As I guided the revised Boxster S onto the off-ramp at a not-inconsiderable speed, I instantly concluded that Porsche's engineers have switched from coffee to amphetamines. While the previous Boxster S would have sasheed through the ½ mile curve with sure-footed ease, the updated version wanted to chew up the tarmac and spit it out. The snarls and howls bouncing off the stone walls flanking the roadway left no doubt that the more "evolved" car likes living life on the edge. There was only one thing for it: go 'round again.

The second time through the corner, I held the Boxster S in second gear and mashed the gas. The car added speed like a boulder rolling downhill; the transition from bottom end torque shove to Variocam assisted accelerative thrust was as seamless and powerful as gravity itself. The Boxster's variable-ratio steering rack and [optional] 19" wheels responded to the smallest steering input with a fencer's speed, a surgeon's precision and a Rottweiler's tenacity. The resulting line through the ramp's radius wasn't pretty, but it was very, very quick. Oh yeah, and fun.

The Lexus GX470 is a poster child for SUV haters: huge exterior, cramped interior, hippo handling and mileage figures so low they make an M1 tank look frugal. For those who care about such things, the fact that the GX470 qualifies as an Ultra-Low Emissions Vehicle doesn't alter its planet-killing profile. For those who couldn't care less, the GX470 offers at least one good reason to piss off your PC neighbors (providing that's not enough reason in and of itself): off road prowess.

The GX470 is a fantastically capable four-by-four. It sports all the structural strength and traction control doo-dads you need to trammel the road less traveled. Hill Assist Control stops the SUV from sliding backwards on steep inclines. Downhill Assist Control modulates engine and wheel braking to avoid nose-diving in the opposite direction. And if that's not enough to help you boldly go where TV ads have gone before, the GX470 also has full-time all-wheel-drive, a limited slip diff, rear air suspension and enough ground clearance to mount a MINI. I couldn't find a single hill, rut or rock that could ruffle the 470's mechanical feathers.

When Jaguar unveiled its "Advanced Lightweight Coupe" (ALC) at the Detroit Auto Show, the stakes couldn't have been higher. The concept car had to mollify exasperated Ford bean counters, already thinking the unthinkable. It had to burnish the brand's fading reputation for jaw-dropping design and innovative engineering. So, at the precise moment when Jaguar needed a major hit to rescue the brand from oblivion, the company reveals… a copy of an Aston Martin.

The Audi A8L W12 goes like Hell. Kick the gearbox in the sides a couple of times, mash the gas and the long-wheelbase leviathan transforms itself into a car-sized guided missile, punching through the air with terrifying resolve. And so it should. The W12 in question– two V6 powerplants connected at the crankshaft in a 'W' formation– generates 450hp. That's enough power to propel Audi's flagship from zero to sixty in five seconds dead, or accelerate from any speed to its 130mph V-max with stupendous, seamless, seductive shove.

Ah, you noticed that did you? One-three-oh is plenty fast compared to say, a Toyota Corolla, but we're talking about a top-of-the-line limo from the makers of the S4 and RS6, two cars that clearly believe that life begins at 140. You'd be forgiven for assuming Audi built the W12 to mix it with big-engined Mercs and Bimmers tear-assing up and down Germany's unrestricted Autobahns, knocking on the door of the double ton. At the very least, the W12 should top-out at 155mph, in accordance with the Fatherland's so-called "gentleman's agreement".

I read somewhere that less than two percent of Americans own a passport. As someone who spent 18 years abroad, I can fully understand the average citizen's reluctance to experience the joys of surly service, high prices, questionable hygiene and murderous Muslims. Still, as a journalist covering a multi-national industry, I do my best to keep an open mind about other lands, other cultures– or at least ignore them as best I can.

Sciontologists are scary people. Who else would re-package a Toyota Echo and sell it to American twenty-somethings? We're talking about a Japanese sub-compact with all the edgy excitement of a five-year-old Readers' Digest (large print edition). You couldn't imagine a more cynical marketing ploy. Still, props to Toyota for having the stones to foist the "new money for old rope" routine on the world's most style critical audience.

Our main man Daniel Howes of the Detroit News recently asked 'what the Hell happened to mass customization"? Mass customization means building a product to a customer's exact specifications, then delivering it before they get pissed off. As the choice of three trim levels seems to satisfy most sheep– I mean people, I don't thing the Big Three's lack of a Dell-style manufacturing system is a major problem. But the wider point is well taken. When will the auto industry wake up and realize that it's the 21st century?

Honda must know that "street cred" and "minivan" go together like "50 Cent" and "country club". The preliminary sketches for the updated Odyssey show a vehicle bristling with sporting intent. Unfortunately, the finished item is another boxy behemoth with no more sex appeal than a shopping cart. This time out, Honda indented the Odyssey's lower doors and creased the nose. The cinched waist fails to moderate the slab sides while the rhinoplasty makes the Odyssey look like a snake with a half-eaten Acura TL sticking out of its mouth.

When I asked Horacio Pagani how he can compete against Ferrari, Porsche and Mercedes, he said "It's better to be the head of a mouse rather than the tail of lion." It's a nice Italianate metaphor (especially for an Argentinean), but it's not strictly accurate. If the Pagani Zonda is a "mouse", then an F15 is a "plane". Plant your right foot in a C12S and the AMG-fettled Mercedes V12 barks, roars, howls and then screams like a wounded grizzly. Any lion with an ounce of self-preservation would run for his life.

And not make it ten yards. When thrashing the Zonda on the twisting two-lane highway above Modena, there was one long straight. For the first and only time, I was free to explore the mystery known as "third gear". Those of you who've driven a race car flat out might appreciate the resulting rush. I doubt it. On a track, you don't need to watch out for Italian truck drivers coming from the opposite direction (using the racing line). Flooring the Pagani Zonda on a public road hurts your brain, blows your mind AND loosens your bowels.

Bristol is one of Britain's most venerated carmakers. For over thirty-five years, Brits "in the know" have considered the obscure automaker's products to be the embodiment of English hand built quality and understated exclusivity. Unfortunately, motoring journalists need not apply. In fact, Bristol actively discourages any sort of publicity for its current cars. A test drive is "out of the question".

A few weeks before the end of my English adventure, I gave Bristol one last try. I immediately recognised the cut-glass accent on the other end of the phone: Tony Crook, former RAF pilot, racing driver and the undisputed Emperor of Bristol Motor Cars. Luckily, the octogenarian and self-professed "living legend" didn't recognise my voice. Mr. Crook agreed to a "five-minute chat".

Before you read this editorial, you must first agree not to show it to anyone until next Tuesday. Yeah, right. And yet carmakers routinely provide new product news and photographs to the press subject to a mutually agreed release date. The industry calls the practice a "news embargo". It's the dirty little secret that lies at the heart of the relationship between automakers and the press.

After a foot of fresh snow fell on New England, I was ready to take the Acura RL out for an action traction thrash. Unfortunately, the RL is a keyless wonder. When you twist the ignition knob into the off position, it's not really off– it's in accessory mode. You have to depress the plastic do-hickey and twist it another notch. Who knew? OK, there was an electronic warning. But modern cars bong more than Hawaiian dope smokers. I'd checked that the RL's lights were off the previous night and called it good.

Anyway, I wasn't the only car hack to flatten the battery. And the thing is, the $50k RL can't afford such a basic misstep. Acura's "I-swear-I'm-not-a-bling-Honda" is competing deep inside Caddy, Merc, Bimmer, Audi and Lexus territory. As BMW learned with its iDrive You Nuts debacle, any luxury car that makes you think too much starts from the back of the pack. A car that won't start, well…

Once again, it's time for the yearly pseudo-slugfest known as The Car of the Year. Across this great country of ours, every car-related newspaper, magazine, radio station, TV outlet and website (excluding this one) are busy awarding their favorite manufacturers an automotive attaboy. Once again, both the choices and selection process fall perilously close to farce.

Far be it for me to claim that the various juries are inherently biased. Like the majority of the panelists charged with sorting the wheat from the Ford 500's, I'm also a middle-aged white man. While I don't share my colleagues' sanctimonious regard for cars whose novel propulsion systems and dubious mileage figures are their best– if not only– distinguishing characteristic, I grew up with the same infatuation for speed and style. So none of their non-PC nominees come as any great surprise.

The Scion tC and I got off to a bad start; I had the audacity to take it grocery shopping. Hey, it's a hatchback, right? Well, most hatchbacks have cargo covers with a hinge at front and stringy-things that tie it to the hatch lid. Open the hatch and the cover swings out of your way. Not the tC. The tC's cargo cover is a cardboard, plastic and faux-dog-hair affair that has three positions: 1) In the way; 2) totally in the way; and 3) tossed angrily into the back seat.

To access the tC's hatch you must lift up the cover yourself, at which time the plastic clip detaches itself and shouts to the others, "Hey guys, you gotta try this!" The other clips jump in unison and the whole affair crashes down into the trunk faster than you can utter your expletive of choice. Good luck re-attaching it. After five attempts and two dozen expletives, I placed the cover in the aforementioned Position 3. By the time I loaded my groceries, the milk was past its sell-by date.

I like Cadillac. Theirs is the perfect American success story: a failing luxury car company saved by hard work, clever engineering and gang bangers. By now, the brothers' mainline manufacturer is safe and the word is out: Cadillac is back, and it's bling. Even old white men in shiny shoes know that the Escalade is all that, the XLR is dope, the CTS is fly, and the SRX is SWASS (Some Wild Ass Silly Shit). So why-oh-why did Caddy brew up this four-wheeled Forty Dog?

For some reason, they based the STS' design on the arrow-sharp CTS– minus the sharp. While the STS' front and back ends retain a welcome measure of the CTS' aggression, the overall result looks like a fat mobster in a Brioni suit. The STS' sloping swage lines and ever-so-slightly bulging wheel arches can't disguise the fact that it's a slab-sided luxobarge from the old school, with all the blingosity of a Lincoln Town Car. Granted, that may have been the point: to build a luxury car conservative enough for Cadillac's traditional clientele, yet– no wait, that's it; that's the whole story.