The original idea: interview Jack Nerad about the type of cars parents buy for their teens.  When I finally got kbb.com's Executive Editor on the blower, he immediately informed me that A) He had no idea what we were scheduled to talk about and B) The press release about teen whips was released months ago.  So the guy works without a net and I'm behind the loop.  Shifting gears, I asked for their latest media mitzvah. "Cool Cars under $18k."  And then we get going and I discover that Jack's definition of "cool" takes us into some pretty strange areas.  Still, it's the journey that counts.  

I like to clean.  I’ve never met anyone who can clean as well as I can.  Of course, there must be better cleaners out there.  After reading that English-born footballer David Beckham lines-up all the Coke can labels in his ‘fridge to face forwards, and only allows even numbers of cans, I reckon he’d be a worthy competitor in the rubber glove world cup.  But neither of us could hold a mop to Horacio Pagani.  After visiting his Modena Design factory, there’s no question that Pagani puts the “fast” in fastidious. 

Ever since the United States began issuing safety and emission standards, regulations have led to better cars.  Emission standards forced automakers to develop electronic engine controls, creating modern cars’ power and drivability.  Safety standards– seat belts, airbags, etc.– have saved countless lives.  But there’s one standard that’s not only ineffective, but antithetical to its stated goal: the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration’s (NHTSA) roof crush standard. 

The text after the jump appeared on Karl Brauer's blog "Karl on Cars" on Edmund's Inside Line.  I asked Mr. Brauer for permission to publish it here, without editing or commentary.  Nothing.  (The same response I received when I asked Karl to email me Edmunds' policy on press junkets and public disclosure thereof.) So, under the "fair use" principle, I'm publishing it anyway.  If Edmunds takes TTAC to court, I'll counter-sue for libel and send a note to the IRS asking about the tax implications of junketeering.  If Edmunds sends an email asking TTAC to remove this excerpt, I'll take this post down and publish the email. Anyway, Edmunds may have a million visitors [multiplied exponentially], but at least we have transparency, integrity and a spell-checker. 

I’m a not-so-well-known writer for a not-so-well-known car mag and an equally obscure website.  I’m standing, jet-lagged and a little smelly, in the courtyard of a hotel I can't afford in front of a new SUV that costs more than my state college education.  I’m here on Audi's dime.  Come, Constant Reader, and join me for the auto writer's Holy of Holies: the press launch. A gaggle of my fellow egomaniacs and I are here to drive the brand new Audi Q7 SUV. 

I'm always amazed at how easily automotive PR folk slip into jargon-laden sound bites. I guess when your work involves something that doesn't appear on civilian radar– "my wife works with tires"– rattling off cool stats and technical terms to a pistonhead journalist must be the default option.  Still, I consider it my responsibility to try to get these technological flackmeisters to connect with their product, and us, on a more emotional level.  Of course, that only works if they do.  Dunlop's Janice Consolacion does.   

Well, here it is.  At the end of the proverbial day, a website saved is a website earned.  I’m sorry I prepared y’all for a quick and brutal transition into paid content, and then dumped a free site on you.  Psych!  Actually, over the last few days I gradually realized there was no way to give this ship a proper shakedown cruise without putting it on-line.  And if it wasn’t 100% ready for prime time, how in the name of St. Anthony could I ask you to pay for it?  Why I’d be no better than GM!  We’ve got plenty of time to make this the world's best automotive website.  

I remember spending an agonizing afternoon on my back, butt and knees on the cold concrete floor of my dad’s garage, trying to coerce a transmission, axle and wheel assembly back together. We’d just replaced my Jetta’s clutch, fried by a combination of adolescent exuberance and insensitive pedal technique. But, like some twisted Rubik’s cube, the various pieces defied logical integration. As afternoon drew into evening, my dad had a brainwave. “Let’s try again in the morning.” The next day, the parts simply fell into place; final assembly was as obvious as a pimple on a prom date.

One afternoon, while watching a radar-controlled German ubersedan drive itself, the fading sun struck my eyes. Surrounded by microprocessors, solenoids, relays, pumps, controllers, fans, sensors, circuit boards and endlessly coursing electrons, I did what every driver must do: I reached up for a vinyl-covered board and pivoted it down to cover a small patch of windshield through which I now could no longer see. Excuse me? The $105k four-door was crowded with technology, all of it entertaining, much of it only occasionally useful. Yet no one had thought to correct, improve, replace, redesign or reconceptualize a device as primitive as the Budweiser Clydesdales’ blinders. What’s that all about?

Walking up to the Aston Martin DB9, I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to drive it or sleep with it.   If running your hand over the DB’s sculptured haunches and taut lines doesn’t give you a warm feeling in your nether regions, you should surrender your pistonhead privileges at the door.  Very few inanimate objects attain this level of beauty; those that do either rock your world or break your heart, or, as in this case, both.    

Another year, another J.D. Power survey. Since the non-profit Consumer Reports organization prohibits carmakers from using its ratings in their ads, “ranked highest in initial quality by J.D. Power and Associates” should start flooding the airwaves and Internet any minute now, with print sure to follow. But does all of this noise signify anything? Should those seeking trouble-free wheels be sure to buy one of J.D.’s winners? Hardly.

My name is Robert, and I’m an obsessive. You may have noticed. You may have returned to an article on TTAC and clocked the fact that our writing evolves post-post. That’s down to me. If there’s a better way to say something, if there’s a single sentence with passive construction or a word that’s not pulling its weight, the text must die. If a reader spots a factual inaccuracy or logical inconsistency, it must be corrected. I’m not looking for credit; it’s just the way I’m wired. But if you want to know why GM deserves to die, why GM WILL die, there’s your answer. They lack obsession.

The American consumer stands in the middle of a battlefield. The combatants: American and foreign automobile manufacturers, their unions, dealers and various representatives; politicians representing both northern and southern industrial states, and you. The stakes: profits, derived from the hearts, minds and wallets of red state car buyers. They’ve drawn their lines in the sand. They’ve loaded their weapons. They’ve fired their first salvos in what promises to be an ugly and protracted battle. And they’re all mentally constipated.

Remember the Cougar? Not the oddly-shaped front-wheel drive Cougar of 2000 nor the big-bodied Thunderbird clone, nor even, God forbid, the huge sedans and wagons wearing “the sign of the cat,” but the 1967 original? Motor Trend’s Car of the Year was created from the Mustang. While it shared the Pony Car’s platform, it was NOT a badge-engineering model. Sales of the luxurious new coupe helped to lead the Blue Oval to some of the most profitable years in the company’s history. Hello? Ford? Anyone home?

Sitting behind the wheel of a Maserati GranSport GT, cruising along at maybe 50mph (the speedo was busted). I’m waiting for one of the lights ahead to switch from green to red. I’m supposed to turn into the lane next to whichever light remains green, then back into the center lane before coming to a stop. The right light turns red. I jink left, feeding the wheel from my right hand to my left, keeping both arms positioned at nine and three. When I re-grab the wheel with my left hand, I encounter a harder-than-steel carbon fiber steering wheel. I jam my middle finger but good. Man, I hate that stuff.