Production lines slowly churning out 430s and 599s and 612s (the 430 line, oddly enough, was in the middle of a run of black cars, while the 599s were all red). Some small Italian girl in red Spandex speaking with a heavy, heavy accent. Echoes of history dripping from the walls. That sort of thing.

At the end of the three (four?) main production lines, there was a small gathering of cars and rolling worktables. This, officially, is the rectification department, but in reality, it just looked like a bunch of mad-scientist Guidos and Alfieris and Camparis who needed an excuse to seem busy. Tiny hammers tapping out imperceptible dents in aluminum doors, and brand-new cars in full-form, exploded-schematic craziness all over the floor. There were a handful of 430 spiders here, but most of the cars were 599s and 612s. They alternated, dark color to light, 599 first, then 612, then 599 again. You get the picture.

Admittedly, the 599 is a little visually divisive in pictures, but it's a hell of a lot more interesting, attractive, and dramatic in person. All those cut lines and swoops do something, even if it's just evoke the schizo personality of whoever the hell drew the blasted thing up. It is not a car you stop looking at for want of something more interesting.

The tipping point? Every single 612 in that entire lineup looked like a 599 that someone had beat with a Dumpy Stick. They looked like dowdy, disguised 599 pre-production mules. They looked like—it probably didn't help that all the 612s were painted in light pastel metallics—dull incarnate: Toyotas.

What the hell kind of world do we live in where a Ferrari (any Ferrari) looks dull? (Especially in Modena! Even the gift shop there oozes sex!) Even the Fiats parked on the street outside had more soul and guts and personality.

Fiats, fer chrissakes. What's the world coming to?

Ferraris shouldn't be blah. Screw blah. I want crazyfastgorgeouscreamyhowling awesome.

Standing there in Modena, at the end of a long, long line of 599s popping and snarling and crackling into life, I had the chance to think about all this in . . . shall we say . . . a proper setting. Rows of engines on ready-made, dry-break dyno stands. Production lines slowly churning out 430s and 599s and 612s (the 430 line, oddly enough, was in the middle of a run of black cars, while the 599s were all red). Some small Italian girl in red Spandex speaking with a heavy, heavy accent. Echoes of history dripping from the walls. That sort of thing.

Standing there in Modena, at the end of a long, long line of 599s popping and snarling and crackling into life, I had the chance to think about all this in . . . shall we say . . . a proper setting. Rows of engines on ready-made, dry-break dyno stands. Production lines slowly churning out 430s and 599s and 612s (the 430 line, oddly enough, was in the middle of a run of black cars, while the 599s were all red). Some small Italian girl in red Spandex speaking with a heavy, heavy accent. Echoes of history dripping from the walls. That sort of thing.

Standing there in Modena, at the end of a long, long line of 599s popping and snarling and crackling into life, I had the chance to think about all this in . . . shall we say . . . a proper setting. Rows of engines on ready-made, dry-break dyno stands. Production lines slowly churning out 430s and 599s and 612s (the 430 line, oddly enough, was in the middle of a run of black cars, while the 599s were all red). Some small Italian girl in red Spandex speaking with a heavy, heavy accent. Echoes of history dripping from the walls. That sort of thing.

Standing there in Modena, at the end of a long, long line of 599s popping and snarling and crackling into life, I had the chance to think about all this in . . . shall we say . . . a proper setting. Rows of engines on ready-made, dry-break dyno stands. Production lines slowly churning out 430s and 599s and 612s (the 430 line, oddly enough, was in the middle of a run of black cars, while the 599s were all red). Some small Italian girl in red Spandex speaking with a heavy, heavy accent. Echoes of history dripping from the walls. That sort of thing.

Standing there in Modena, at the end of a long, long line of 599s popping and snarling and crackling into life, I had the chance to think about all this in . . . shall we say . . . a proper setting. Rows of engines on ready-made, dry-break dyno stands. Production lines slowly churning out 430s and 599s and 612s (the 430 line, oddly enough, was in the middle of a run of black cars, while the 599s were all red). Some small Italian girl in red Spandex speaking with a heavy, heavy accent. Echoes of history dripping from the walls. That sort of thing.

Standing there in Modena, at the end of a long, long line of 599s popping and snarling and crackling into life, I had the chance to think about all this in . . . shall we say . . . a proper setting. Rows of engines on ready-made, dry-break dyno stands. Production lines slowly churning out 430s and 599s and 612s (the 430 line, oddly enough, was in the middle of a run of black cars, while the 599s were all red). Some small Italian girl in red Spandex speaking with a heavy, heavy accent. Echoes of history dripping from the walls. That sort of thing.

Standing there in Modena, at the end of a long, long line of 599s popping and snarling and crackling into life, I had the chance to think about all this in . . . shall we say . . . a proper setting. Rows of engines on ready-made, dry-break dyno stands. Production lines slowly churning out 430s and 599s and 612s (the 430 line, oddly enough, was in the middle of a run of black cars, while the 599s were all red). Some small Italian girl in red Spandex speaking with a heavy, heavy accent. Echoes of history dripping from the walls. That sort of thing.

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