2009 Lamborghini Gallardo LP560-4 Review

Dig to the bottom of our current fiscal nightmare and you'll discover an oddball type of derivative that Warren Buffet famously termed, "financial weapons of mass destruction." Also known as Credit Default Swaps (CDS). Essentially, it's a bet that a bad investment will fail. A strange type of insurance to be sure, where the purchaser of said CDS isn't required to have anything to do with what's being insured. Oh, and it's a $55 trillion market. Er, was. And because of Gordon Gekko-huffing-PCP style greed, all of our 401ks have been halved. If not worse. Maybe the Adderall-addicted pukes that tanked our economy were trying to accumulate enough cash to buy a Lamborghini Gallardo LP560-4? While I can't forgive 'em, I do understand.

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Take Two: Lamborghini Gallardo Review

As their respective logos suggest, driving a Ferrari requires courage and finesse; piloting a Lamborghini means taking the bull by the horns and hanging on for dear life. In fact, driving a Lambo is something of a pistonhead rite of passage. It says you're able to control-- or at least survive-- a monster. Anyway, that's the old rep, before Audi started playing with the bull's balls. I mean, finding a way to harness automotive testosterone for more "civilized" progress. Though enraptured, Farago wasn't entirely convinced by the Gallardo's Audiefied manners. Nuts to that.

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Lamborghini Gallardo SE Review

Testing a Gallardo SE in Miami is like sipping Chateau Lafite Rothschild in a public urinal. The little Lambo was born to annihilate the twisting mountain roads surrounding Italy's supercar valley, or flirt with V3 on a derestricted German autobahn. Miami's geometric streets and traffic-choked highways offer the Gallardo driver nothing more than a sinuous onramp and an occasional half-mile sprint-- which is plenty damn exciting but about as satisfying as red wine slammers. So, whilst fending-off a frantic flackmeister preoccupied with the definition of the words "driving impression," I guided the baby bull towards the nearest race track. As I quick-quick-slowed through the cars clogging I-95 North, I was taken aback by the lack of stare and attention given the Gallardo. With its strange combination of diminutive footprint, cab forward stance, drop snout, near horizontal windshield and unrelenting angularity, the Gallardo lacks what native S-Class owners call "uberholprestige": that indefinable yet unmistakable car-isma that convinces fellow road users to move the Hell over. Either that or Floridians are fed-up with the automotive tastes of Bolivian drug lords. In any case, we now know what happens when a Belgian designs a supercar for a legendary Italian nameplate under the wary eye of a German conglomerate; and it ain't what I'd call pretty.

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