The media’s failure to get ahead of The Big Two Point Five’s swan dive from grace is a source of constant amusement. The press’ collective reluctance to investigate the truth behind the automakers’ plight delivers endless wonder. But Motown media’s “eternal sunshine of the big ass automaker” shtick just plain rankles. In “Detroit Can Ride Out These Strange Days,” Free Press columnist Tom Walsh told his readers to hold fast and be of good cheer. ”These are nutty and painful times for Detroit's auto industry. But they are times for resolve, not for panic.” Hey Tom; are you sure about that?

Yesterday, a Yahoo news bulletin popped up: “GM’s losses narrow.” If that’s the way you see it, please don’t tarry here. You know GM CEO Rabid Rick Wagoner’s turnaround plan is “gaining traction.” You know GM’s too big to fail, that the supertanker will change course and avoid the jagged rocks of bankruptcy. The fact that GM’s fundamentals are still broken— too many brands, models and dealers; excessive bureaucracy and crushing union obligations— is not your concern. For those of you willing to stare into the abyss, let’s take a closer look at those third quarter results.

Is there any doubt that that Ford is heading for Chapter 11? Sure. There are plenty of auto industry eggheads and company officials who continue to believe that FoMoCo has what it takes– or will have what it takes at some point in the near to distant future– to pull out of its current corporate nosedive and return to greatness. OK, profitability. Um, how about market stabilization? Actually, at this point, staying out of Chapter 11 would be something of a victory. Meanwhile, Monday was Dia de los Muertos for The Blue Oval.

Later today, I’ll compose an email to The Truth About Cars’ (TTAC) coterie of writers asking them to select the final candidates for our Ten Worst Automobiles Today (TWAT) awards. Thanks to Mr. Williams’ organizational OCD, our best and brightest will have a most Excel-ent spreadsheet of all the vehicles you’ve nominated, with your reasons for doing so. Frank will collate their choices. By mid-week, we should have both the final 20 and the software we need to throw it to you for a democratic vote. Again, thank you for your help and support. Before the deal goes down, I want to highlight the importance of this award to all of us.

So Jonny tells me that he's returned from a first class junket to The City by the Bay and by the way his new best bud ace auto scribe Dan Neil's coming over to his for a poker night. Suddenly I'm feeling like I'm on the outside of the carniverse looking in. Then Andrew Dederer submits a rant condemning The Big Two Point Five for insularity that makes Rhode Island seem like it won the genetic sweepstakes– instead of earning itself the ancient and not-so-venerable nickname "Toad Island." I suppose commentator Humourless is more than a little right: the internet subordinates physical geography to psychological geography. But that does not make me feel 100% clued-in, nor does it excuse The Big Two Point Five for their bunkering. Ever, since I began the GM Death Watch, I've tried to get The General to write a rebuttal. To say my requests have fallen on deaf ears is like saying that TTAC's scribes won't get access to the GM press fleet until cold fusion (the nuclear event, not the Nebraska-based Ford sedan) becomes a practicable proposition. Surely by now there's someone with power within The Big Two Point Five who reads our stuff, who wants to "set the record straight" (a.k.a. spin the company line like an F5 tornado). Yes but– if a domestic mover and shaker took on his or her critics in this e-venue, they would face The Wrath of Khan: the humorless bastards within their organizations who brook no breach of corporate omerta. Well guess what? The new media will win. The truth will out. And when it does, I'll be the first to say I told you so. of course, none of my neighbors will give a damn. Which is exactly how it should be. 

I'm of two minds on this whole hoonage business. One one hand, it's entirely possible to hoon about in a high speed car at significant velocities without endangering anyone save yourself and/or your insurance premiums. I'm thinking here of hormone-crazed kids burning rubber in parking lots, or more mature pistonheads practicing a little tail out action on a familiar and appropriately deserted stretch of road. But there are limits, even if they're not posted. As someone who's been fortunate enough to mash the gas on an Enzo, Zonda and Carrera GT, I can tell you there's a moment in the accelerative process when anyone other than a professional race driver is just hanging on. It's a kick-ass Zen sort of thing, and it accounts for the war whoop issued by the pilot of Heffner's twin-turbo Lamborghini Gallardo . But it's not what I would call safe. In short bursts, maybe. Through traffic, no. While I'm reasonably sure the Heffner folk know the limits of car and driver, common sense suggests no one in their right mind would capture 100mph++ balls-out sprints down a public road on videotape– especially if it shows the driver's face. That's what we call evidence. In fact, the tape pretty much proves that the hoons involved forfeit the benefit of the doubt. I rest my case. Now, where are my Boxster S keys? 

In 1991, Italian clothing maker Benneton released a controversial ad campaign. Huge billboards and full page magazine ads displayed rows of crosses in an American military cemetery, a priest kissing a nun on the lips, a black woman breast feeding a white baby and other images designed to shock even the most jaded sensibilities. In 1992, Benneton upped the ante with photos of a dying Aids victim, a Kalashnikov-wielding African guerrilla holding a human leg bone, a boat overcrowded with Albanians, a group of African refugees, a weeping family contemplating the bloody body of a Mafioso and two Indians caught in a Calcutta flood. “Reality advertising” had arrived. And now it’s here, courtesy of, of all companies, Chevrolet.

Volvo arrived late to the SUV party, but they brought some killer tunes. The XC90 was a full-sized soft-roader CUV thingie before full-sized soft-roader CUV thingies were cool. Well, OK, it’s hard to argue that any Volvo was or ever could be “cool;” but the instantly recognizable ride was an instant hit with America’s safety-minded Soccer moms. Although the initial model sported a decidedly anemic five-cylinder engine, the company rectified the situation (for a price) with Yamaha’s V8; an inline six finally replaces the five banger for ‘07. Oh, and there’s a new, smaller XC60 coming too.

For many years, US President Abraham Lincoln thought that deporting slaves was the only workable solution to an intractable political issue. In 1861, a “colony” was established off the coast of Haiti for this purpose. Black families with no common language suddenly found themselves living together. The former slaves created their own language, complete with unwritten (but rigid) rules of grammar, tense, appellation, the lot. Semanticists have used this example to suggest that our brains are hard-wired to create shared linguistic constructs. I would suggest that the same genetic predisposition applies to tuner cars. Something new and wacky appears on the automotive scene, like low-riders, donks or VIP style. The next thing you know, a growing number of participants exert their collective unconscious on the movement, creating unwritten (but rigid) rules for what’s acceptable, what unacceptable and what’s da bomb. Strangely enough, the same process applies to vehicles that haven’t been tuned. After all, who decided what makes a Merc a Merc? Maybe that’s why I like my cars bone stock: I figure it’s the purest expression of the manufacturer’s aesthetic. Either that or I’m boring. But then I have owned Ferraris. As discerning rappers will agree, why would you want to mess with that?  

According to the highly credible “Ford and GM set to merge” journalists over at Automotive News, The General has agreed to pay bankrupt parts supplier Delphi’s remaining union workers an unspecified amount of money for an unspecified amount of time to avoid a planet-killing strike. Yes, it’s The Mother of All Extortion Pay-Offs– providing you don’t count that huge pile of money GM’s already agreed to pay twenty thousand not-so-dearly departed members of the United Auto Workers (UAW) who labored on behalf of Delphi. And here’s the funny part: that’s the good news. 

A four wheel-drive Ferrari? On one hand, it sounds like a bald-faced betrayal of Ferrari's brand proposition: extreme rear wheel-drive performance cars prone to lurid oversteer slides into solid objects and/or mid-engined marvels that snap into gyroscopic spins that scrub off a bit of speed before sliding into a solid object. Ferrari claims their new system won't detract from their products' traditional balls-out driving dynamics. But one wonders if Ferrari buyers will soon be talking about "the good old days," when you had to be a "real man" to drive a Ferrari at speed. Remember: it took Porschehiles years to get over the fact that their ass-engined 911's were no longer magnetically attracted to the scenery. Still, as I pointed out to Mr. Spinelli in today's talkfest, it's in Ferrari's best interest to keep their customers alive. Besides, Vee Dub's Bugatti Veyron proved that putting power to all four wheels is an excellent way to make a 1000hp car go in the direction its driver intends. Does this mean the new four wheel-drive system will help Fezza make an even more monstrous car than the Enzo or, maybe, the big Bug? Count on it.  

My first car was a golf cart, courtesy of The Ocean Reef Club. Actually, props to the parental units. They handed me the key to the open-sided electric conveyance, slipped me a charge-worthy room card and gave me the run of the joint. The cart was surprisingly peppy and the freedom it imparted almost got me laid by a startlingly attractive college girl– an astounding piece of happenstance given that the average Club member was older than cuneiform. And as I returned to our bungalow after this almost getting laid experience, Homone-Crazed Endorphin Boy over-cooked it in a corner and crashed. Neither cart nor driver were damaged, but the accident taught me a valuable lesson: avoid vehicles with three wheels. Of course, the new Mitsubishi electric car is likely to have four wheels, reasonable acceleration, respectable range and some airbags. How great is that? Maybe not as great as a gas-sucking AMG monster, but in certain circles, well, you'd be in like Flynn. Life's funny that way.

The English say it’s horses for courses. The French say it’s horses for main courses. And the German say it’s horsepower uber alles Schätze. Well, everyone except Porsche. Since ’96, Stuttgart’s parsimonious power brokers have restricted their entry level Boxster’s engine so as not to steal big brother Carrera’s thunder. Porsche’s policy stands in direct contradiction to Mercedes and BMW, who happily pump-up the volume on vehicles that need more speed like an obese caffeine addict needs a bottle of Black Beauties. That’s just mean; the Boxster deserves proper motorvation. And now, finally, it’s got it.

My first ever dream car was the Batmobile, and yes, I'm talking about George Barris' Lincoln Futura riff. Looking back, it's funny how I totally missed the TV show's camp humor. Like the cut from the flames jetting out the back of the Batmobile to a Dynamic Duo crotch shot (celebrated by safety campaigners for showing Batman and Robin buckling-up their bulges). Well, not totally. I remember an episode where Catwoman (Julie Newmar? Eartha Kitt? Dianna Rigg? Tera Patrick?) trapped The Caped Crusader in the proverbial room with the concertina-ing walls. Via a video link, Catwoman asks Batman if he'd like to rule Gotham City or, um, die. His response? "What about Robin?" WTF? Even a pre-pubescent boy knew that Robin was OK, but Catwoman was rrrrrrr. Anyway, I like movie cars. They sound better and go faster that their real world counterparts. I look forward to seeing what Quentin Tarantino can do with the killer car thing, but a new Viper would've been a more logical choice than an old Camaro for his new flick. If ever there was a death car– from either the driver or pedestrian's POV– the Viper is it. It's hotter 'n Hell too. Yeah, the Viper deserves a super violent movie. How about Snakes on a High Plains Drifter?

The ‘Sclade re-started it, the Navi went with it and the C made it official: bling is king. What began as an urban tuner phenom– modifying domestic SUV’s with flashy wheels, “presidential” window tinting, an infestation of video screens, a stereo powerful enough to make rap music even more painful than it already is (to me), etc.– has become industry practice. One need only glance at the new Escalade, Navigator and Aspen’s gleaming prows to see that bling now comes standard. And thank God for that.