“Hi. I’m Jerry Rich.”

As I shake the golf course owner’s hand through the window of our rented Mustang, Rich’s gaze falls on my wife’s jeans.

“You got a hole in your jeans,” he remarks, eyeing my wife’s strategically distressed apparel. 

“I paid good money for those holes,” Sam retorts.

Rich nods blankly. After introductions, we follow his ’71 Tahoe to our accommodations. The second we get out of the car, Rich says it again.

“My granddaughter’s jeans have fewer holes than that.”

At first I think the former intranet entrepreneur is asserting his alpha status. But Rich’s 6’5” frame is relaxed. His voice is as soft as the endless sheathes of silk hiding in the corn surrounding his estate. 

Rich’s automobiles live in a vaguely English barn-like structure just off the practice range. Mid-August sun pours through the skylights.

A 1956 Corvette convertible sits in the middle of the cavernous room, roped off and surrounded by plastic banquet tables. “Mint condition” doesn’t quite cover it.

“That’s a 100 point car,” Rich says, walking past the Corvette without a moment’s pause. “We won a lot of competitions with that car.”

Rich leads me to the back of the building, into a dark, vast, industrial space.

As the sodium lights warm-up, I realize I’m looking at the back end of an impossibly glamorous 1932 Auburn Speedster. A 1932 Cadillac V16 emerges from the murk; a car whose imperiousness defined the take-no-commoners extravagance of the Classic Era. Next to that, a 1934 Duesenberg Town Car; a vehicle that combines Hollywood glamour and arrogant authority.

Rich tells me the big Caddy once belonged to the Chairman of U.S. Steel (which goes some way to explaining the company’s fall from grace). Otherwise, he responds to my questions with minimal, often monosyllabic replies. 

Why did you buy seven Lamborghini Countaches when you can’t fit into one? "It was the most exotic automobile ever made." What’s it like to drive a Mercedes Gullwing? "Not as nice as the Roadster." Is there a common theme running through your collection? "They’re all cars I like." How often do you take your Ferraris for a spin? "My mechanic makes sure they’re in running condition." 

Rich's lack of enthusiasm deflates my own. Even worse, the collector is deaf to hints about which car we should exercise the following day. 

When we happen upon a brand new Ford GT, I recommend taking FoMoCo’s mad, bad supercar for an early morning thrash. “It’s too far from the back door,” Rich pronounces.

We enter the museum’s workshop. “That’s my son’s car,” he says, pointing at Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, resting on its laurels in bay two. “Jim used to help me with the collection before he went into the restaurant business. Now he’s in personal bankruptcy. We’ve got to sell it.”

Did Jim Rich’s departure from car collecting sour his famous father on the enterprise? Rich ignores the question. “Let’s take the Family Truckster out tomorrow,” he says, gesturing at the garish station wagon in bay one.

Is he kidding? The prospect of helming the comedic land yacht featured in National Lampoon’s Vacation– as opposed to caning the Ferrari GTO or cruising in the Auburn Speedster– makes me slightly nauseous.

As we head for the links, Rich’s mood improves. He scans the course like a tank commander surveying the battlefield.

Only there are no battles. It’s Sunday afternoon and the course is empty. Achingly beautiful, fiendishly spectacular, perfectly groomed, but empty. 

Rich make notes on a scorecard as he goes, detailing dozens of “issues." We stop to move some branches and pick-up a piece of trash. I get it. Rich is a perfectionist.

Everything in Jerry Rich's domain must be perfect, from the line of bushes framing a fairway to the condition of his Amphicar. He can’t understand why anyone would settle for anything less than perfection, like, say, a ripped pair of jeans. 

At the end of Rich Harvest Links, long shadows and a gaggle of geese cover the final green. Rich aims his golf cart straight at the birds and chases them into flight. The job requires four passes and several sharp turns, all taken at maximum speed. 

The next day, we take a short trip in Rich’s rolling Rosebud: his personally restored 1961 Mercedes Benz Roadster. I'll never forget the engine’s guttural growl and the smell of unburned gasoline mixing with the loamy countryside. But there was none of joy of the previous day’s duck-chasing.

Even before I leave Jerry Rich, Jerry Rich has left me. He’s looking out across his driving range where a dozen corporate guests are firing balls at distant greens so faultlessly designed and meticulously maintained that they hardly look real. At least, that’s how they see it. For Jerry Rich, somewhere out there, there’s work to be done.

This wasn’t the first time I’d opted for European delivery. In fact, after counting all the license plates I’d collected from these international adventures, I discovered I was on my eighth visit. Normally, when my wife learns I want to go to Stuttgart or Munich, she digs in her proverbial heels. So I had to package my automotive connection with a week in Paris. I made the arrangements to pick up a BMW 335 at the Munich factory. Here’s how the deal went down…

My local BMW dealer booked my order, and then faxed my specifications and delivery date to the Fatherland. After factory approval, I filled out some simple forms, made a copy of my passport and faxed ze paypaz to Germany. In exchange, I received a five percent discount off the U.S. list price (the dealer is free to discount further). Done.

European rental cars are dull and expensive; figure that’s another $2k saved. Oh, and you also get to ignore the break in period and drive as fast as you dare on unrestricted segments of the Autobahn. As the MasterCard voice-over guy says, priceless.

As this was my fourth visit to BMW’s Munich HQ in two years, the staff treated us like old friends (i.e. they treated us with a certain awkward formality that would have instantly disappeared whilst imbibing local beer in a neighborhood rathskeller). After signing the inevitable insurance form (the European delivery package includes two weeks of “free” insurance), my hosts demonstrated a raft of electronic features I’ll never use, handed a picnic lunch and wished a safe journey. 

Our first destination: the Rhine River, about 300 miles distant. As we were motoring during harvest time, I wanted to stop en route to let my wife could experience Federweisser. That’s the German wine made from the first press of the grapes (like Beaujolais but nowhere near as frivolously named), traditionally served with a kind of onion quiche.

We stopped at the first decent looking town along the Neckar river: Bad Wimpfen. Meine Deutsch was good enough to accomplish the task at hand. Our appetites sated, we spooled-up the twin turbos and headed to Stromberg for Johann Lafer’s reknowned kitchen.

Cruising at 110mph on the Autobahn, you soon realize why German car makers couldn’t give a rat’s ass about cup holders. Who’s got time for coffee when the slightest mistake would take a half mile to conclude.

We arrived just before dark, just in time to unclench my hands from the wheel and freshen up for dinner. Our room was in an old castle tower, three stories tall, on the hotel’s third floor. For those of you keeping track, the bedroom was five floors from the restaurant. Excessive consumption of wine was… problematic. Fortunately, I was served the finest steak I’ve ever eaten (from Austria, no less) and, um, rabbit.

The next day we crossed into Luxembourg. I was only able to average 24 mpg in Germany. Restricted to a maximum of 80mph, I achieved closer to 30 mpg. Good thing too, since fuel cost upwards of seven bucks a gallon.

I wanted to go to Luxembourg, if only because I don’t know anyone who’s been there. We enjoyed a world class museum designed by I.M. Pei (not I. R. Baboon) and flaming garlic shrimp (Portuguese style) from Chez Bacano. Our third day included a jaunt across Eastern France, with pit-stops at Nancy and Metz, before settling in for the night outside of Reims.

I enjoyed the three finest glasses of wine of the entire trip: a 1999 Deutz Blanc de Blancs Champagne, a 2003 Puligny Montrachet and a 1999 Phelan Segur Bordeaux. My wife, who does not drink, savored every last drop of the Bordeaux. Of course, three or more ducks relinquished their livers for our gluttonous gustatory satisfaction.

The next morning we drove to the Charles De Gaulle airport to drop off the 335 at the shipper: TT Car Transit (easily located by Terminal 3). Unfortunately, the gentleman who normally handles my paperwork was delayed in traffic. As I had a plane to catch, his assistant located the Main Man via cell. He talked all three of us through the procedure.

Six signatures later, I removed the front license plate as a memento of the experience, handed over one of the car keys and let the nice lads at TT whisk us off to my departure terminal. Six weeks later, I picked up my ride, safe and sound, at my local dealer.

If you’re leasing your new Bimmer, you get one free month; so you pay for the car without possessing it for a couple of weeks. If you pay cash, payment in full is required 30 days prior to pick up. The warranty expires in four years, but the memories last forever.

New York City boasts the highest concentration of gargantuan rear wheel drive V8-powered cars in the country, 99% of which sit on Ford’s Panther platform. Still, in layout and public transit it may be the most European city in the U.S. But there’s nothing European about the way people drive in the city’s five boroughs. It’s like the Matrix – you can’t really be told what it is, you have to see it for yourself to understand. Let’s start with the rules.

Forget everything you know about driving. There are only three rules for driving in New York. First, don’t block the box. Second, no Lena horn. And third, don’t hit anyone or anything.

Almost every single New York City intersection is what military strategists call a “choke point.” A driver who blocks the box (i.e. intersection) literally throttles The Big Apple’s traffic flow. If even one more vehicle joins a box blocking joik inside the intersection, the entire system can grid lock and die. Even the most selfish NYC driver understands that such boorish behavior is temporal suicide.

To keep the arteries flowing, the City fathers never signed on to the Fed’s gas-saving “right turn on red” rule. To help raise revenues and maintain the box’ status as hallowed ground, these same civic-minded ladies and gentlemen approved an explosion of red light cameras. The cameras are dumber than [insert celebrity debutard], but they’re not as stupid as drivers who feel free to box clever.

While the soundtrack to any Manhattan-based movie wouldn’t be complete without a distant cacophony of honking car horns, most boroughs punish the practice with a $200+ fine. By law, anyone who sounds their horn can only do so if there’s a “safety” issue involved. As there’s always a safety issue involved, few people bother. The streets of the City are a lot quieter than you’d imagine.

As for avoiding crashes, well, that’s a universal. New York City drivers are as good as any at avoiding physical contact. And better than most at swearing when it does occur.

So them’s the rules. Otherwise, normal driving conventions– signaling, checking blind spots, maintaining lane discipline, etc.– are strictly optional. Drivers feel free to make u-turns across six lanes of traffic without warning. Taxis are happy to stop in the middle of a moving lane of traffic to let out a passenger. While there’s a citywide speed limit of 30, breaking 40mph is practically impossible. But hey, go for it. City drivers do.

When you're done, good luck parking. Unlike Los Angeles, where most retailers provide some kind of proximate car stashing option, Manhattan parking offers drivers a stark choice. They can pull in to a private garage and submit to usurious rates (how does $8.50 per half hour sound) and long waits for both drop-off and pickup. Or they can park on the street.

Once you’ve found the Holy Grail known as a legal parking space, you inherit a financial dependent known as a parking meter. Although “feeding the meter” (paying the City to remain past the legal limit) is illegal, at least it’s an accepted social excuse. Oh really? How fascinating! Hold on to that thought; I’ve got to feed the meter.

Of course, a lot of folks just double park. Or triple park. Sure, tickets are expensive. But the more people break the law, the harder it is for the parking attendants to enforce. This causes seriously gnarled traffic, as cars switch lanes without notice (or turn signals) lest they be stuck behind the double parked vehicle of someone picking up their dry cleaning.

To prevent drivers from monopolizing parking spaces, the City cleans the streets daily, in an alternating pattern. For an hour and a half, cars cannot be parked on the odd or even side of the street. The entire block’s worth of cars on the “wrong” side will double park along the permitted side, so that the street cleaning machine can get through and they can avoid a ticket.

The result is two columns of cars, parked inches from one another. Owners of legally parked cars in the inner column are trapped for an hour and a half– at least. It’s a daily practice, an accepted way of life and completely insane.

To ease congestion and improve parking, the City’s considered a congestion tax a la London, restricting access to heavily-trafficked midtown Manhattan during the day, and routing restrictions (limiting where turns can be made, for example). If enacted, none of these measures would provide the slightest deterrence.

New Yorkers who drive already do so in spite of a pedestrian-friendly city, a world class (in efficiency, not cleanliness) public transit system, and enough hire cars to keep Ford’s Crown Vic line humming for another three decades. And hey, they’re New Yorkers. YOU try telling them to leave their car at home. Get the picture?   

To say the internet has become an important marketing tool for automobile manufacturers is like saying radial tires are beginning to catch on. And yet Forrester Research reports that many car companies' websites depend on clunky photo galleries, confusing spec tables, complicated car configurators and other layout clichés. “You can’t frustrate and annoy people into liking your brand,” counsels Ron Rogowski, one of the Forrester's senior analysts. “But a lot of automotive websites seem to be trying to do just that.” 

Forrester reviewed 900 automotive websites, looking at site organization and design. They found lots of server space for improvement. I spoke to Rogowski about the deficiencies. “Illegible text is the number one complaint," he revealed. "It’s hard to believe in this day and age that text would be so difficult to read on so many sites.”

Rogowski also chastised automakers for raising consumer expectations, and then failing to fulfill them. Brands run highly-focused, deeply sensuous print ads and TV spots that point customers to websites that are hum, without nary a ho in site. “Boredom is a brand killer,” Rogowski said, startling Camcordima drivers everywhere.

Rogowski singles out BMW AG’s site for electronic excoriation. As any pistonhead will tell you, Bimmer’s corporate mantra is ‘the ultimate driving machine.’ By contrast, their website is the ‘ultimate connecting your DVD player to your television experience.’ BMW’s car configurator came in for a critical caning; Rogowski called it staid and antiseptic. In fact, navigating BMW’s website is only slightly less of a chore than tuning-in an AM station via iDrive.

As you might have guessed, Rogowski is brand-o-centric. He implores car companies to creates user interfaces in keeping with established brand values. He singles out MINI's site for praise, lauding it for being as cheeky, dynamic and engaging as their vehicles.

Despite the MINI template, brand e-faithfulness is easier said than programmed– as illustrated by the fact that some of the best brands in the biz have some of the least compelling websites.

Jaguar’s site looks like a layout in Vogue– which does nothing to reflect the brand's visual warmth (burled wood anyone?) or leverage their heritage. Positioning themselves as a fashion accessory leaves a lot of dyed-in-the wool enthusiasts in the dust. 

Cadillac's website is guilty of the opposite sin; the opening animation focuses entirely on collector Caddies and their owners; it fails to offer a single compelling reason to purchase a new model. Even those brands with kick ass multi-media (e.g. Porsche) bury the good stuff in relatively obscure sub-menus. 

Audi’s site warns you, right up front: never follow. As in, anyone persistent enough to follow them into the sub-menus should abandon all hope of keeping with the program. Everything on Audi’s website looks and functions like medical equipment– and not in a good way.

At least Audi knows it’s suffering from sudden intended click-through. Speaking at the Automotive News World Congress January 16, Audi’s Head of Audi of America announced that he was frustrated Audi isn’t considered one of the world’s premier brands.

Johan de Nysschen has challenged its online agency, Factory Design Labs, to exploit the web’s “anything-is-possible landscape.” "Our goal is to drive the digital lifestyle and allow our prospects and customers to be even more involved with our products as well as demonstrate our product superiority."

More and more companies are sharing Audi’s realization that the internet is where image building and product familiarity gets done. Some even recognize that web-based branding is a whole new ballgame.

As an interactive medium, people expect more clarity of vision and functionality of form from a website than they do from a print ad, TV spot or brochure. From a design POV, the site’s graphics, sound and function all need to mirror a company’s values and position.

Manufacturers are also beginning to understand that websites are more revealing than other media. If a brand is ill defined, the murkiness becomes instantly clear; an effective website cannot be based on a broad, dysfunctional message. The feedback loop between image and internet grows tighter every year. Strong branding means a better web experience, a better experience enhances the brand. 

This movement hints at a fairly significant change: distinction equals success. The preeminence of big tent, something-for-everyone brands is declining as their message gets lost in static. The narrowly defined, purpose-driven brands are in accent.

There is, of course, a large piece missing: true interactivity. Branded automotive websites do not encourage the kind of [relatively] free, intimate and ongoing interaction between content provider and consumer that give sites like TTAC their power. Car companies need to treat websites as an open portal to the people who pay the bills.

When (not if) that happens, the car business will undergo its most profound evolution, as the gates to mass customization and other important commercial developments swing open. Meanwhile, well, that’s entertainment!

Buying an automobile from a private seller is risky business. There’s only one guarantee: you have less chance of successful legal compensation than you would trying to recover your $5 tip from a New York City cabbie. On the positive side, you can make out like a bandit. This is especially true for a privately owned collector car. Whether it’s a classic or a street rod, if someone else gets stuck with the time and expense of restoration, you win. 

For some reason, collectors’ imaginations are fired by the proverbial “barn find”: a rare car that time and Aunt Minnie forgot. These sightings are almost as extraordinary as they are undesirable. In the vast majority of cases, the car you’ll find stuffed into someone’s fallen down garage is about as beat as the building. So the best way to find a privately owned collector car is to visit brand-specific car sites and car shows and search through local classified ads.

Generally, the better the car’s condition at the time of sale, the better the buy. That said, there are times when liberating an original owner from an unrestored can pay off. If a collectible car is all original, relatively clean and still runs, it could be a winner. Like antique furniture, an untouched gem can be worth more than a fully restored vehicle. Buy it, love it, leave it be.

Let’s say you’ve found a private seller with a collector car that may or may not need some serious restoration–depending on the vehicle’s condition, your OCD and the time and money you’re prepared to spend on the machine. Time to hit the paper trail.

Most vintage auto owners keep careful records of their car’s restoration expenses and/or upkeep. Begin by asking to see any and all the paperwork, and any pictures documenting restoration. Suggest a cup of coffee, find a comfy spot and take all the time you need to examine the entire portfolio. Ask for explanations– or silence– when required.

Next, have a look at the car’s drive train and engine. Don’t worry if they need work. Provided you’re dealing with a mass-market machine of some kind, plenty of companies will sell vintage vehicle restorers a replacement engine and related parts. Alternatively, you might be able to find mission critical pieces in a vintage auto salvage yard.

Then check the bodywork. Begin with the spaces between body panels. The quality of the sheetmetal alignment will vary according to make, model and manufacturer. The gaps of a 1958 Porsche were uniform and should remain so. On a 1948 Chevrolet, you wouldn’t much care. To ensure consistent panel, insert a nickel into the open spaces at all the critical points. Pay close attention to the doors, the engine (compartment) and hood.

Then scan the entire lower portion of the car’s body for rust. Look inside all the car’s body cavities, around the wheel wells and trunk and, particularly, under the spare tire. Bring a flashlight and don’t be afraid to poke, prod and push. Tap the metal to [try to] discover any filler.

Rust appears as scales, bubbles or rough edges. It tends to start at places where dirt accumulates; moisture clings to sod and starts the rusting process. Check around the trim, lower areas and seams. If the rust infects structural areas of the car, unless you’re buying the car for parts, pass. Bodywork is the exclusive province of expensive experts.

If the collector car’s a runner, run it; and not just around the block. Don’t talk to the owner; listen for any groaning, scraping or whistling sounds. Notice any mechanical hesitation. When you’re done, open the hood and inhale deeply.

When you’re done, leave. Find an expert– preferably a professional car restorer– go back and do it all again. Get an estimate on how much it will cost to put things right— even if you plan on doing it yourself. Then double the amount. And then forget the whole thing and buy a concourse-winning car.

A vintage car needing a comprehensive rebuild can require between a thousand to two thousand hours of labor to put right. A competent auto restoration shop will charge you roughly $50 per hour for the privilege. That’s $50k to $100k, plus parts (which can double the bill). Very few collector cars are worth that much money; the ones that are will cost you the same again to buy in the first place.

Bottom line: restoring decrepit cars is a horrendous investment— at least for the person footing the bill. In contrast, a pristine, fully restored automobile offers a priceless opportunity to buy a bargain. Seriously. While novice collectors are often shocked by the prices of immaculate classics and vintage automobiles, buying the best possible example of a restored model is almost always cheaper than trying to create one.

It’s easier to convince an Evangelical that Christ was a grifter than to persuade pistonheads to give up their regular oil change. Yea, verily, the maniacal motorists believe in the healing power of regular visits to the Church of St. Pennzoil. And they certainly have the Gospel of Jiffy Lube on their sides: Thou shalt change thy oil every 3k miles or your engine will blow up in an explosion of fire and brimstone. Well I hereby give pistonheads permission to skip their next regularly scheduled motor oil change. And the one after that one. In fact, if you’re not planning to keep your car for all eternity, consider forgetting oil changes altogether.

Many decades ago, when metallurgy, tolerances, manufacturing precision and various aspects of engine controls (as well as the oil itself) were profoundly more primitive, the 3k mile oil change interval had a logical basis. Crude carburetor chokes caused overly rich mixtures, dumping raw gas onto cylinder walls that worked its way down into the crankcase. Poorly fitted rings caused blow-by, which had the same effect with nasty combustion byproducts. And poor tolerances created rapid wear, which released and circulated metal particles throughout the engine. People drove shorter distances, and cars often didn’t warm up enough to burn off contaminants. To travel 100k miles without an engine rebuild was a genuine accomplishment. 

By the sixties, improvements in all of these mission critical areas led manufacturers to adopt an industry standard 6k mile oil change interval. Since then, recommended oil change intervals have risen as high as 10k miles. At the same time, many high end cars ECU’s (e.g. BMW, Porsche) now monitor engine and environmental operating conditions and calculate the ideal interval for an oil change– sometimes well into the teens. 

When is the last time you heard of someone experiencing an engine failure (in normal use) that could be verifiably traced to damage from insufficient lubrication due to infrequent oil changes? Oil never wears out. It can become contaminated and certain additive characteristics can change. But in normal operational use in modern engines, this usually happens quite slowly.

And yet the 3k mile mantra can be heard everywhere: newspaper and magazine articles, on-line forums, radio talk shows and, of course, all the obvious and more subtle forms of advertising by the oil manufacturers and the oil change industry. When Jiffy Lube puts a sticker on my windshield warning me that my next oil change is due in 3k miles, it’s clear who benefits most from these regular visits, and it ain’t me or my car.

These days, it’s common to hear of documented engine life of 500k miles and more. A fleet of Chevy gasoline V8 pickups pulling trailers delivering car parts overnight all over the Midwest has run a number of bow tie bombers to over 600K without failure. A 1987 Saab 900 just hit the million mile mark without an engine rebuild. Yes, the Saab owner used expensive synthetic oil and changed it regularly in his million mile quest. But how long are you planning to keep your car?

Still not convinced? Da Vinci Code time. In the mid-80’s, Germany’s leading car magazine Auto, Motor und Sport ran a VW Golf with a 1.6 liter gasoline engine for 100,000 kilometers (62,000 miles) without changing the motor oil or filter. They then tore down the engine completely and examined every single moving part [microscopically] for signs of wear and tear. What little wear they could find was not engine life threatening and fit within normal operating parameters for the given mileage.

Obviously, I don’t expect pistonheads to forgo engine oil changes completely– if only because following manufacturer’s recommendations safeguards your potential warranty claims. Still, if warranty isn’t an issue and you’re not planning on keeping your car past 150k or so, and you run it under favorable conditions– a long commute, lots of highway miles, milder climate, etc. — consider extended intervals. If you have a three year lease, well, that’s between you and your conscience.

Meanwhile, the situation with gasoline and octane levels is roughly analogous. A couple of years ago, AM&S did another extensive test, running cars whose manufacturers called for premium fuel on regular gas. The result: performance and fuel economy losses ranged from zero to mid-single digit percentages. I don’t need to tell you that it can be a LOT cheaper to fill your car’s tank with a lower grade of fuel. And don’t worry about damaging your engine; modern detonation sensors constantly adjust ignition timing to be optimal for the fuel being burned and prevent pre-ignition. 

Pistonheads who lavish low interval oil changes and high octane go-juice on the cherishd machines do so more for their own peace of mind than their car’s mechanical needs. It’s sweet, but unnecessary.

I currently own a four-cylinder Honda Civic Hybrid, a BMW 335 coupe with an in-line twin-turbo six, a V8 Mercedes E63 and a V10 VW Touareg. Clearly, I need a car equipped with a V12. The effects of owning five vehicles with engines in the 4-6-8-10-12 sequence could unlock the secrets of the universe, or at least reveal the meaning of the Fibonacci Numbers. On the other hand, this could be another telltale sign that I have more money than sense. Regardless, I’m on the prowl.

Warning: if you’ve never sampled a V12 automobile, back off Jack. The configuration combines the tractability of a diesel with the endless thrust of a Saturn V rocket booster. My predilection for V12’s predates NASA (and my driving license). As a boy, I was fascinated by the greatest weapons of WWII: the P51D Mustang (powered by a Packard-built V12 Merlin engine) and the King Tiger tank (powered by a V12 Maybach engine). OK, “greatest” may not be the best word; cheaper, simpler, lighter engines did more for the war effort than these battling behemoths. But my God, what a noise!

What a hangover! The depreciation suffered by owners of V12 automobiles is like a bad night in Vegas that lasts several years– with one of those "pay nothing now and no interest until there sure as Hell is" deals thrown in for good measure. Even if you can afford to take the hit, it's an embarassing penalty for anyone who knows how to make enough money to afford to take the hit. Though none of the V12 powered cars I’ve owned ever gave me a hint of mechanical trouble, they’ve all scrubbed significant numbers from my net worth at both ends of the ownership experience.

Alas, my future possibilities are limited. Neither Japan nor America builds a mass-produced V12 automobile. Thankfully, that means I won’t have to listen to Lexus fans’ whining about my Germanic proclivities (at least until the new LS 600h is released, which supposedly simulates V12 power). And it’s not really that much of a sacrifice to restrict my search to automobiles manufactured in Italy, Germany and Britain. 

First up: the 612 Scaglietti. The $260k Ferrari stables 540 normally aspirated horses in a front mid-engined chassis weighing a skosh more than two tons. I even sort of like the way it looks. There’s one insurmountable problem: an F1 style transmission. The paddle shifter is entirely out of place in a grand touring car for old rich guys too lazy to shift anymore. And as well compensated for my work as I am, I'm reluctant to spend condo money on a car.

The Lamborghini Murcielago is even more expensive and less comfortable. Which leaves a used Ferrari 456M. The shape is sexy, it has a real automatic and lightly used examples (aren’t they all these days?) can be purchased for around $100k. Unfortunately, even though the 456M weighs less than 4000 pounds and packs nearly 440 ponies, the 0 – 60 performance exceeds five seconds. That’s more traffic light humiliation than I can handle. 

For V12-o-philes, the Brits offer the Bentley Continental variations and the Aston Martin DB9. Used examples can be found in the $120k’s, but each suffers from serious flaws.

The Bentley boys give me flashbacks; I suddenly remember my old VW Phaeton and the price tag seems ridiculous. Plus the Bentley doesn’t have a proper V12 (it’s a W-12 powerplant combining two VW V6 engines). And three tons is more than I want to drag around, no matter how tasty the interior. The DB9 is gorgeous; I have pictures of it on my computer. But experience has taught me that admiring Astons from afar is the best way to savor their mechanical genius. Did I mention that the V12 in the Aston was created by bonding two Ford V6’s together?

Willkommen in Deutschland, again. Audi, BMW and Mercedes all offer V12’s in their full sized sedans. The Mercedes S65 is the obvious pick of this litter, but I struggle to lust for something that ordinary looking. For my money, the Mercedes SL600 and the CL600 are the best two V12 powered cars available for sensible money. I’ve owned and loved an SL600 previously, so, for novelty reasons, the 2007 Mercedes CL600 is the winner.

The CL600 is extravagant in every sense of the word. It extends 200 inches from snout to tail. It boasts exaggerated wheel wells, a CLS-style rear and a gorgeous interior. It weighs in at a svelte 4890 pounds. The twin-turbo V12 makes 510 horsepower and generates 612 pound-feet of torque; catapulting the monster from 0 – 60 in 4.5 seconds. All this for a mere $144,975. I can even lease one for a little less than my house payment!

So now my life is nearly perfect. Will Mr. Lutz please resurrect Cadillac’s plans for the Sixteen Concept? Much obliged.

As much as I enjoy vigorous debate, I abhor pseudo-science. From The Bermuda Triangle to past life regression, I just can’t deal. If the subject matter in question is faith-based like, say, a talking salamander's role in the development of Mormonism, I’m good. But the moment an aspiring conversationalist tries to deploy scientific explanations for a fundamentally irrational belief system– aliens sucking up Air Force planes from the Gulf Of Mexico for anal experimentation or Joan of Arc reborn as a 42-year-old housewife in Hackensack, New Jersey– I’m out. So when I read that insurance quote provider Lee Romanov says your star sign affects your chances of having an automobile accident, I just had to ring her up. Yes, it's been that kind of day.

You can hear my righteous indignation on the podcast below. Truth be told, I've got no truck with Ms. Romanov’s basic assertion that automobile insurance industry rates seem capricious (even if she seems particularly oblivious the existence of actuarial tables). Certainly, one can understand the rational basis for mandatory car insurance: ensuring that drivers can pay for their mistakes. But in practice, the business is rife with greed, fraud, inequity and counterintuitive logic.

Here in Rhode Island, a state only slightly less corrupt than Botswana, insurance fraud is as common as people who drink their java with five sugars. I remember the first time I took a bent motor to a local auto body shop. The “repair specialist” took one look at the damage and asked “How ‘bout we claim $500 and I’ll kick you back a hundred?” Talk about a trick question. I don’t think the idea that his customers might put a higher value on the quality of the actual repairs than their ability to make a quick buck ever occurred to him. Or, for that matter, most of his customers. 

According to a recent study, one out of every three Americans thinks it’s OK to pad their insurance claims. In dollar terms, insurance fraud costs the industry $30b a year. While health care and personal property fraud account for the lion's share of this thievery, the automotive part of the program racks-up some $8b (not including actual automotive theft). For example, on Saturday, the owner of Louis and Sons Auto Body in West New York was convicted of defrauding insurance companies out of $10k. Like tens of thousands of body shops across the nation, Louis Rivadeneira inflated claims and charged insurers for parts he never bought.

If you’re thinking “…and never installed” you’d be dead right. (Perhaps literally.) All those Americans happy to top-up their insurance claims might want to think about Louis’ “de-contenting” (i.e. leaving out parts or substituting inferior parts) the next time they drop off their car for repair. Never mind; the man received a fine, a slap on the wrists and promised never, ever to do it again. So policy holders and auto body shops can continue to commit fraud on an epic scale without fear of hard time. Of course, the insurance companies themselves complete this unholy trinity.

For example, all the safety equipment for which the major automotive insurers have lobbied so hard have added extra cost (not to mention weight and complexity) to the average automobile, without which your premium may be raised, with which you may not be any safer (e.g. ABS braking). Of course, all the safety-related bells and whistles don't lower drivers’ premiums that much because the cost of fixing them raises the cost of repair, which the insurer must then pay, which gives the auto body shop another chance to commit fraud, which raises premiums. 

To be fair, the insurance industry’s major players shell out big bucks to try to crack down on fraud and protect their assets. Meanwhile, they stand by while the government gives driving licenses to people who can’t read a warning sign or, in fact, drive. And there are plenty of independent agencies– many with big name insurance company stickers on their doors– that are ready, willing and able to pocket premiums and not provide insurance (a growing scam for new and illegal immigrants) or sell policies by the month (just long enough for drivers to get their cars registered or their licenses renewed). Clearly, car insurance is a racket for many people on many levels.

In fact, the situation's so nuts that charging people premiums according to their astrological sign makes about as much sense as the current set-up. And while I believe that astrological readings are simply a combination of observation, guesswork, playing the law of averages and picking-up on psychological “tells,” I’m not against using the practice to get people to drive like responsible adults. “The moon is in Uranus– and so is your head if you talk on the cell while driving. And your son… Lenny? Liberace? Leo? Leo is getting retrogrades; don’t let him drive without an adult on any day with an ‘a’ in it.” Works for me.

[A free copy of Ms. Romanov's book "Car Carma" for the first person who can identify the astrological car referred to in the song with the lyrics "WELL SHE ISN'T!"]

T’was two weeks before Christmas
And all through Detroit,
The car makers were hustling,
But they weren’t too adroit.

They all had such high hopes,
To end up the year,
With a good bottom line
To bring Christmas cheer. 

But GM Rick is floundering,
‘Cause his products are stuck,
Way back in the ‘90’s,
He’s plain out of luck.

Poor Chrysler is struggling
To sell what they can.
Doctor Z hasn’t helped them;
Guess he needs a new plan.

Across town at Ford,
All hope’s on Mulally,
But it’s looking quite doubtful
That his sales will soon rally.

Yes, things look quite grim
For the Big Two Point Five,
Yet we all keep on hoping
That they’ll somehow survive. 

When Santa hit town,
He just shook his white head.
He scoped out their products
And finally said:

“You know at one time,
American cars stood,
For innovation and change,
And all that was good,

For comfort and style,
And bang for the buck.
Now all I can see,
Are ladder frame trucks.

There’s front wheel drive Jeeps,
And Fords rebadged as Lincoln.
A Cadillac truck?
What have you been drinkin’?

The pistonheads begged me,
To come help all you guys.
I’ll do what I can,
But you must realize-

You’re in pretty deep;
There are no magic pills,
Just hard work and focus,
And leave off the frills.

You’ve let the beancounters
Make every decision;
Your products are suffering,
You need a new vision.

You’ve too many products,
You’ve spread yourselves thin,
Trying to cover all markets,
It’s time to reel in.

Platform sharing’s just fine,
It can help control costs,
But stop badge engineering,
To regain what you’ve lost.

Stay true to your brands
With unique product lines;
Make each vehicle distinct
And you’ll all do just fine.”

Then all three of them huddled
To discuss what they’d heard.
Could this be the answer?
They thought it absurd.

“No way!” they all said,
As they talked ‘mongst themselves.
“What could this guy know?
He should go back to his elves!”

So they told Santa “Leave!
And get out of this place,
We know more than you;
Now get out of our face!”

He shook his head sadly
As he climbed on his sleigh;
He just couldn’t believe them,
Then they all heard him say

“I gave it my best shot,
I tried what I could,
What you get, you deserve.
And you’ll get what you should.

My last bit of advice,
Since you don’t know what class is;
Get your big swelled heads out
Of your dumb corporate asses!”

For the second time in less than two years, I’ve been relegated to rental car Hell. My normal ride is busy recovering from a second rear-end encounter initiated by a young driver in iffy conditions. Previously on “This Is Not Your Beautiful Car,” I sampled one of the last of the great V8 Interceptors– I mean, the Pontiac Bonneville. It was so large– on the outside– that I was constantly checking the rear-view mirror for Tomcats auguring-in for a landing. On the inside, it was plush and chock-full of gadgets. But it was also more cramped than an Olympic swimmer after a seven course meal. This time ‘round I got sentenced to an 05’ Taurus.  

While the Ford is definitely roomier inside than the plastic Pontiac, the Taurus lacks what anyone would call “style.” In fact, to complete the generic motif, it really needs the word “CAR” in black block lettering adorning its hood, roof and doors. Driving-wise, the Ford Taurus is about as close to a Porsche Boxster as a block of cement. The Taurus’ interior is cheap-looking, if hard-wearing (which may or may not be a good thing). But hey, this baby’s got a stereo, cruise-control, power windows and map lights. So, unlike Christina Aguilera, it’s not a complete stripper. And it’s got me thinking: the Taurus would make a great “first car.”

When I was growing up, “kids’ cars” were usually pre-abused sedans from the late ‘60s’ or anytime in the ‘70s’. These battle-weary Yank tanks or plus-sized rice burners were considered a pro-active solution to teenage driving. The reasoning was simple: put as much iron as possible between junior or little missy and whatever solid objects they might strike in some late-braking encounter. While these sofas-on-wheels were less nimble than k-fed after his tenth Long Slow Comfortable Screw Against the Wall, they’d shake off a lot of minor scrapes– especially if they were from the duck-billed 5mph bumper era. They were also dirt cheap to fix.

Of course, there were a few kids whose parents bought them something sexy and brand-new– and a replacement after they’d bent it. And others were forced by financial circumstances to share the family car. The practice was understandable but deeply unnatural; it implied that your money was going toward other things, like college.

Kids who received ratty wheels did what they could to be cool. They tinted the windows and blared the soundtrack from “Shaft” or other proto-hip-hop tunes. Thankfully, there wasn’t much anyone could do about these beaters’ underwhelming performance, save slapping on some serious rubber, and no one thought about tires until they were as bald as Kojak. Any performance-oriented body mod got the derision it deserved.

While it’s an ancient bit of iron (practically unchanged for 10 years), the Taurus is a decent car for post-permit progeny. ASs it's only slightly faster than a power walker, Ye Olde Understeer would never get a rookie driver in trouble. While the Taurus' handling isn’t particularly sharp (as in a butter knife), the car pretty much goes where you aim it. There’s just about enough acceleration to merge into traffic. It’s wide and low enough that rollovers are less likely than a rigged lottery draw. And if something did happen, the Taurus four-star crash protection would see you right.

On the economy front, Taurus mileage is a precocious twenty-something. The jelly mold Ford has never been known for reliability, but parts are cheap. Your kids should be able to keep one in gas, brakes, etc. on burger-flipping money. Forget about depreciation; chances are the Taurus will die in service. You can get a decent 50-60k unit with a few useful toys for less than five figures. Perfectly drivable examples of this rental mainstay cost as little as $3k to $4k. Prozac excepted, peace of mind doesn’t come any cheaper.

The main demerit: the Taurus’ commodious back seat. While I’m not concerned about prurient issues (lust will find a way), the Taurus can haul up to six people. It’s been scientifically proven that a teenager’s stupidity increases in direct proportion to the number of peers in close physical proximity. The sheer inattention and bravado of six teens with one brain between them is too staggering to contemplate. (Some states ban new drivers from carrying cohorts.) At least they won’t be drag-racing; the engine has nowhere near the power to haul 900 pounds of hormones at a non-humiliating speed.

Ending on a positive note, the Taurus is dull and ugly. Ford’s sedan teaches your child that if they don’t study hard and get into a good school, they can look forward to driving this sort of car for the rest of their life. Nothing focuses the mind like the prospect of a life full of rental hacks.  

The sex industry has a motto: if you don't get it, it's not for you. Never mind all those activities involving non-reproductive bodily fluids, military fatigues and/or extra-legal restraining orders, I don't get hookers. I'm not saying I don't understand why other people employ prostitutes, and I'm not saying I've never paid for sex (and not in that "one way or another" sense). But if I had done so, I am saying I probably would have found it an incredibly unsatisfying experience. (Can you imagine the tortuous language OJ Simpson must use in his non-confessional confessional?) Same goes for rental cars.

I am fully aware that many pistonheads relish rentals, safe in the knowledge that there won't be any long-term consequences for any motorized misbehavior (provided they tick the right boxes). But I can't stand them (rental cars, not my beloved pistonheads). I suppose I might change my mind if I ever rented a car worth driving– as opposed to the asthmatic pre-beaters the rental companies foist on their suspecting customers. Ford Mustang V6? Chevrolet Impala? Toyota Vanilla? You gotta be kidding. Quite simply, I've never met a rental car I liked.

And while I will never compromise my commitment to calling it like I see it, I have just about enough tact left in me not to want to return someone else's car in pieces. That said, it happens. I've knocked the wing mirror off a Land Rover, watched an electric gate crease the side of a Civic and woken-up to an Infiniti sitting on milk crates (as opposed to tires). And I've seen journos crash press cars. In all cases, the PR flacks involved trotted out the "as long as no one was hurt" shibboleth. Which says a lot about PR flacks– one way or another.

When it comes to lunching a rental car, I reckon the paperwork must make it worth not crashing. Sure, you only pay the deductible, but insurance companies know all too well that traumatizing all parties involved with endless, excessive, obsessive bureaucracy is the best way to prevent future accidents. And, of course, you have to fill out a police report. "I was driving at a safe and reasonable speed when the car's front end suddenly and inexplicably began to understeer. The vehicle plowed nose-first into the curb, at approximately 25 miles per hour." Thankfully, I can only imagine the look the trooper must give drivers of recently creased automobiles when they hand over the rental car agreement. 

In short, I don't like breaking cars. It runs against my nature, imprinted into my subconscious mind during all those times I broke my own car with one stupid ass stunt or another. [Note to self: check road for leaves before testing tire adhesion.] And while I can appreciate the skills involved in driving a really horrible car really fast, I find that the really horrible cars that rental car companies provide are so horrible that driving them fast is, well, horrible. And for me, defying death is not half as satisfying as trying to find my way where I'm going without wandering into the middle of a 3am drag race in the wrong part of Philadelphia (no, really).

Anyway, JD Power reckons the rental car industry is getting better: faster, happier, shinier and more customer friendly. Well, good for them. And good for all the poor sad bastards who must take their laptops to places where people couldn't care less if they died in a horrible car wreck, never mind whether or not they made a compelling PowerPoint presentation. I’ve seen those haunted faces in the rental shuttles. I’ve heard their loud locker room talk with their cohorts, as they prepare their egos to drive a car that grinds them down with the mechanical equivalent of an endless loop of Pink Floyd’s The Wall.

I know there are exotic car rental companies that will loan you a Porsche, Ferrari or Merc. And the mainstream players are beginning to catch on that people are willing to pay extra for a car that doesn’t suck-out their soul. But until and unless Hertz et al rent out an Audi S4 for the price of a V6 Mustang, I’m always going to regard that walk to space H8 as a stroll down death row. They can wash them, clean them and de-cigarette smoke them, but rental cars will always be a kind of automotive purgatory, always endured rather than enjoyed. Which probably accounts for so many enthusiasts’ desire to punish their rentals. And that, my friends, is kinky.

A genius named Vinnie Cilurzo in Santa Rosa, California makes a beer called “Pliny the Elder.” I will never forget the first time it passed through my lips; it was as if the Victoria’s Secret angels were lap-dancing on my tongue. Even after thirteen years of home brewing, even after qualifying as a Certified beer judge, nothing had prepared me for my first taste of Vinnie’s magnificent brew. And no beer I would drink after that would ever taste the same. I’d had a beer epiphany. As a pistonhead, my first automotive epiphany occurred, oddly enough, in a Jeep Cherokee.

I was in the market for a new car. I needed an inexpensive vehicle capable of hauling a recently purchased upright bass. Out went my safe, reliable, comfortable and endlessly dull Nissan Sentra. In came one of the most remarkable vehicles ever produced. Now you might think my moment of revelation occurred on a broken trail or eighteen-inches of mud. And I’m proud to report that this particular Cherokee– and the one I purchased afterwards– saw plenty of off-road action. But the big moment arrived on plain old asphalt.

I was heading back from my parent’s home in Los Angeles (where my bass had been stored) to my home in San Francisco. I was driving the Cherokee down California’s numbingly straight main vehicular artery, Interstate 5. It was a weekday morning; there were neither cars nor constables visible in any direction. The Jeep was humming along happily at 85mph. And then, for reasons lost in the mists of time, I buried the throttle. The Cherokee’s 4.0-liter straight-six came alive and the needle climbed higher and then higher still.

Now I’ve passengered at more than 200 miles an hour in a NASCAR race car. I can say with some authority that the Jeep’s 120mph terminal velocity was not an objectively impressive feat. But it was the first time in my life I’d ever driven fast. To say I was hooked is a monumental understatement, and I have the insurance premiums to prove it. Of course, going fast in a single line may be the be-all end-all for muscle car or drag racing aficionados, left / right action is where it’s at. As I discovered during my second epiphany, on a test drive of an Audi A4 1.8 Turbo.

After the dotcom bubble burst, I returned to my native Los Angeles. After two car-free years in Manhattan I wanted a set of wheels so bad I could almost pay for them. The cheapest Audi’s AWD turboness appealed to me– though I really had no notion why. With the dealer in situ, I gave it a go. I will never forget taking the vehicle’s speed into and through a corner. The g-force joy unleashed by Ingolstadt’s engineers was indescribably delicious, like joining the mile high club, only down to earth.  I was hooked X 2.

About a year later, I dated an exotically beautiful woman (it is hard to argue against Scottish/Vietnamese hybrids) who owned a BMW 540i. On our very first date, I asked if I could drive the mid-sized, V8-powered German luxury car. Let it never be said that I have my priorities straight; the Bimmer’s throttle response, seamless gearbox, faultless chassis control and sublime ride quality suddenly became much more appealing to me than the stunning sexpot seated to my right. Cars like this existed? I believe my political affiliation changed from Nadar-socialist to confirmed-capitalist in 1320 feet.

One of the things I love most about my job is my job. Case in point: on a junket to Skip Barber’s High Performance Driving School I managed to overheat a BMW M3 and shred the tire off a Porsche 911. My third automotive epiphany arrived on the second day of the class in the form of a red Dodge Viper. That’s 8.3 liters, 505hp and 550lbs. feet of torque and a cabin temperature north 150 degrees. It was terrifying. Everything I did was wrong, wrong, stupid, dangerous and wrong. Cones ran for their lives, wheels smoked and more often than not, the big bad Dodge found itself going backwards. I was hopeless.

But then, suddenly, for about one-quarter of one of my twelve laps, I did everything right. Hard on the throttle. Pick the perfect line. Light braking to redistribute the weight. Late steering input to the apex. Nail the gas and blast out of the turn. Sadly, I performed a scary, pupil-dilating 720 afterwards to, uh, celebrate. And yet, for the most fleeting of moments, I was Fangio: calm, deliberate and in control.

Now, whenever I test a car, no matter how humble or exotic, I wonder if a paradigm shift awaits. Mind you, I don’t need another epiphany. I just want one.

A $60 tip might not seem like much in Reno, but at a Taco Bell? A customer asked the manager if she ever gave anything away for free. When she handed him the entire meal for nothing, he threw her three Andrew Jacksons. The exchange was no more inexplicable than some of the deals going down at the Reno-Sparks Convention Center during the Hot August Nights (HAN) car auction.

HAN is a weeklong, self-professed “celebration of rock-and-roll and cars.” This year, Mike Love, Bruce Johnston and their paid friends (a.k.a. The Beach Boys) entertained Baby Boomers to the tune of $50 to $75 a pop. Participants who preferred metal antiques could watch a nightly procession of chromed and metal-flake machines cruising up-and-down Virginia Street.

Meanwhile, Silver Auctions put some 900 vehicles up for grabs. I say “some” because gauging the exact number of vehicles for sale wasn’t easy. Towards the end of the auction, cars that hadn’t met their reserve (the owner’s pre-established minimum) were shuffled back and offered with “no reserve” (last bidder takes all).

Anyway, on Thursday, two collectors proved it only takes two people to make an auction. Both guys wanted a 1966 Shelby-American GT-350 fastback coupe so bad they were willing to make the winner pay through the nose for the privilege. The car’s seller had stoked the fires by circulating a laminated sheet of paper listing the vehicle’s VIN number and the names of all the former owners. The provenance cited the original owner– an obscure (failed?) actor named Don Lococo-– and the date when the car’s color was changed to Wimbledon White with Guardsman Blue. It found a new home for $120k (plus six percent buyer’s fee).

The battle marked the start of Shelbymania. A 1967 Ford/Shelby-American Mustang 500KR fastback went for $167,500 (plus six percent buyer’s fee). Of course, both cars were original and correct— which is auction speak for “you can pay stupid money for this car and soothe your savaged wallet by telling yourself (and your wife) that you bought ‘the real thing’.”

That said, thanks to well-heeled muscle car collectors, the pursuit of authenticity ain’t what it used to be. Many of the muscle cars on offer were announced as “tribute” cars. It seems that “clone” and “recreation” didn’t bestow proper respect on these meticulously modified machines; so “tribute” has become the mechanically correct adjective to describe muscle-car wannabes.

Well fair enough. Many of these tribute cars were indistinguishable from– and better built than– the original article. For example, Lot 174 consisted of a 1969 Chevrolet Camaro powered by a 425 horsepower, 427 cubic-inch Chevrolet V8 connected to a Tremec six-speed manual. It was announced as a “Yenko tribute” car; a paean to the performance guru who convinced Chevy to build a limited run of 427 Camaros so he could plaster them with stickers and sell them at an appropriate premium. Sure enough, Lot 174 wore a full complement of Yenko decals and badges.

Those who know about such things would have quickly scanned the Camaro’s VIN number and unmasked the imposter– if they somehow missed the six speeds atop the shift knob. And? The “Yenko tribute” Camaro was nice enough to fool most of the people most of the time. At $38,500, it was even something of a bargain.

Staying with the ersatz car theme, a couple of Dodge Challengers and Plymouth Barracudas “Hemi tribute” cars also went up for grabs. Again, because only anally retentive—I mean, extremely knowledgeable muscle car aficionados would smell a rat, the cars brought around $75k apiece. That’s not a bad deal for a non-factory Hemi-head look-alike, considering that Challengers and Cudas that were blessed with a factory-fitted hemispherical combustion chamber fetch high sixes and low sevens.

Woody wagons are hot as the beaches they once inhabited. One 1949 Pontiac station wagon sold at $51,250 with faux wood. The delicately hand-painted sides were so realistic that tapping on the painted metal (or attaching a magnet) was the only way to expose the ruse. As is the way of such things, the auctioneers forgot to share that tidbit. When the buyer discovered that he hadn’t bought a real woody, he accepted his fate. After all, by his own admission, he’d been drunk at the time. Can’t blame that on the auctioneers, eh?

The 1955-‘57 Chevrolets were the unofficial stars of the auction. It was buyer’s choice, from stock to pro-street. Prices ranged from $25,500 for stock two-door sedans to $75k to $85k for fuellie convertibles. Then there was a reminder of a simpler, goofier time: a 1958 BMW Isetta. The one-door wonder sold for an astounding $38,500 ($40,810.00 with buyer's fee). Why? Like the Taco Bell transaction, it was just another example of random financial chaos, adjusted, as always, for market trends.  

Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that a less-than-flattering Buick Lucerne review would score me a road test reprise on Prince Edward Island, Canada. Thanks to an internet-savvy Buick flackmeister determined to show me the light, the deal went down. Of course, RF pointed out that a junket courtesy of a diss-missed manufacturer was not without its dangers: brow-beating, brainwashing, alcohol poisoning and/or failed brakes. So I brought my Mom.

The five Buick Lucernes parked outside our hotel were a thing of beauty. Waxed to perfection, the factory orange peel provided reasonable reassurance that our press cars weren’t specially prepped ringers. As the Lucerne's Product manager gave us the usual product demo, I fixated on the Magnaride exhibit. Like sand in an hourglass, two saimesed syringes filled with Magnaride's iron-goo morph from maple-syrup smooth to unyielding concrete, depending on proximity to an external magnet. Damn, that's cool.

ADD episode over, I retreated to the gorgeous looking Lucerne's decadent interior. Product-guru Drew Kraisinger requested and gained permission to climb aboard. Mom retreated into the backseat to overhear a little Quiet Tuned susurration.

Touring the Canadian island confirmed one thing: the Lucerne CXS' ride and handling balance feels great on smooth roads at Matlock speeds. Catch island fever, though and you'll soon discover that the big Buick ain't no Hawaii Five-0 cop car. Even a mildly-aggressive downhill curve at 55mph sends the brittle tires howling in disapproval. Bumpy roads force the 18" rims into a chassis-crashing frenzy, leaving the front subframe dazed and confused.

I bitched and moaned while Product Guru Drew listened patiently, sending Mom down memory lane. She recalled my youthful ability to bombard car salesmen with facts and figures delivered in a manner befitting an American shock and awe campaign. Yes, and Mom knows Buicks. In fact, I figure she earned this junket by purchasing a two-toned, limited-grade, gas-sipping Buick Century during the brand’s (and Detroit’s) previous dark age (the early 1980s).

Now that Mom inhabits the Lucerne’s intended demographic (i.e. someone old enough to remember Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-in), Buick's press rep actively elicited her opinions. When pressed, Mom praised the Buick’s styling, comfort, quiet ride and (yes) the MP3 hookup, cooled seats and OnStar-backed cellular phone service. When asked whether she’d been won over by the big Buick’s charms, Mom displayed her mastery of situational ethics. “I would definitely consider purchasing this car,” she proclaimed, definitely considering our host’s generosity.

Once again, I opened my mind to the company’s decision to add high horsepower to a wrong-wheel drive chassis. If Japan sells fwd hp by the boatload, maybe there's a place for the V8-motivated Lucerne CXS. Then again, maybe not. The CSX’ Magnaride suspension and 18" wheels promise more than the hard tires and flaccid chassis can deliver. The suspension needs a Corvette-style user interface (i.e. a switch for touring or sport dampening). Add a front chassis brace (or three), give an option for sport tires, and Buick might have a contender in the "near-luxury" segment.

After a lobster lunch at a suitably charming beachfront bed and breakfast, Buick's PR-wingman joined mother and son for part two: a jaunt in the cheaper Lucerne CXL. Cholesterol be damned; the less-rich Lucerne became my favorite Buick in a matter of minutes. Conservative 55-series rubber (17" hoops) and a softer suspension (no Magnaride) creamed road imperfections, reducing chassis flex to a mere wiggle. The CXL’s exterior was also more appealing, flaunting chrome in all the right places. Gone are the afterthought tailpipe extensions and adhesive-backed decklid bling; replaced by a brilliant chrome grille. The end result was solid Buick spizzarkle in the Roadmaster tradition, for a lot less dough.

The CXL's (optional) Northstar V8 puts the power down with a rowdy soundtrack– immediately downplayed by our gracious host. Which set me off again. If you can't Quiet Tune those 32-valves, why not promote Buick as an American Muscle Car icon? Don't try to out-Lexus an ES350. I mean, every Lucerne in attendance had a wiggly shift knob, loose shifter and dashboards sporting rock hard plastics. Mom won't remember, but even her old Century knew better; its flat-out amazing what $9000 got you in a GM interior back then.

In fact, let’s face it: Buick will never be an American Lexus, no matter how much spin is spun or press junket petty-cash hides in the console. After chatting with the Buick folk about life, liberty and the pursuit of precision, one thing became clear: GM’s minions know they’re up against it. They spoke hopefully about their next new dawn: the upcoming Enclave sport crossover utility thingie. They even invited TTAC to its official media introduction. And then, upon our return, GM formally banned TTAC from its Dallas press fleet. Suffice it to say, Mom wasn’t surprised. Neither was I.

[Buick paid the Mehta's airfare, hotel, transfers, the test cars and food.] 

Ever have one of those days where you seem to be at odds with all the motorized entities in your life? Where anything electrical fails, every warranty expires and all the things that you hope will hold out ‘til your next paycheck… don't? I had just such a day last spring, where I ended-up flat on my back, with the wind knocked out of me, lying under my own pickup truck.

The day started innocently enough, albeit at 10 degrees below zero. Needless to say, the driver's side door on my “vintage” Mazda hatchback was frozen shut. Sliding in through the passenger side and clambering carefully over the stick shift, I plopped into the driver's seat. My next indication that this wasn't going to be a shiny happy day came at the coffee shop drive-through. After realizing that my window was frozen, I tried to crank it open. With a sickening crack, the glass jumped the tracks and disappeared into the deep recesses of the door.

My patience evaporated as fast as my breath, as my fingers grew stiff in the bitter cold. I set my steaming brew beside me and fiddled with the manual window winder until the internal mechanism caught. I managed to raise the glass, protesting and clacking as it ascended. Despite the temperature, the sun was bright and my mood optimistic. I was looking forward to picking-up a test vehicle for review.

Three blocks from the dingy sprawling metropolis of General Motors, Oshawa, flashing lights appeared in my rear view mirror. Sighing with karmic resignation, I pulled over and watched Officer Krupke walk to my car. In anticipation of our cheerful conversation, I rolled down the window– which fell with a resounding "thunk" inside the door. Pocketing my ticket, I followed the officer's advice and made a mental note to replace the out-of-date insurance card with the new one sitting peacefully on my desk at home, still inside its original envelope.

My hatchback spends most of its time shuttling back and forth between car manufacturers. It sits for a week in the company car lot until I return the latest press car. Most car writers I know do the same. It's poetic irony to see a well-known car critic climb out of a gleaming Mercedes E-class and jump into a rusty, flatulent 20-year-old Toyota Corolla.  On that fateful day, I was looking forward to ditching my beater and hopping into a new vehicle. I had a  reasonable chance that everything would function as it should. If not, it’d be someone else’s problem.

That week's tester was a Hummer H3, the smallest of General Motor's interpretations of the military Humvee. Feeling slightly ridiculous perched atop a wanna-be rapper’s wet dream, I was nonetheless grateful that it was a subdued, sand colored model, and not a screaming, retina-burning yellow version.  From time served at the vehicle’s press launch and drive program, I knew two things.  First, the vehicle’s in-line five cylinder engine rendered GM's mucho macho machine woefully under-powered and 2) the H3 was virtually unstoppable. Or, so I thought…

Later that evening, I headed out to a former ski hill. Its backside was a sloping expanse of rugged, tree-studded wilderness. Chugging merrily over hills, barging through woods and devouring trenches to the accompaniment of AC/DC, the day's dirty deeds seemed redeemed. And then I applied the brakes at the edge of a ditch and felt… nothing. Sheer, traction-less ice lay just under the snowy carpet. Slowly, inexorably, I slid into the ditch, nose down.  The H3 was wedged in the snow, arse in the air, with its rear wheels barely making contact with the ground.

Trudging a couple of miles to a friend’s place– cursing my cell phone resting on the kitchen counter– I called a tow truck. After convincing the wary driver that I was sober, I directed him through the woods. We located the unfortunate Humlet by pressing the key fob.  It lit up like a beacon in the blackness. It took all of 10 minutes to extricate the Chevrolet Colorado-based off-roader from the ditch (two thumbs waaay up for rear tow hooks).  While I wasn't exactly happy, I was grateful that I'd somehow managed to find the only tow truck driver in Canada who could resist the urge to smirk.

Safely home, thawing my frozen feet, I suddenly remembered that it was mid-way through the month; I had to move my truck to the opposite side of the street if I wanted to avoid a parking ticket. Once the job was done, I exited the vehicle, gingerly edging between the pickup and a frozen snow bank. My feet slipped out from under me. And that's how I ended up flat on my back, under my own vehicle, vowing that under no circumstances was I going anywhere the following day.