Porsche is my favorite automotive brand for one reason: they make my favorite sports car. They do not, however, make my favorite SUV. Infiniti's FX45 is more fun to drive, Land Rover's LR3 is more capable, their Range Rover is more luxurious and when it comes to carrying a crew, Lincoln's Blingigator is the bomb. Sure, the Cayenne Turbo is the world's fastest SUV. And? Aside from dubious relevance, I reckon the debut of the glacial V6 Cayenne cancels-out the accomplishment. But the worst thing about the Cayenne is that it's subsidized Porsche's plan to take over the Volkswagen Group.

This morning, Porsche AG announced it will raise its stake in the Volkswagen Group from five to 20 percent. So much for the Sultans of Stuttgart's claim that they were buying VW stock to ensure access to parts and platforms for future Porsche models. The real motivation behind Porsche's land grab is the same as it ever was: power. More specifically, Porsche's Machiavellian machinations are a real world version of one of those Jeffery Archer-style family sagas, involving genetics, greed and history. Just for fun, here's the plot line:

I once showed-up for a job interview in the adult film industry. (It was an honest mistake.) Before I bailed, I complimented Mr. Triple X on the spectacular view over the Hudson River. He closed the blinds. "I'm agoraphobic.' When I asked the pornographer why someone afraid of open spaces would chose an office overlooking a large part New Jersey, he said "It's not enough to have a million dollars. People have to KNOW you have a million dollars." The obverse is also true. Losing $8.6b is bad, but it's worse if people KNOW you lost $8.6b. Just ask GM.

While GM's prospects have been on the wrong side of dire for the last three financial quarters, both analysts and the general public generally believed The General would limp back to port to make the necessary repairs. After yesterday's announcement, nobody's kicking ice around the deck anymore, waiting for the engines to restart. GM's financial report evoked the unmistakable sound of exploding boilers. Everyone on board now knows that the world's largest automaker is destined for a watery grave. GM CEO Rabid Rick Wagoner's pathetic bleatings about an [eventual] $6b reduction in GM's materials and labor costs sound about as convincing as "this ship is unsinkable."

In 1817, Marie-Henri Beyle toured the Uffizi museum. Lost in a maze of galleries, the French novelist was paralyzed by indecision. His heart raced. His breathing was shallow and labored. His mind was completely disoriented. He couldn't move. Beyle eventually wrote about his experience under his pen name, Stendahl. In 1979, Italian psychiatrist Graziella Megherini coined the phrase 'Stendahl Syndrome' for people paralyzed by excessive choice. It's a concept bedeviling supermarkets, web pages and… carmakers.

For example, BMW's M5 is considered the ultimate sports sedan. And yet the uber-5er faces a bewildering range of operational decisions: three suspension, shifting and e-traction levels; two horsepower options and eleven gearbox modes. While a hard-core cadre of enthusiasts embrace the Bimmer's programmability, most newbies sit in the M5's driver's seat and… freeze. After overcoming their initial shock, they rely on one or two factory settings– or walk away thanking Gott in Himmel they own something a lot less complicated.

When I saw a mustard-colored Bentley GT rocketing towards my all time favorite highway exit, I knew lunch was served. Paddling from seventh to third and pressing go, I closed the gap between the M5's voracious prow and Bentley Boy's behind before the adrenalin could hit my bloodstream. As we entered the ramp, the Bimmer's heads-up display assured me I had enough rpm-age to blow-off anything that wasn't built out of carbon fiber and/or jet-powered. When the off-ramp widened for a few yards, I dove inside and dusted Bentley Boy into a fine powder. Despite my obvious, riotous supremacy, nothing changed. BMW's uber-sedan was not my friend.

Supercar scalping in a family four-door is a terrific way to kill an afternoon, but the original M5 earned its place in automotive Valhalla as the consumate all-rounder: a car that can schlep, thrash, coddle, cruise, potter and impress with equal aplomb. Make no mistake: while the M5's accelerative aggression and Nürburgring-fettled handling got the headlines, the uber-Bimmer's core appeal lay within its relatively humble origins, daily practicality and circumspect sheet metal. No other car– at any price– offered such a potent blend of ability and humility.

If I hear that "you can't cut your way to prosperity" line one more time, I swear I'm going to post a forty-eight page article about surgical cancer treatment. Listen up. General Motors sells a vast range of crap automobiles for less than they cost to make. The General has only one hope for survival: cut itself into pieces, jettison ALL the cancerous bits (products, brands, management, committees, supervisors, labor contracts, buildings, factories, suppliers, dealers, Gulfstream jets, the lot) and get on with the business of making the world's best vehicles at… wait for it… a profit.

It's increasingly obvious that this necessary (not to say inevitable) "restructuring" will have to wait until GM goes under. The General's generals made that clear when they reacted to Turnaround King Jerry York's suggestion that GM should deep-six or sell their Saab and Hummer brands. GM execs dismissed the idea with the PR equivalent of a derisive snort. Marketing Maven Monster Mark LaNeve, a man whose comments about GM's pricing strategy sound a lot like a snake-handler speaking in tongues, assured the press that "all GM's brands will eventually be profitable." Bet your bottom dollar? Done. GM has mortgaged its future on baseless brand optimism.

Call me an oxymoron, but I don't get the whole sports wagon thing. Fast wagon, sure. Hey kids! Watch Daddy wipe the smile off that smug bastard in the baby car. But "sports wagon" clearly implies high-speed cornering. Centrifugal force has this nasty habit of upending juice boxes, sending toys into black holes and making protective mothers scream with homicidal fury. I'd like to say BMW's 325xI Sports Wagon (SW) is an ideal high performance load lugger for lifestylers who don't share my domestic concerns, but I can't because it isn't.

The 325xI Sports Wagon's basic proportions look promising enough for wagon-loving corner carvers– should enough of them exist to establish a consensus. Although it's a fair distance between the front and rear wheels, the SW's overhangs could double as window ledges, and the car itself is athletically compact. Or not. It's hard to tell. Thanks to BMW's kooky "flame-surfacing", their 3 Series five-door's perceived size depends entirely on the viewing distance, the angle chosen and the amount of time spent staring at the thing. Taken as a whole, the flat-nosed SW says "road rocket" like a pepperoni pizza says "dessert."

'We didn't plan it this way. But Delphi has become a metaphor for nearly every economic and social issue gripping America.' Jesus, I hope not. Before I explain my concerns, let's review. The speaker is Robert "Call Me Steve" Miller, president of bankrupt auto parts supplier Delphi. Miller made his remarks to a bunch of industry wonks at Automotive News' grandiosely-named World Congress. Now, strip out the hyperbole (Delphi's plight isn't a metaphor for the impact of rap music on African Americans) and Miller's saying 'as goeth Delphi, so goeth American manufacturing.' Like I said, scary stuff.

Back in the fall of '05 (no pun intended), Miller was the tough-talking turnaround expert who'd taken the reins at GM's former subsidiary. Miller was all about cutting the United Auto Workers (UAW) down to size: wages, pension, health care, vacations, job classifications, the lot. Words were not minced. If the UAW didn't agree to a 60% cut to its hourly workers' wages, Miller vowed to have their Delphi contract thrown out by a federal bankruptcy judge. Analysts hailed Miller's "we can't afford this shit anymore" stance as the automobile industry's long-awaited, much-needed wakeup call. Supposedly, Miller's realism was both a preview and template for GM's survival.

If Porsche's new Boxster hardtop is a misspelled caiman, its 911 Carrera is a crocodile. While the two species share a common ancestor, put them in the same territory and one of them will end-up lunch. Maybe that's why Porsche rigged the fight; when you make a living selling Carreras, you don't want Caymans cannibalizing their cousins. Well guess what? Evolution will not, CAN not be denied. One blast around the block in a Cayman S and its future alpha status is inescapable. But let's drop this discussion of internecine conflict for a moment and consider the Cayman on its own merits…

Physically, it's no stunner. Yes, the Cayman's muscular fastback and sculpted haunches are exquisite: a deeply alluring shape that finally eliminates the Boxster's insipid push-me, pull-you design. But the Cayman's bootylicious butt draws new attention to the exceedingly bland Porsche family nose. Embedded fog lights may separate the model from its stablemates, but they do nothing to lift the miasma of mediocrity that has bedeviled the Boxster's face since birth. The Cayman's side air intakes are another distraction, lacking in both shape and scale. The German/Finnish roadster is also more color-sensitive than Martha Stewart; in anything other than black, the Cayman looks like a small and frivolous sports car souffle. Which it bloody well isn't.

On Tuesday, the elephant in GM's boardroom removed its cloaking device. In the heart of GM's corporate HQ, in the middle of the Detroit auto show, Jerome P. York told GM's management to fall on their swords. More specifically, the man behind The Man Who Would Be King told The General's generals to prune their salaries, big style. Sure, Kirk Kerkorian's proxy also recommended killing brands, halving dividends, eliminating production capacity and a bunch of other turnaround type stuff. But his call for deep cuts in executive compensation was the exec's most chilling suggestion– at least to the people pulling the strings at the world's largest automaker. RenCen shuddered in horror.

Characteristically, the West Point grad was happy to put some hard numbers to his personal attack. According to York, GM's Board of Bystanders should work for "significantly less" than $200k per year. The company's top five officers should take a "significant" hit to their $7m per year salary. Management further down the "pyramid" should suck up double digit reductions, until "you got to the lowest levels in the plants and offices, where the percentage would hopefully be only a single digit number." In short, Mr. York seems Hell bent on turning on the lights and sending GM's lifelong party-goers home to their parents.

If you're visiting the Detroit auto show, do me a favor. Go to the GM stand, find the new Chevrolet Tahoe Dual-Mode Hybrid SUV and ask the moto-bouncer to pop the hood. See if the thing's got a hybrid engine. (Ignore the engine cover; a few months ago, GM put a fake plastic cover over a pushrod powereplant to convince AutoWeek they were driving a hybrid prototype.) If The Man refuses to accommodate your request, try to decide if he's hiding something. Either way, let me know. 'Cause I'm beginning to think that Buickman is on to something…

If you don't know Buickman (a.k.a. Jim Dollinger), it's not for lack of trying. Since '94, the Michigan car salesman has dedicated his life to promoting his "Return to Greatness" recovery plan. He's brought his campaign to salesmen, customers, stockholders, board members, union members, dealers, the press, the web (www.generalwatch.com); anyone and everyone who'll give him the time of day. Now that GM faces the final curtain, Buickman has pretty much given-up on his quixotic quest and transformed himself into a whistle blower, or, if you prefer, a professional thorn in the side of GM's masters. Less charitably, Buickman is now a full-blown GM conspiracy theorist.

I don't want to be the one to throw cold water on Detroit's billion dollar beauty pageant, but someone's got to do it. The workers' demonstration outside Cobo Center turned out to be a damp squib (probably because the workers in question enjoy a union contract that guarantees them job security, a comfortable salary and comprehensive health care). The mainstream automotive press isn't about to bite the hand that RSS feeds. So I'll step into the breach with a simple statement: the last thing Detroit needs right now is a bunch of new cars.

Once upon a time, the Detroit auto show was The Detroit Auto Show, not some gussied-up international flying circus. Carmakers showed off wild, inherently stupid concept cars that would never, EVER be built and the latest update to their showroom models. And then everyone headed off to open bars and hooker-laden hospitality suites to do what comes natural to middle-aged white men. Now the suits are serious and the web is alive with the sound of clickery, as even industry addicts struggle to keep up with dozens of new models headed for the showrooms. While it's easy to get caught up in the buzz, I'm here to say that all this product overkill will, as the Brits say, end in tears.

Regrets? GM's Vice President of North American Vehicle Sales has had a few. Then again, too few to mention. When quizzed about the wisdom of last summer's Fire Sale for Everyone, Monster Mark LaNeve said "Hindsight being 20/20, I probably wouldn't have done it." Probably? The campaign annihilated The General's fall and winter business and sealed GM's rep as America's largest discount car company. Which LaNeve now vows to fix by ignoring the connection between guilt and change and reanimating the company's short-lived "Total Value Promise" program.

Which is what, exactly? Although LaNeve's past rhetoric qualifies him for a job as the fifth Wiggle, and the specifics of the latest version of the Total Value Promise (TVP) await a Detroit unveiling, Monster Mark's been dropping hints. At the LA car confab, the slightly confessional marketing maven revealed the basics: lower sticker prices and a clear focus on comparative excellence. "We'll say, 'Best product, here's why," LaNeve said. "'Best price on an MSRP basis.'" What's more, "With every new product we bring to market, we'd like to price it very aggressively."

Thanks in part to Charles Darwin's theory of evolution, mankind believes everything's gradually getting better. It's a pretty strange kind of optimism, what with killer uptopians like Adolph Hitler and Joseph Stalin hanging-out in our collective past. But this faith in the eternal sunshine of the spotless future fits in nicely with the whole New Year's thing. As does The Detroit News (DTN) January 1 feature "The Road Ahead." Given the black cloud of bankruptcy hanging over Detroit, writer Bill Vlassic's desire to spread a little holiday cheer with a bit of automotive boosterism is entirely understandable. But there's a big difference between lightening-up and enlightenment.

When historians analyze GM's collapse, searching for the precise moment when The General jumped the shark, it will be like trying to pinpoint the onset of Alzheimer's. The world's largest automaker has been screwing things up so spectacularly for so long that even a $2b payoff to FIAT for signing the wrong bit of paper seems like a bump on the road to oblivion. What's more, GM's management is still busy making monumental mistakes. The Board of Bystanders' decision not to admit Kirk Kirkorian's proxy into their midst is only the latest and greatest example.

Unfortunately, I don't have any inside info on the failed negotiations between GM's largest private investor and The Powers That Be. I only know that last Tuesday, after GM's Board rebuffed Captain Kirk's nominee Jerry York, the billionaire investor sold 12m GM shares. The move cut his stake from to 9.9 to 7.8 percent and sent GM's stock into freefall (down to an 18-year low). Some financial experts see it a tax dodge. Others look at Kirk's on-again, off-again romance with MGM and predict his return. TTAC's Deep Throat figures this is it: Kirk's outta here. In any event, Kirk has sent both GM's board and the markets a clear message about GM's future, or lack thereof…

For those of you who've just joined us from Wall Street, welcome. We've been waiting for you for a while– long enough to wonder if GM's stock price got lost in hyperspace. I guess you guys needed some kind of sign to find your bearings. Something like Toyota's announcement that they're gonna Avis The General in '06, ending GM's 70-year run as the world's largest automaker. Or Rabid Rick Wagoner's post horse departure barn door closing homily: "I'm not conceding anything to anybody." No matter. Now that you're here, let me tell you a story…

I was scanning Wardsauto.com the other day when I came across a "good news" piece: "Crucial GM Fullsize Truck Program Launches Early". Well, OK, it MIGHT be a good news piece, you know, if The General's SUV cavalry racks-up the sales GM needs to die another day. Obviously, it's a bit of a long shot, what with SUV's being a dead genre guzzling. But hey; it is what it was. Anyway, mid-way through Ms. Priddle's puff piece, a thought occurred to me: is it really a good idea to rush the GMT900 vehicles (Tahoe, Yukon, Escalade, Suburban, Silverado, Sierra, etc.) to market? What if they're not ready?