During a business trip to Canada, my manager and I watched a Swedish colleague use his cell phone to hold a three-way conference call with Tel Aviv and Hong Kong. The boss was infuriated; his US cell couldn’t even reach Toronto from Toronto. He called Sprint on a land line. "This is unacceptable,” he screamed. “It’s un-American to sell technology that’s seven years behind the Europeans!" The exact same thing’s been said about Detroit’s inability to counter fuel-sipping low-emission hybrids.  Enter, finally, the Mercury Mariner Hybrid. Ah, but is the gas/electric Merc ready for prime time or is it just a Johnny-come-lately phoning it in?

Whatever else you can say about the Chevrolet Corvette, it isn’t a halo vehicle. Yes, it beats the Hell out of anything in its class and out bang-for-the-buck’s the big boys. But there’s not a single enthusiast driving around in an Impala SS thinking, "Oh yeah — I got the same AC vents as a 'Vette." In terms of appearance, the Avalanche resembles the Corvette about as much as Paul Giamati looks like Keira Knightley.  Contrast this with the Porsche Carrera GT. Despite the astronomical price gap between the GT and an entry level Boxster, the family face is intact and the underlying product philosophy is identical: speed, handling, fun.  That’s why it’s time for GM to use “America’s Sports Car” as the basis of an entirely new division– with Nissan.

Forbes has just released another in their never-ending series of ten-best lists– a feature which stretches credulity, interest and patience. To wit: the latest list trumpets the ten best cars for single people.  Being a perennially unattached person, my index finger only managed to hover over delete. Oh man… "Best Car For Eco-minded Singles: Toyota Prius Sedan." No, really. But one item intrigued me: "Best Car For Boosting Your Sex Life"  Aside from looking like an uncircumcised penis, I can't think of anything even remotely sexy about BMW's M6 Coupe.  But there are some drop-dead gorgeous cars on both the new and used market.  What car(s) do you find sexy?  More to the point (so to speak), can a car get you laid?  And if it can, is it really a good idea to share your precious bodily fluids with a sexual partner who's turned-on by your taste in whips?  

I recently visited Stanley Sheinbaum. Back in the day, "Citizen Stan" was a Vietnam protester, a member of Daniel “Pentagon Papers” Ellsberg’s defense team, a US contact for PLO leader Yasir Arafat and the head of the police commission that forced Chief Darrel Gates to resign in the wake of the L.A. Riots.  In other words, his liberal credentials are flawless. "You write about cars?" Stanley demanded.  "Have you seen 'Who Killed the Electric Car?" Stanley's in his 80's, but he still has a team of Prius-driving people working for him.  Obviously, Stan and his friends have their hearts in the right place vis-à-vis hybrids and saving the environment and all that, but where are their  heads?  Is there really a Detroit/Big Oil conspiracy working against high mileage passenger cars?  Or are the electric/hydrogen/hybrid car supporters so enamored with their own politics they can’t hug the forest from the trees?  Don't they understand that the power has to come from somewhere?  Your thoughts?

In addition to more and more horsepower, automobile manufacturers are seemingly locked in a desperate struggle to load their vehicles up with more and more, well, stuff. Supposedly to help you drive better. After all, modern supercars are essentially porky Le Mans racers with power windows. But which feature is the most oversold, the most useless? Which does nothing but fill promotional material and empty your wallet? Is it AWD used mostly in dry conditions? The empty promise of 50/50 weight distribution? Manumatic gearboxes (or dare I say it… DSG?). Ceramic brakes that catch on fire and cost more than other cars? Nav systems that point out the nearest casino? Carbon fiber door inserts? Massaging seats? What? You tell us: what is the most oversold and useless car feature/characteristic currently on the market?

Obviously, we're all here reading TTAC because we fell in love with Farago's vision of what an automotive publication should be; honest, funny, insightful and when necessary, brutal. While our dear leader is on the mend — and he is on the mend —  the staff here at TTAC has decided to conduct a "best of" post, compiled by you, our readers. If the mood strikes you, please post your favorite TTAC car review, rant or podcast and then explain why. Bonus points will be awarded for selecting the correct answer (hint: Flying Vagina!).

The mighty Farago has taken ill. As our editor in chief is even more of a tenacious bastard in real life than he lets on here, we predict Robert will be back to full strength within a few days. Unfortunately for you, dear TTAC reader, that means no updates for the next couple of earth rotations. Until then, enjoy the archives.

My first car was a Pontiac Parisian Safari station-wagon. Not only could it cruise I-5 all day, but I once hauled eleven people and a drum set from Sonoma County to Sacramento and back. When one of the cylinders lost compression, the attempted engine rebuild was a testimony to the strength of our relationship. Before the block cracked, the Safari provided my family, friends and I with nearly three hundred thousand miles of motoring bliss. Sadly, the SUV craze and seat belt legislation killed off the full-size American station-wagon. Aside from the chop top, third row deficient Dodge Magnum, Ford’s Freestyle is the closest the Big 2.5 has come to reviving this classic, all-American ride.

Last Wednesday, Standard and Poor’s downgraded the Ford Motor Company’s credit rating.  “We expect the company's financial profile to weaken further during 2006,” S&P declared. “A period when the US economy and U.S. light-vehicle sales are robust."  So, good market, bad products.  After spending a week driving an Explorer Sport Trac, I’m inclined to agree.  Any automaker misguided enough to try to sell this vehicle in the world’s most competitive light truck market is heading for a fall.  

There I was, stuck in traffic on the 710, just north of Compton.  The 95-degree California sun bearing down on the Ford Focus had completely overwhelmed the chiller.  I phoned TTAC HQ. “I’m ready to start a Ford Death Watch.  This car is a disgrace!  It’s… un-American!”  Calm down, RF told me.  Never mind the heat, feel the handling.  Thrash it a bit and see what you think.  Think?  How can you think when there’s a brain-splitting noise coming from the engine bay that sounds like a small washer inside a metal band-aid tin wrapped in paper bags shaken by a cruel, malicious gremlin?  At that point, even F1 handling wouldn’t have saved the Focus’ bacon.   

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.

Remember Maserati's mid-80s offerings? The Biturbo looked hotter than Christie Brinkley in a Ferrari 308, but was awful in every other way a car can be. The boxy yet steroidal Quattroporte was a stunner– whose name still pops-up as an antonym for reliability in Microsoft Word. By 1991, even barge pole-toting Italian car lovers wouldn't touch Maserati's heavy metal. The company's empire collapsed. Twelve years later, Maserati re-entered the US market bearing gifts: a studly, gutsy two-door and then, a swaggering, voluptuous four-door. And?

Maserati's new rides have found a warm welcome amongst wealthy American car collectors. In 1998, Maserati sold 518 cars worldwide. In 2005, the company sold 2114 cars in the US alone. While it would be premature to conclude that these figures indicate that Maserati has slain the mechanical gremlins that chased them off the North American continent, England's What Car magazine recently awarded all three Maserati models three out of five stars for reliability. (Wassup JD?) Equally reassuring (at least theoretically), Maserati now submits every single US car to a final, final inspection. And they're adding another $19m to the brand's expanding quality control program, on top of the $50m they've already spent in the pursuit of perfection.

Blasting down the autocross track at the Las Vegas Motor Speedway in a BMW M3, wringing that mad motor to the max, I still couldn't catch the rat bastard in the car ahead. My Teutonic ride had more than enough juice to gain ground during the straights. But the second a twist appeared my target slipped away like a thief with a knife. At some point, courage got the better part of valor; I switched off the DSC and drove well beyond what any rational human would call "safe." Wrong answer. Without Bimmer's Nanny riding shotgun, my car control disintegrated. The Dodge Neon SRT-4 pulled away, leaving me in the dust.

Before spending two-days at the Skip Barber High Performance Driving School, I was convinced I was a reasonably skilled driver. I had no idea how bad I sucked. Lucky for my ego, I wasn't the only one to make this realization. Wealthy sports car owners from all walks of life swaggered into the Vegas heat full of piss, shit and corruption; convinced they could pilot Bimmers, Porkers and a Viper with confidence and élan. One-by-one, Skip Barber's Neon-driving instructors disabused them of the notion. As we struggled through a tire-smoking orgy of spinning, understeering, knocking over cones, missing turn-in points, choosing the wrong gear, braking at the exact wrong time and place, we all came to the same conclusion: none of us could drive for shit.

Last year, TTAC named the Boxster S Car of the Year. I found the award ludicrous. A decade old, under-endowed Porsche-lite trumping the best and the brightest from the US, Italy, Britain, Japan and the rest of Deutschland? It's like arguing that the "S" in "SUV" stands for "sport." With the possible exception of my misplaced belief in the longevity of love with a certain young, deceitful woman, I have never been more wrong about anything in my life. Last week a "regular" Boxster painted in "take my license, please" red showed up at my house. I have lost my ability to not smile.

Clocking the new Boxster is like checking out the teenage daughter of your old high school crush. Everything that attracted you to the roadster is still there, only fresher, perkier and more… streamlined. From most angles, the Boxster resembles Ye Olde 996 Turbo, chopped and dropped. From the rear though, and especially with the beefier haunches, the Boxster still appears as if someone is bent over and spreading 'em. If you think this is a coincidence, you haven't watched enough German porn.

German uberBimmertuner AC Schnitzer is most famous for their triple-wikkid M6 TENSION concept: a two-toned yellow and grey beast of such pornographic hideousness there's a California court order banning it from driving within 100 feet of a schoolyard or playground. Schnitzer's relative demure ACS6 is a standard BMW 645 Convertible with 21' Dub-and-a-halfs, snarlier exhaust note, carbon-fiber interior, dropped suspension and, uh, ground effects. So how do you test a car that tugs most firmly at the heart strings of those who live in Newport Beach and Qatar? I called Jalopy's Davey G and headed down the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH) to see if all exotics are sexually attracted to telephone poles.

You know the story, right? Swedish videogame mogul and maybe mafia man smuggles $1m Ferrari Enzo into the US, races his wife's equally embezzled $450k McLaren SLR on PCH, hits a telephone pole, cleaves the Fezza in two, wanders drunk around the hillside shouting "Dietrich ate my homework," etc. Obviously, the Schnitzel isn't in the same league as the Enzo— it's rarer. In fact, the ACS6 is the spot-on perfect vehicle to retrace Bo "Stefan" Eriksson's ill-fated joyride. It glides, it's built, the top drops and everyone looks at you. Everyone. I parked mein AC at a public park in San Pedro and a crowd gathered. It was 9:00 in the morning on a Tuesday. In Califrigginfornia.