TTAC recently placed Chrysler on suicide watch for the easily correctable fact that vast empty spaces and dealers’ lots are stuffed with Chrysler/Dodge cars, trucks. minivans and SUV's that no one wants to buy. The new Sebring is a far deadlier proposition: a car headed straight for rental car Hell. For a few bills less than our semi-loaded (half cocked?) Sebring tester, you can buy a base Chrysler 300, which, according to Mr. Mehta, has “reinvigorated American car design.” The new Sebring is less invigorating than Vicodin. In fact, I reckon the model only exists because car rental customers are still willin' to take what they get.

Whenever I show up at my weekly poker game, the boys (being boys) are always interested in what I'm driving. How much? How fast? Not this week. This week, all my friends piled into the driveway and laughed. Can you blame them? Ford's new Expedition EL is so large I had to park it diagonally to keep its butt off the street. The wheels come up to my thigh. One 6'5" friend couldn't see the roof. Remember King Kong Bundy? He now wears dubs.

You know that bumper sticker “He who dies with the most toys wins?” While it might be perfectly at home affixed to the bumper of a BMW M6 or a Lamborghini Gallardo, such a wholesome piece of braggadocio would be hopelessly out of place stuck to the bumper of the thuggish Shelby GT500. A more appropriate piece of signage might be, “My muscle car can beat up your supercar.” If we are being honest, the sticker would read “I did your Mamma and she liked it.” 

There are two kinds of pistonheads: enthusiasts who experience wide-eyed, pie-in-the-sky desire for anything loudish, reddish and fast(ish); and buyers who worship at the altar of Consumer Reports, kbb and truedelta.com. If you are in my camp, words and phrases like reliability, APR, depreciation and total cost of ownership fog your mind faster than low down southern whiskey. Unfortunately, I am not rich. I am money-dumb and hoping to marry well. Meanwhile, I’ve found a vehicle capable of satisfying both the childish and the cheap.

A genius named Vinnie Cilurzo in Santa Rosa, California makes a beer called “Pliny the Elder.” I will never forget the first time it passed through my lips; it was as if the Victoria’s Secret angels were lap-dancing on my tongue. Even after thirteen years of home brewing, even after qualifying as a Certified beer judge, nothing had prepared me for my first taste of Vinnie’s magnificent brew. And no beer I would drink after that would ever taste the same. I’d had a beer epiphany. As a pistonhead, my first automotive epiphany occurred, oddly enough, in a Jeep Cherokee.

Buy a Toyota Prius and you get a backup camera, keyless ignition, iPod integration and travel over 50 miles for every gallon of gas poured therein. Buy an Audi RS4 and you don't even get self-dimming mirrors, and you can only drive 11 miles per gallon of dead dinos (EPA notwithstanding). The Prius will set you back $25k. The RS4 costs three Prii. At freeway speeds, the Toyota is a near silent and comfortable cruiser, whereas the Audi sounds and feels like a volcano making love to an avalanche.

The Chicago Mercantile Exchange just announced that it is merging with the Chicago Board of Trade Company to create a “juggernaught” in the world derivatives market. These markets allow farmers to hedge their bets, insuring their crop at a given price for a future harvest. Automakers have no such luck. They pour billions of dollars into developing a product and gamble that it will succeed in the market place. Recent Death Watchee Ford has made such a gamble with its new crossover vehicle, the Edge. Some say it must sell, or FoMoCo will bust out. Ford’s betting the proverbial farm on red. But is the Edge a sure thing?

“It handles like a go-cart.” For the past five-years I’ve taken this description of the BMW’s born-again clown car’s dynamics at face value. Living in Los Angeles, I’ve seen more of these faux-Brits than Carnaby Streeters ever did. And I’ve often wondered if the MINI was small and extraordinarily nimble like its forbearer, or just plain small. Other than sipping cheap wine next to the trio of stunt cars used in the third Austin Powers movie, I’d never had a chance to get up close and personal with a MINI. More importantly, I’d never put the British-built roadster’s handling to the test– until this week, when RF charged me with the task of assessing the “old” new MINI before the “new” new MINI arrives stateside.

GM Car Czar Maximum Bob Lutz’ recently stated that anyone who thinks that GM will shutter divisions is a “weenie” who doesn’t understand the cost of dealer lawsuits. Yes, well, one day, GM will have to jettison brands. Perceived wisdom dictates that The General should pare itself down to Chevrolet (low end cars), GMC (trucks and SUV’s) and Cadillac (high end cars). As for Saab, Buick Hummer and Saturn, bon voyage!  And then there’s Pontiac. Yes, Pontiac. I believe GM’s product starved “performance” division has the greatest potential of any of its current brands. With great products, Pontiac could go from neglected stepchild to superstar son.

The new Shelby GT-H is not only one of the world’s most desirable cars, it’s also one of the rarest. Not rare in the Pagani Zonda F sense of the word (i.e. only the five wealthiest Kings of Europe can afford one). Rare because Ford’s limited total production to six hundred units, Hertz gets all of them, and at LAX at least, the GT-H is booked through October. Thanks to a manufacturer-sponsored press event (disclaimer done) your intrepid TTAC reviewer managed to get his mitts on the “Hertz rent-a-racer.” I don’t think I’m giving anything away to say that pistonheads’ wives can consider their husbands’ birthday present sorted.

I'm good with names. Meet me at a party. Five hours and seven beers later, I'll cruise up and say, "Hey Benjamin, how goes it?" That’s assuming A) your name is Benjamin and B) you’re interesting. If a person is as dull as Tuesday afternoon C-Span, then the part of my brain that puts faces to names shuts down. I mention this because I had to click over to mazdausa.com to figure out if I’m driving the B4000 or B4400.  Turns out it’s the former. Who knew?

On my way to breakfast in the F-150 King Ranch, a box fresh Rolls-Royce Phantom cut me off. The similarities between the two vehicles are striking. Both are enormous rigs; BMW’s high-end Roller is one of the few vehicles on the road not dwarfed by Ford’s biggest ever F-150. Both machines are gas-guzzlers sold on image and luxury. Sure the prices are several hundred T-bills apart and the Ford’s a lot less dirt aversive, but the most important difference is that the Roller is an aristocrat by birth. The F150 King Ranch is Horatio Alger on wheels, an affordable icon. Or is it?

Why is it so hard for carmakers to get the little things right? Most of these guys have been building cars for over a century. Yet they put the pedals in the wrong place, or give their machine numb steering, or equip the interior with less style than a Day’s Inn. One reason: compromise. Manufacturer X could offer you perfect pedal placement, or share pedals between five models and save you a grand. Another case in point, who doesn’t want a convertible? Put another way, who the Hell wants a convertible? With the MX-5 Miata Power Hartop, Mazda has removed compromise from that particular equation.

For a certified car freak living in the City of Angels, the drive to Las Vegas is a special treat. Sure, LA is only a traffic jam or three away from the kind of twisting coastal tarmac that ad makers and throttle jockeys adore. But the two hundred seventy-five mile haul across Interstate 15 to Sin City tells you everything you need to know about a car’s capacity for long distance love. Well, that’s my story and I’m sticking with it. My tale began when my friend and I jumped into the hairy knuckled Mazda Speed6 and set off for a suite at Caesar's Palace.

My local falafel joint has the world's smallest parking lot: just three spaces. The other day, I pulled in for supper and parked my sore-thumb standout Grabber Orange Mustang GT Convertible next to a Toyota Prius. The Prius owner was seated on the patio, munching his shawarma. The disparity between our two rides could hardly have been more stark. His: a futuristic, planet-saving, spaceship-looking personal statement.  Mine: a retro-tastic, oil-burning, bright orange throw-back drop-top. Sure, Prius person only has to visit the gas station once a week to my thrice, but c’mon, it was no contest. Unless you’re an accountant, the right brain wins every time.