Oh dear. It seems that the long predicted "perfect storm" is massing above the stricken supertanker that is General Motors. Storm cloud one: the Wall Street Journal reports that SUV sales have tanked in Texas.

Never mind today's sales figures, which reveal that GM's light truck sales dropped 17 percent last month, to 209,917 vehicles. Or today's S&P downgrade, which reduces GM's bonds to 'junk' status (raising their borrowing costs). If Texans are abandoning their Conestogas, GM's number one [non-finance] profit engine is running out of gas– without a service station in sight. Unlike Chrysler and Ford, GM doesn't have a plan B: a supply of more fuel-efficient sedans, SUV's and crossovers ready for sale. I'm not talking about hit products like the Mustang or 300C. I mean reasonably frugal vehicles appropriate to these $2.70 a gallon times, like the Ford Freestyle.

According to Rush Limbaugh, we’ve got plenty of oil. So I’m not really bothered about a given car’s fuel economy, from a “we are the world, we are the stars with air-conditioned mansions” perspective. More to the point, TTAC’s weekly test cars arrive with a full tank of gas. Of course, I’m not completely insensitive to working class priorities, or my profession’s desire to promote an anti-oil agenda. So I’m always up for a good hybrid bashing– I mean review. Only things didn’t quite turn out as I’d planned…

At Microsoft's recent "Global Automotive Summit", someone asked Bill Gates if he thought the auto industry should aim for cars that "wouldn't let themselves crash". To which Mr. Gates replied "absolutely". Bill was, of course, sandbagged. The media love to paint the world's wealthiest man as the world's most powerful control freak– which, of course, he is. But the subtext is always there: Bill Gates is a fascist. In this case, the press got him to "admit" he wants his company to take control of your car.

When Toyota Chairman Hiroshi Okuda proposed raising the price of his company's products to help floundering US automakers, industry insiders didn't know whether to laugh or cry. The idea that inflating Toyota sticker prices would lead US consumers back into GM or Ford showrooms is so ludicrous that Okuda's comment struck many as a malicious joke. Either that or the head of the world's second largest carmaker hasn't driven a Ford, lately. To get a consumer to choose a Ford or GM product over a similarly priced Toyota, the Japanese would have to tack on a couple of grand. At least.

Although Okuda quickly recanted, the brouhaha focused yet more unwanted attention on Ford and GM's lackluster products. It's one thing for your bond status to head for the junk pile, it's another for potential customers to hear that the Japanese feel sorry for you. Of course, from a marketing point of view, Okuda's offer was a masterstroke; potential car buyers now have good reason to believe that Toyotas are underpriced. From an industry point of view, Okuda placed not one but two elephants in the room.

I have no desire to piss off the Koreans, Northern or Southern. For those of you involved in that region's automobile industry, who probably view anything other than a puff piece as an affront to your family's honor, let me say this: the Kia Sportage EX 4WD is a nice SUV. It's nice– in the same sense that attractive women used to call me a "nice guy". In other words, the Sportage is about as sexy as mitosis.

One look at the Sportage proves that you can't reverse engineer style. The exterior incorporates all of the standard SUV design cues: blistered wheels arches, bisected radiator grill, integrated roof rack, blacked-out window surrounds, letterbox exhausts, etc. Like every other occidental pastiche, the whole is less than the sum of its parts. The Sportage is too big here (back end), too small there (rear three-quarter glass), not enough aggression anywhere.

Enzo Ferrari used to sell his customers an engine and throw in the car for free. While Ferrari still reserves the right to sell whatever it wants to whomever it wants without worrying about what anyone else may want, Maranello's mad machines are now at least as dynamically cohesive and ergonomically sound as your average John Deere lawn mower (if infinitely less practical). In fact, the Italian automaker has passed the mantle of "engine first engineering" to GMC. More specifically, to the Sierra 1500HD pickup truck.

Our test Sierra was powered by GM's sublime Vortec 6000. Granted, new millennia power freaks will not find the 6.0-liter engine's 300hp output overly impressive– especially when the horses in question are harnessed to a vehicle weighing 4800 lbs. And yes, GMC slots some bigger, badder units into the Sierra; including a 6.6-liter DURAMAX turbo-diesel with enough torque to pull the Queen Mary into dry dock (640ft.-lbs.). But the Vortec 6000 is a flawless and loveable lump, a V8 from The Old School.

You ever get the feeling that you should be riding on public transportation? Me neither. The only time I'm tempted is when I need to travel long distances– oh wait, airlines still count as private transportation don't they? Right. Let's try that again. The only time I'm tempted is when I need to travel from one city to another city that's more than 300 miles away, but less than 500 miles away. And now that Amtrak has pulled the entire Acela Express fleet offline to repair cracked brakes, well, it's no sale.

Of course, I certainly understand people who use public transportation for commuting. Well, maybe not understand, but at least sympathize. Even in America, Land of the Free, Home of No-Money-Down, not everyone can afford a car. The hassle and expense of parking is also a fearsome disincentive for auto ownership. But what I can't understand, at all, on any level, is why people give credence to the factually flawed logic used by environmentalists to promote public transport.

OnStar's radio ads are powerful stuff. The 30-second documentaries– featuring real life rescue coordination by OnStar staff– jerk more tears than Terms of Endearment and The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood combined. The fact that you can summon the same emergency crew by punching 911 into you cell is neither here nor there. After hearing an OnStar rep soothing a toddler crying "Momma's passed out", you'd gladly get a second mortgage to pay for their emergency coverage.

Considering the ads' impact on OnStar's takeup rate, the General's plan to translate the radio spots into a series of 30-minute TV infomercials makes perfect sense. Provided the producers keep it real (in the best 'based on a true story' TV tradition), the marketing campaign will be a sure-fire hit. You can almost hear new customers choking back the tears as they relay their credit card number to their toll-free friends.

Unbelievable. GM's lost the plot, they're losing the game and now they want to take their ball and go home. After automotive critic Dan Neil ripped apart the new Pontiac G6 GT and called for an executive putsch, The General pulled its $10m adspend out of the LA Times. While you can't begrudge GM's right to place– or not place– its money where it chooses, the decision to pull the plug on the Times displays an unappealing combination of arrogance and petulance. To wit: GM spokesfolk defended their action by saying that the review (and other GM-related coverage) contained 'factual errors and misrepresentations'– without providing any specifics. So there. Nuh.

I love horsepower. I love the feel of it lingering underfoot, ready to explode into neck-snapping, stomach-churning, tire-shredding violence. I love the sound of it: the blend of Fortissississimo bellowing and heavy metal madness. I love the power of it, the ability to make “ordinary” machines look as if God grabbed their rear bumpers and yanked them backwards. Sure, my passion for accelerative overload is infantile, dangerous and about as politically correct as a 1920s minstrel show. But at least it isn’t impractical or expensive. Well, not anymore.

Porsche salesman Kirk Stingle calls it 'tip in'. It's those initial few seconds of acceleration, when a vehicle's engine tries to convince the stationary mass surrounding it that it's time to hit the road, Jack. A surprisingly large number of SUV's tip in like they're racing for pinks. Not so the Volvo XC90 V8. With a 311hp powerplant mated to a six-speed slushbox, the formerly slothful Swede glides off the line with all the grace and strength of an Olympic figure skater starting her routine. Even the Russian judges give it a perfect ten.

The newly-engined Volvo XC90 shows that the Ford subsidiary understands that the ideal 'soft roader' is nothing more than a luxury car on stilts. It must be comfortable enough so that none of its occupants wants to throttle a fellow passenger (always a plus for family car buyers), tall enough to impart a sense of superiority, fast enough to exercise that authority and nimble enough not to roll over and die when you do. Oh yes, and safe. It's got to be safe.

[NOTE: This is the first General Motors Death Watch, originally published on April 3, 2005. It will return to the TTAC archives on Monday.]

When The Donald calls aspiring apprentices into the boardroom to determine which one to fire, I’m always hoping for a miracle. I want him to can ALL of them. My feelings about GM are identical. When GM Vice Chairman Bob Lutz hinted that he’d axe Buick or Pontiac if the divisions didn’t ‘gain traction’, he ignited a debate over which of the General’s lackluster brands deserved death. The answer is, of course, all of them.

I've been wondering about the future of urban car culture for some time. How can its adherents sustain interest in an automotive genre based almost entirely on big wheels, retrofitted TV's, new upholstery and presidential window tint? Extreme examples are still eye magnets, but they're beginning to seem a bit… limited. Sure, car nuts of all stripes are capable of endlessly obsessing over the smallest details– body colored engine braces, taillight covers, tire treads, miniscule horsepower upgrades, etc. But there's only so much you can do to make a car look like a pimpmobile. In general, and in specific, it's been done.

If cars were subject to truth in labeling laws, the Mercedes Benz CLS would be called the Mercedes Benz WTF. Nothing can quite prepare the casual viewer for the chop top Merc's initial impact. Whether you see the sedan as a bold and beautiful move by an adventurous carmaker, or a hideous repudiation of a famous marque's dignified brand values, the CLS' delivers the kind of aesthetic jolt normally reserved for concept cars and George Barris creations.

Quite how this show stopper infiltrated Mercedes' lineup is anybody's guess. Did Chrysler parachute 300C designer Ralph Gilles into the main corporate HQ? Did Mercedes boss Dr. Eckhard Cordes fall in love with the reveal on 'Pimp My Mini-Maybach'? In any case, the CLS accomplishes at a single stroke what BMW's Bangle failed to do with an entire model range: transform a German carmaker's image from stodgy establishment lackey to cutting-edge automotive artist. It's that wild.

I swear I've haven't clipped a curb in decades. And yet there I was, cutting in front of a line of traffic in the great Rhode Island tradition, when I heard the muffled whump of the 645Ci's rear tire cresting concrete. It's not the kind of sound you want to hear when piloting a $70k "Ultimate Driving Machine"– if only because it makes you seem a lot less than the ultimate driver. Not guilty. I blame mechanical foul play.

Firstly, the 645Ci is a hard charger. The moment your right foot touches the go pedal, every one of the coupe's 325 horses stampedes towards the horizon. That may not sound like enough horsepower to make you lose your bearings, but by God, it is. Thanks to a stepless intake manifold, double VANOS variable valve timing and other Bavarian black arts, the 3781lbs. luxobarge steams to sixty in a scarcely credible 5.5 seconds. More importantly, it strains to do so at every possible opportunity, to the point where the traction control idiot light sends out a steady stream of Morse Code.