Understandable but ridiculous

It's not just a car; it's a lifestyle

By Victor De Ville

"You can always live in your car," goes the adage I've heard my whole life, "but you can't drive your house." It's an aphorism friends shove at you as you're signing up for 72 months of payments on a BMW you can't afford. Or to buck you up while you're opening a home equity line of credit so you can bail your '69 Camaro out of paint jail. But actually live out of the car? Come on, that's absurd.

At least that's what I thought until my wife — er, ex-wife — and I finally settled. She kept the house in Glendale, and I got a check. One of those inflated Southern California real estate checks that makes either a thick down payment on a new condo in Studio City or buys a super-luxury automobile. If I had bought the condo, this wouldn't be a story.

Here's my new home: It's a 2007 Bentley Arnage T. If I actually drive it, there's a twin-turbo-fortified 6.8-liter, OHV V8 under its hood that makes 500 horsepower and 738 pound-feet of peak torque at only 3,200 rpm. Bentley claims that when you use the six-speed automatic transmission to full effect, the T-model will thunder to 60 mph in just 5.2 seconds and gallop along to a top speed of 179 mph. And it weighs 5,700 pounds.

It's the best combination of performance and four-bedroom, three-bath Tudor that I could imagine. Plus, the Bentley dealer had one in stock and it was only $271,000.

That's the most I've ever spent on a car. But the least I've ever spent on a home.

Home sweet leather-lined home

Getting comfortable in the Arnage T is easy. All the things that are made of plastic in an ordinary car like a Mercedes S-Class — the vents, the door pulls, the shifter gate — are made from polished metal in this British brute. Every wood surface is carefully matched and finished with the sort of luster usually only seen in Lemon Pledge commercials. And the diamond-quilted leather seats coddle any royal heinie with royal precision.

Let's not put too fine a point on this: No car's interior is better-appointed, better-looking or even better-smelling than that of the Bentley Arnage T. If you're going to live in a car, this is the car to live in.

There are basically two alternatives for sleeping in the Arnage. The first is reclining either the driver or front passenger seat all the way back. But the resulting surface isn't completely flat and my chiropractor is particularly adamant that I don't inflame my back's existing sublimations.

The other place to sleep is the rear seat, and that's where I've settled in. Lying lengthwise, the seat is nearly flat and I only have to slightly bend my leg to keep from kicking the door panels. Plus, the rear seats are electrically adjustable, which allows me to tune the sleeping surface for my tender back. The optional fold-down tables attached to the back of the front seats are both elegant and a great place for my alarm clock.

My one problem with sleeping is that I will occasionally find the seatbelt anchors sticking into my back. I'm thinking of having them removed.

I've grown particularly fond of the Bentley's ventilation system. If it's cold I'll leave the engine idling all night and use the rear controls to create a perfect snoozing temperature. The engine is so smooth and quiet, its idling never interrupts my slumber, plus the dehumidifier and pollen and dust screens in the ventilation system guarantee that I never wake up sneezing in the middle of the night.

Sure, leaving the engine idling all night might seem wasteful. But at least I'm not heating up a whole 3,000-square-foot house for just one person. So I'm doing my part for the environment.

Morning ritual

After a deep, restful sleep, I wake up in the Bentley to the ring of my alarm clock and the gentle hum of the engine. If it's a nice day, I open the hood and place my mug atop the warm engine. In just a few minutes I have water hot enough to brew tea. I was a coffee drinker before moving into the Arnage, but drinking coffee in a British car just seemed wrong. Earl Grey is my cup of choice now.

After that bracing cup of tea, I shave using the generously sized vanity mirror in the passenger's side visor. Even on mornings when the sun is yet to rise, this lit mirror is a perfect surface for the precision trimming of my beard. For some tough areas, though, I do find myself using the rearview mirror. And I've grown to love the way the aroma of Edge shaving gel mixes with the lustrous smell of the Bentley's leather. It smells like...prosperity.

If it's raining, I'll be showering outdoors. If not, I drive to the YMCA and use the facilities. I am, however, disappointed by the concierge service there.

Meals on wheels

With my trusty Weber kettle grille, there's really little reason for me to have more extensive kitchen facilities. I'm a big fan of Johnsonville Brats and nothing tastes better than their "Hot 'n Spicy" that's been cooked over an open flame next to an idling Bentley. And now that Grey Poupon is available in a squeeze bottle, what other condiments do I need?

The Bentley's elegantly appointed and beautifully carpeted trunk has become my pantry. There's plenty of room in there for a cooler and the trunk itself closes with a reassuring thunk that is as close to being automotive Tupperware as I've ever experienced. Hot dog buns stay fresh for weeks back there.

A civilized life

With Southern California's mild climate, I spend much of my days next to the Bentley reading and enjoying the sunshine. Then, alas, work intrudes.

Again, the optional tables built into the back of the front seats are invaluable. They provide a stable working surface, and let me open my laptop so the screen will be fully visible. When I need Internet connectivity, I've found parking next to public libraries and leaching off their open Wi-Fi networks is a godsend.

As a day ends and I look out over the Pacific Ocean from the public park where I've parked the Arnage, I feel as if this is the life I was meant to live. It's not a conventional life, but as any Bentley owner would tell you, a Bentley is not a conventional car.

So true, ohhhh so very true...

The Asphalt Jungle: Means Streets

How can so many Angelenos afford to drive such amazing cars and eat?

By Arthur St. Antoine

I have this acquaintance--to safeguard his anonymity, I'll call him "Homer"--who drives a 2004 Mercedes-Benz SL500. This fact makes me more than a little envious of Homer. After all, the SL500 may well be the greatest aphrodisiac since the diamond-flavored Valentine's chocolate or the Lenny Kravitz backstage pass.

That said, I most definitely do not envy the price Homer has to pay to glide along in his SL500's rarefied cockpit. Each month, to cover his lease, insurance, and gas bills, Homer shells out more than $1800.

The thing is, Homer isn't rich. He inhabits a $735-a-month studio apartment in Burbank--a place so small that Verizon keeps trying to hang a pay phone inside. He wears cost-cutter suits that contain an alarmingly large percentage of unnatural fibers. And when he dines out, he's far more likely to drop into the local Red Lobster than to sup with Ashton and Demi at Spago.

Of course, you'd never know any of this if you saw Homer on the road. Out there, he's a master of the universe, ruling from the helm of one of the world's finest automobiles. Asked about this seeming lifestyle imbalance, Homer expressed himself eloquently: "You think I give a damn? C'mon. This is L.A. You either have a nice car here, or you are toast. I mean, I've had women beg me to take them out in this car."

Clearly, I was on to something. As anyone new to the city will tell you, the streets of L.A. are so awash with awesome automobiles that one's first reaction is to ask, "How did all these people get so bloody rich?" In truth, though, the parade of four-wheeled extravagance is largely an illusion--an example of life as Hollywood sound-stage facade. See, in this fair city appearances count. This, in itself, is not unique to L.A., of course. In New York, for example, it's possible to elevate one's status with any number of established hallmarks: a Burberrys trench coat, box seats at Lincoln Center, a gold-plated Mace dispenser. But in L.A.--that palm-lined jewel tied up in asphalt ribbons--the car is king. And many, it seems, will pay whatever it takes to ascend to the throne.

Also out on an automotive limb is "Bart," a 44-year-old computer-software developer. In most regards, Bart lives simply: modest house in Valencia, 20-inch Zenith, occasional weekend in Vegas. Open his garage door, though, and suddenly you'd think Bart has points in Microsoft Windows. On the right is an aging Chrysler LeBaron--"My chores car," Bart says. But on the left sits a blood-red 1988 Ferrari Testarossa. Purchase price, used: $91,500.

Spying this stunning piece of Italian sculpture in such a setting is somehow unsettling--like finding a Picasso nailed to the wall of a Holiday Inn. But Bart doesn't see it that way. "I used to live in Minnesota, and with the winters and ice and all, you can't have a nice car there. But I promised myself if I ever got a job in California, I'd buy a great car. I've always wanted a Ferrari. Besides, it sure doesn't make it any harder to meet women."

Ah, a common theme. In L.A., clearly, a cool car is nothing less than an essential element in the mating ritual--cost be damned. I ask Bart if he thought about the possible "fringe benefits" before digging deep to purchase his Ferrari.

"Yeah, I guess you could say I did," he says with a smile. "Until I got divorced three years ago, the money was supposed to go for a bake shop."