When Ford unleashed their new Fusion late last year, the American automotive press raved. Car & Driver's Csabe Csere predicted that the front-wheel drive sedan will "truly put Ford back in the car game." Road & Track's Matt DeLorenzo declared the Fusion was "Just the recipe for shaking up the midsize car market." Automobile said "Ford is serious about kicking its way back into the mid-size-car business." No wonder The Blue Oval is pleased with the Fusion and continues to advertise the car heavily. Strange, then, that the Mexican-built sedan was not the product that wore the mantle of the first financial quarter's "best selling Ford passenger car." That honor belongs to the Taurus.

Sorry, I should have said "belonged." That's right: the swoopy Taurus is finally dead. After 21-years on the showroom floor, despite outselling the Five Hundred and Fusion– combined– in the last quarter, The Blue Oval has pulled the plug on its ageing family four-door. The last retail unit has left the Atlanta assembly line. The final fleet car will disappear any day. It's the end of an era for American-built Fords, and a vehicle that was the best-selling US passenger car from '92 – '96.

Ford claims Taureans have/will migrate to the smaller Fusion or the slightly larger Five Hundred. Maybe they did, maybe they didn't. Maybe they will, maybe they won't. Even if you discount fleet sales (so to speak), Ford's Taurus replacements don't seem to be picking-up the slack or setting the sales charts on fire. Is it possible that buyers preferred the Taurus to Ford's best and brightest? If so, that's a sad commentary on the current state of Ford's product development process. It also tells us– if not Ford's management– how to build a popular sedan.

When it was launched in '85, the Taurus was a ground-breaking car. Ford's sleek, freshly-designed Taurus boasted a stiff chassis, a choice of V6 or I4 engines, optional ABS brakes and a practical, comfortable interior. The Ford faithful flocked to the sensibly-priced motor, at a time when Ford flockers were nowhere to be seen. Many credit the model's sales for saving FoMoCo from an ignominious slide into insolvency. There's no question that the Taurus helped Ford recover valuable market share and delivered profits that allowed the company to develop other, even more profitable vehicles, like the Explorer and Expedition.

The Taurus' stellar success sparked a number of books by Ford "insiders." While the accounts credit various Ford designers, engineers, managers and marketeers for the model's triumph, there's a common theme throughout the narratives: innovation, risk-taking and, most importantly of all, commitment. Author Mary Walton's "Car" chronicled the development of the second generation Taurus (which debuted in 1996). She reveals that the Taurus program managers' mantra was "beat Toyota". Their goal wasn't "equal Camry", or "come close to Camry", but 'beat Camry.' Possunt quia posse videntur. (They can because they think they can.)

Enraptured by SUV sales and profits, the Taurus slowly slipped from Ford's mind. After the second-generation Taurus– whose launch in '92 marked the model's zenith at 409,751 sales– Ford's mainstream motor failed to keep pace with the Camry. While Ford jelly-beaned the shape and revised the mechanicals, Toyota subjected the Camry to a regular, ruthless and relentless series of mechanical and sheetmetal upgrades and refreshes. The Taurus fell further and further behind, until it was no longer Ford's signature car or profit center. Finally, when even Ford could see that the SUV craze had begun to peak, the company realized that their ageing warhorse had fallen too far behind the competition to save.

Ford spent huge amounts of time and money to create the Taurus' theoretical replacement. The Five Hundred is built on Volvo's SUV platform; it's both longer and taller than the Taurus. This sedan's extra cabin room and "SUV-like" elevation were supposed to be the new model's key selling points. Buyers stayed away in droves. The underpowered Five Hundred is just a little too big. The Mazda6-based Ford Fusion arrived to hit the sweet spot. Alas, the fine-handling Fusion seems just a little too small for American sedan buyers. In retrospect, the Taurus was a Goldilocks special: perfectly sized for middle America's taste and budget.

Billy Ford should have the last Ford Taurus placed in the lobby of his company's headquarters. The final "new" Taurus would serve as a fitting tribute to a model that helped keep the lights on during some of FoMoCo's darkest days. The Taurus could also serve as a stern warning to Blue Oval product developers: develop the products we already have, as well as they ones you think people want. If not, both our products and our company face the same extinction shamelessly inflicted upon this worthy machine. I'd also suggest the following inscription: there are old cars and there are bold cars, but the best cars are old, bold cars.

I never met a pistonhead without a fully-stocked fantasy garage. Unfortunately, the ones who try to bring the dream to life learn a Buddhist lesson: that which you own, owns you. The Langoliers of depreciation decimate the dream from day one. Registration fees, taxes and insurance take their toll. The hassle and expense of service and repair suck. Four years and 12K miles later, the per-mile expenses are astounding. And then, inevitably, the enthusiast's eye begins to wander; their piston passion runs as hot and cold as a cheap motel shower. Another round of this automotive folly would be insane. Unless…

The car share club concept took root in London in 1996, with Formula One World Champion Damon Hill's P1 Prestige and Performance Car Club. The basic idea is simple enough: P1 buys and services a portfolio of high-priced heavy metal; England's well-heeled petrolheads pay a fee to drive them. No finance payments, depreciation, maintenance, storage or tax. Just drive, dump and go. Of course, P1 membership is only cheap relative to ownership, and there are plenty of rules dictating which car you can drive for how much and when. P1 has an elaborate points system that involves a joining fee, an annual fee, a sliding points scale for best to worst times and cars, and mileage restrictions. But it's all about the hassle– or lack thereof.

Having successfully ensconced England's petrolheads in a bevy of exotics, P1 and its imitators spread throughout the Eurozone. The car share club recently washed ashore in Chicago, New York City, Las Vegas, Los Angeles and now… Evansville, Indiana. Brian Buxton is the President and owner of Buxton Motorsports, a highline luxury and sports car dealership. When one of Buxton's major clients suggested they partner-up, LuxShare Auto Club was born.

LuxShare members pay a $7,250 annual fee. Their seven-and-a-quarter large buys them 1000 points. Members spend their points in one to four-day chunks, with an 850 mile limit (unless "special arrangements" are made). The car's desirability and the time of year (this can be snow country) determine the number of points each reservation deducts from the total. Buxton claims an average member can expect between 28 to 45 days of driving per year. They can also buy a more points-laden deluxe membership, or purchase extra points as and when.

Members must be pass an insurability check, have an acceptable driving record and carry a liability umbrella policy. As a driver fortunate enough to meet all three criteria, Buxton let me loose in the club's first (and currently only) whip: a brand new black-on-black Porsche Cayman S. It was a bit like a coke dealer giving you a bag "on the house." I'm sure we talked about the advantages of this and that and LuxShare's plans for expanding the fleet to include a Roller, Ferrari, Merc and more Porsches, but honestly, who was listening? All I heard was the wail of the Cayman's mid-mounted six.

The truth of the matter is that many of these new car share clubs are chicken v. egg non-starters: the club can't afford to buy exotic cars before they have members, and they can't get members before they have exotic cars. I wouldn't counsel a wealthy enthusiast to sign-up for a car share club before they catch sight of a well-stocked [non-fantasy] garage of pristine machines. I'd also ask to see the titles. And I'd rather be one of the later members than an eager early adopter. That said, in this case, Buxton has a solid rep; his foray into the field is no fly-by-night venture. As always, carveat emptor.

Legal disclaimer and due diligence aside, there's a lot of sense in the car share concept. Six Franklins per month buys or leases you a distinctly ordinary set of wheels. That same $600 won't even buy you two days in a 911 from Scottsdale's Rent-a-Vette ($349 a day, plus .49 a mile after the first 100 miles). And what could be better than driving a half dozen white-hot cars for six bills and no hassles? The bottom line is the amount of control you exert over your carviar addiction: once in a while or every day?

If you're a pistonhead with a Zymöl Princess in your garage, a car share club may provide the perfect mistress: a cheap, discreet and ready-to-get-sweaty alternative to perfection. If you're an undercarred pistonista reaching upwards in the automotive pantheon, a car share club is more like a house of prostitution. One drive may be enough to hook you but good, and running-up those membership points could end-up costing as much as buying a new Cayman S. (Fantasy never comes cheap.) In any case, be guided by the Buddha: "A good path is free from torture and groaning and suffering." Not to mention depreciation.

[Other than Dr. Weir's free ride, no financial consideration was made by <a xhref='http://www.luxshareautoclub.com'>Luxshareautoclub.com</a>]

Mitsubishi Motors is on the ropes. US sales are in the basement. Aside from the new Eclipse and the niche-market EVO, they haven't got a winning product in sight. A line of forgettable sedans and me-too SUVs does not a viable car company make. DaimlerChrysler's decision to pull the plug on future financial aid doesn't bode well either. In fact, Mitsubishi is knocking on the door of bankruptcy. Desperate times call for desperate measures. It's time for them to build a "real" pickup truck: a Mitsubishi Freightliner.

Despite the recent surge in gas prices, the US pickup truck market remains relatively robust. And even if it's contracting slightly, the profits aren't. The average profit on a pickup is $13,000 per unit. No wonder Nissan threw their hat in the ring with the Titan, and Toyota's promising all-new Tundra is due out next spring. Mitsubishi's entry, the Raider, is a badge engineered Dodge Dakota, but not nearly as memorable. It has some of the right stuff, including a V8, but cowers in the darkest corners of the marketplace, ignored and little missed. To make the grade and mint some money, Mitsubishi needs a full-size competitor to the Ford Super Duty.

Despite its connection to DaimlerChrysler, Freightliner isn't doing so well. Demand for their medium and heavy trucks has been soft for some time. Their foray into vans, the re-badged Mercedes Sprinter, is aimed at a narrow market niche– a niche that's even narrower now that there's a Dodge-badged Sprinter. But Freightliner's reputation as a maker of tough trucks is undiminished. Their Century Class trucks set new standards for comfort and luxury in heavy truck cabs. Freightliner's Sterling (formerly Ford) trucks are probably the most efficient and durable medium and heavy trucks on the planet.

Mitsubishi and Freightliner should pool their resources and build a new, heavy-duty, full-size pickup truck, designed to compete head-to-head with Ford's Super Duty. Freightliner has the design and engineering capabilities to create the truck. The Mitsubishi version could be sized and optioned like a Ford F250HD and F350, and the Freightliner version could cover the F350 and F450 range. Make sure it's big enough, has all the truck amenities and a really aggressive front end, and buyers will flock to the showrooms. A real Freightliner for the price of Dodge imitation? Hard to resist.

Freightliner doesn't make engines, and Mitsubishi doesn't have an engine suitable for a large truck. As we've discussed here before, there are plenty of first-rate American parts makers who can feed aspiring automakers suitable components. Freightliner is a major customer of Cummins. The new Mitsubishi Freightliner could run on the same Cummins diesel engine used in the Dodge Ram. Alternatively, Navistar (International) has developed a new 4.5-liter V6 diesel for Ford's F250– that The Blue Oval abandoned. Navistar has the engine and the plants to build it, but no customers.

"All Diesel, All the Time" would be a great marketing slogan. Mitsubishi could be the only company with a line of all-diesel trucks. A buyer could get a truck capable of F350 performance with the gas mileage of a gasoline powered F150 and the ruggedness of a Freightliner (at no extra charge). A tie-in with the bio-diesel business could make buyers feel good about driving a huge pickup truck, and wrest the green crown from Toyota. (Tundra pickups belch greenhouse gasses in a big way.)

Freightliner and Mitsubishi each have a suitable marketing channel for the truck. Freightliner could offer the product to fleet buyers who need a pickup to complement their semis and/or delivery trucks. Buyers could have the truck financed and serviced by the truck professionals at any Freightliner outlet, where employees know the commercial truck business inside out. No more hanging out at the Ford dealer waiting for mechanics to finish changing the oil on a minivan before getting to your work truck. Freightliner could also market a truck chassis in this class to motor home and ambulance builders; a market that's currently locked-up by Ford.

Obviously, Mitsubishi's distribution channel caters to the average consumer. Since most pickup trucks are sold for personal use, a Mitsubishi dealership would be a logical place to offer a Freightliner pickup truck for the masses. The presence of an attractive full-size truck would act as a halo vehicle, bringing buyers into the showroom (most for the first time) to see Mitsu's other offerings. A premium truck would also have a premium margin for both dealer and manufacturer, something both companies need desperately.

The US automotive market is in flux. Only those companies willing to consider new ways of doing business are going to survive. Will Mitsubishi and Freightliner see the next decade? That could very well depend on whether or not they realize that a problem shared is a problem halved.

There's a great deal of controversy in automotive circles these days regarding the advantages and disadvantages of parts-bin and badge engineering. Parts-bin engineering has been hailed as an efficient way for manufacturers to fully utilize their mechanical resources. Badge engineering has been demonized as an automaker's attempt to pull the wool over consumers' eyes. Although that analysis isn't a million miles from the truth, further explanation is in order.

A manufacturer practicing parts-bin engineering builds more than one model using the same basic components. Examples of parts-bin engineering include the Honda Civic, Del-Sol (1990s) and the current CR-V. On the home front, parts-bin engineering usually means sharing platforms, engines and drive trains. Chrysler was famous (or infamous) for developing a wide variety of vehicles from its "K" platform: family sedans, wagons, minivans and the Daytona sports coupe. Today's Daimler-Chrysler consumers can order the same Hemi engine in a wide range of Dodge, Chrysler or Jeep products.

If properly executed, parts-bin engineering is a boon to both manufacturer and consumer. The parts commonality keeps new model prices low. It helps manufacturers bring exotic models and "niche" products to market quickly and efficiently. The much-admired Pontiac Solstice is a classic example of a parts-bin engineered special. GM's roadster uses many parts shared with the Chevrolet Cobalt, which in turn shares components with the Chevrolet HHR "family-truckster" (apologies to Clark Griswold). This is the very definition of parts-bin engineering: distinct models with different purposes and personalities sharing many of the same parts.

Badge engineering is parts-bin engineering's evil twin. A manufacturer practicing badge engineering offers virtually identical vehicles under more than one of its automotive name plates. In most cases, it's easy: only a vehicle's trim, lights and badging are changed. In others, sheetmetal and suspension tweaks may disguise the practice. There's no small amount of debate about where you draw the line between bin and badge. How can two cars that look so different– the Pontiac Solstice and the Saturn Sky, the Chrysler 300 and the Dodge Charger– be nothing more than badge-engineered clones? Is Caddy's 'new' Euro-spec BLS its own man, even though it's little more than creased sheetmetal sitting on a Saab 9-3? Generally speaking, badge engineering is like the Supreme Court's definition of pornography: you know it when you see it. Or, in some cases, drive it.

American manufacturers aren't the only ones badge engineering their way into mediocrity, but they're certainly the worst offenders. The US automakers' move from bin to badge was a gradual process. In the 1950s, the vehicles sold by a manufacturer's various divisions were quite different products (e.g. a '55 Buick and Chevy). By the '60s, Ford, GM and Chrysler all produced vehicles for their house brands that shared chassis, platforms and engines (e.g. the Chevrolet Camaro and the Pontiac Firebird). By the late 70's/early '80's, badge engineering had spread the plague; nearly every American car company offered virtually identical cars throughout its portfolio. The trend continues.

Except for trim and some minor options, a Cadillac Escalade is no different from a Chevrolet Tahoe or GMC Yukon. (I am tempted to rip GM for charging Cadillac prices for a Chevrolet, but they only do it because they can.) The Ford Explorer and Mercury Mountaineer are the same SUV, as are the badge-engineered Ford Escape, Mercury Mariner and Mazda Tribute. Sadly, even Daimler-Chrysler is getting into the act. Its latest Jeep offerings, the Patriot and Compass, have Dodge counter-parts. The Liberty is nearly identical to the Dodge Nitro, though different body panels and a new 4.0 litre Nitro-specific engine may move this pair from badge to bin. The Compass is a Caliber in drag– AND it's the first Jeep that's not off-road capable.

To the casual observer, badge engineering looks like parts bin engineering. Parts-bin engineering involves sharing key components to create thoroughly unique vehicles; badge engineering is little more than "copying and pasting" an entire vehicle from one brand to another. If plagiarism is wrong in journalism, why should it be acceptable in the automobile business? Parts sharing is as old as the Model T, but the best bin-engineered cars are unique in both visual style and mechanical character. The Honda Odyssey minivan is a far different beast than its platform partner, the Ridgeline pickup truck. Compare that to the invidious differences between a Ford Fusion, Mercury Milan and Lincoln Zephyr.

The domestic auto industry is, or at least should be, smarter than that. Unfortunately, many board members are not "car guys." They seem to know as much about a vehicle's inherent appeal as they do about astrophysics. They also appear disconnected from their foreign competition's products and vehicle development process. All they care about is feeding their bloated dealer networks with enough products (as cheaply as possible) to keep the assembly lines churning, maintain market share and keep the corporate mothership afloat.

Although it's a short-term tonic, badge engineering is a long term drag. Manufacturers save money on components and tooling, but they create competition amongst their own brands while destroying each brand's unique character. Parts bin engineering stimulates creativity. Badge engineering kills creativity, divisions and, eventually, the companies that rely upon it.

Anyone remember Buick? You know; "doctor's car", big, expensive, highly-styled, just this side of a Cadillac? Well, today's Buick is going head to head with… Hyundai. No really. Even Hyundai's website knows the truth. It compares their new Azera Limited to a Buick LaCrosse. And here's the really strange part: the Buick kicks the Azera's ass. This triumph would be all well and good for GM if anyone was actually buying a Buick, but they aren't. At last count, on average, each Buick dealership sold eight new cars per month. Eight. Something's very right here, and something's very wrong.

Let's look at that comparison again. At $25,535, a Buick LaCrosse is cheaper than the $27,495 Azera Limited. That's almost two grand less than the import before you begin bargaining with the dealer (So Ricky… how many new Buicks did you guys sell this month?). And don't forget that GM sweetens the deal with 2.9% financing. Or how about Buick's flagship, the new Lucerne? At $25,990, it's still about $1500 less than the Hyundai. The Lucerne has features Hyundai hasn't even thought of (yet): rain-sensing wipers, heated washer fluid, OnStar, etc. The Lucerne also has a much larger cabin and the quietest ride this side of a casket. And portholes.

Some buyers might choose the pricier Hyundai for its mileage. Wrong answer. The Azera Limited's EPA rated mileage is 18mpg city, 27 highway. The LaCrosse clocks in at 20/30. That's 11% better fuel efficiency across the board– despite the fact that the LaCrosse is the bigger car. The even larger, more luxurious Lucerne (remember?) scores an EPA rating of 19/28, besting the smaller Hyundai by 5% city and 3% highway.

So why is Hyundai thriving and Buick on the ropes? Hyundai knows who they are. They have a marketing philosophy that works. Simply put, it's "$5000 cheaper than a Toyota and almost as good." (Hyundai offers a warranty to paper over the last part of that slogan, but since few new car buyers keep a car more than a few years, it's more of a security blanket than anything else.) The Korean automaker's product development hews strictly to the company's narrow mission, generating cars that support the underlying "brand proposition." Everyone knows what a Hyundai is. The result: a solid and growing customer base.

Part of Buick's problem is that they are saddled with the dead hand of GM marketing. Buick, like most GM divisions, has forgotten who they are and what they are about. The result is unfocused product development, bewildered dealers and, eventually, a cataclysmic drop in market share. Buick sales have fallen over 80% in the last 20 years. The only other major US make that's done worse is sibling division Oldsmobile, whose sales have fallen 100%.

Buick's loss of focus began in the '70's, when they started marketing versions of the Chevy Nova and Monza. Neither of these cars looked or acted like a Buick. A series of nondescript X, A, and J cars followed, all wearing the Buick nameplate for no discernable reason. Eventually, GM forgot what a Buick was. Toyota stepped into the breach with the Avalon and Lexus ES300. Honda jumped in with the Legend. Within a few years, the US market was flooded with cars that were better Buicks than Buicks.

To reverse this slide, the Buick brand must discover, or rediscover, its identity. There is a precedent for building better Buicks, an archetype: the Roadmaster. Reincarnated in 1992, the Roadmaster generated sales and solid profits through 1996. Big, solid and comfortable, the four porthole Roadmaster's sales were limited by capacity some years. Unfortunately, the Roadmaster died when its platform mates– the Chevrolet Caprice and Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham– bit the dust.

"Less bling than a Cadillac" worked for Buick once, it would work again now. The current Lucerne, built off a Cadillac platform, would be an excellent place to begin the Buick brand's renaissance. The Lucerne's understated elegance makes the Cadillac DTS look, well, flashy. To strengthen the claim, Buick would have to ditch bargain basement six-cylinder Lucernes and make every example a V8 (and a four portholer). And/or what about a Buick muscle car?

Meanwhile, the LaCrosse should quit trying to be Buick's Taurus. Again, Buick needs to move slightly upmarket. Ditch the smaller engined, low-buck versions, make a V8 standard, and build on the car's design excellence, reliability, and quality ratings. Market the car as a small Lucerne, and buyers will come.

"Less bling than a Cadillac" once made Buick #3 in US sales, and a solid contributor to GM's bottom line. Eight-cylinder engines, Dynaflow transmissions and lots of portholes helped, but Buick's success was based on solid marketing fundamentals. Buick knew what kind of cars to build, and how to market them to aspirational Americans. "Cheaper than a Hyundai" just won't cut it.

I'll never forget the billboard looming over London's Hammersmith flyover. At the exact point where drivers suddenly confront the endless congestion ahead, a teleconferencing company asked 'Is this journey really necessary?' I'd like to put the same question to the harried hacks covering The New York International Automobile Show– at the exact moment they hear the stilted cadences of The VP of Marketing for Generic Sedans enter the twenty-third minute of his presentation. And what say you show goers, as those circulation-constricting swag bags help transform your "visit" into a Bataan Death March? Is your Odyssean journey really essential?

Don't get me wrong. Auto shows aren't going to die. As long auto execs need to compare stand sizes with unaffiliated colleagues; they'll be there. As long as cherished dealer principals need to feel proud, special and drunk; they'll be there. As long as pistonheads need a happy place where they're not considered nerds, where they can touch, feel and smell the obscure objects of their desire; they'll be there. Wherever there's a cop beating' up a guy– no seriously, the human desire for real, honest-to-bad-breath social interaction guarantees that the auto show is with us to stay.

But social interaction ain't what it used to be, and neither is The Big Show. The days when they provided a back room bacchanalia for white men in dark suits, or a cherished father son bonding experience, are gone; replaced by political correctness and Gran Turismo 4. The Internet has changed everything. If gaining attention for a new vehicle is the question, cyberspace is the answer. If you're a media maven or rivet counter seeking a new whip fix, the web is to car spotting what a CAT scanner is to a neurologist. Even without considering the cost of an auto show stand or the expense of going to one, the Internet is 175% more efficient than the current bricks and mortar motoring ho'-down.

In ten years' time, defenders of today's auto show format will sound like those nostalgic nutcases who assert that radio drama is an unappreciated art form. Meanwhile, sensible people have to suffer mystical statements about the irreproducible benefits of seeing a new car 'in the flesh'– as opposed to clocking it via crystal clear digital photography or reasonable quality video. We'll also have to endure endless paeans to the value of face time and the 'gathering of the tribes'– as if high school reunions weren't ugly enough. The truth is, putting pistonheads and purveyors together in the same place at the same time for an endless series of new product launches and miles of static displays only makes both groups feel… unappreciated.

Fortunately for those of you reading this rant on your laptop in Jacob Javits' bowels– I mean in the bowels of The Jacob K Javits Convention Center– the modern car show is not an either/or reality/Internet situation. For every live human being sucking-up recirculated air in JKJ's cavernous confines, there are 10,000 surfers harvesting the heavy metal fruit of the auto blogging brigade. If the organizers of The New York auto show could suck a buck from every one of the web heads who check in on their vapid display of automobiles-in-aspic, they'd make enough money to pay for post-traumatic show disorder therapy– for everyone!

You don't have to be a dotrepreneur to realize that people around the globe would pay a reasonable fee to 'attend' an auto show from the comfort of their computer. A monopoly on the event's web rights– live web cam coverage, instant access to new photo galleries, on-road video and specs; forums, chat-rooms, IM interviews, etc.– could be worth a fortune. Hundreds of thousands of E-visitors would pay– either directly or through advertising– for the privilege of not going to the 'actual' show. The inappropriately-named independent media would scream bloody murder, but car manufacturers would conclude, rightly, that the spin starts here, with maximum content control.

At some point, the big e-auto shows will start to resemble professional sports, with only the die-hards bearing the cost and inconvenience of physical attendance. That said, fantasy cars aren't football; whether there'd be enough hard core shmoozers and show goers to justify the mondo auto show's astronomical rents and high-priced tickets is an open question. In fact, dwindling attendance has already liberated the London/Birmingham auto shows from their inner-city amphitheaters, fragmenting the event into smaller eventlettes. With less expensive and more accommodating venues, UK exhibitors are now doing really wild and crazy stuff to entertain the faithful– like demonstrating vehicles in motion.

Thanks to the Internet, it's a brave new world. Well, new. Making the switch from today's big ass car shows– a dead genre expense accounting– to tomorrow's smaller and/or virtual get-togethers will require both vision and courage. Either that or an auto exec who's had one steamed hot dog too many.

[For a look at the mutations to come, visit www.autoshowinmotion.com]

Grizzly Pete owned a Jeep. My college roommate's idea of a relaxing weekend: drive into Death Valley with a handgun and a knife and forage for food and water. Pete didn't need GPS; he could navigate via stars reflected off tortoise shells. Heated seats? He'd rub two Gila monsters together until they burst and spread their warm innards on his chair. Parking radar? Pete was the master of the dry lake reverse bootlegger's turn. And if Pete gouged his truck on the razor sharp spines of a Joshua tree, so much the better. A Jeep looked more like Jeep with trail damage. Amen.

Flash forward (mumble) years. I've spent a week putting (15 MPG) and blasting (8 MPG) around Los Angeles in a Jeep Grand Cherokee Limited. Yeah, it's got a HEMI, complete with cylinder deactivation/vasectomy. It was also equipped with a six-disk in-dash changer, Sirius satellite radio, a rear seat DVD player, adjustable pedals, heated leather seats, dual-climate zones, auto brights, a GPS navigation thingy, ParkSense (backup beeping), traction control, a manu-matic gear grabber and blingy chrome rims. I'd no sooner take this luxochariot off-road than I'd take Pete's battered Jeep down Rodeo Drive.

If I paid $43,830 for it, that is. Since I didn't, I drove it off a cliff. Then, with the help of Jeep's astounding Quadra-Drive II 4WD system and bona fide low-gears, I climbed back up. After that, I found a mud bog and did enough donuts to tank Krispy Kreme's stock. Off-road adventure accomplished, I slid the Cherokee into neutral, flipped the switch for the transfer case and calmly drove off to grab a beer. No question: the gussied-up Grand Cherokee is still a real Jeep.

Why wouldn't it be? Like virtually all Jeep products, it wore the coveted 'Trail Rated' badge. To earn this distinction, Jeep vehicles must satisfy the brand's criteria for a 'proper' off-roader. Here's the boilerplate: 'The Jeep Trail Rated® badge certifies that the vehicle has been designed to perform in a variety of challenging off-road conditions identified by five key consumer-oriented performance categories: Traction, Ground Clearance, Maneuverability, Articulation and Water Fording." Grand Cherokee? Yup, yes, absolutely, uh-huh and you betcha. And now… the new Jeep Compass.

Aside from the fact that Jeep's soon-to-be-released trucklette is uglier than a casino lobby at 7am, the Compass will be a terrific Jeep– for antiquing and wine-tasting. That's right; you guessed it: the Compass won't be Trail Rated. It will never cross the Rubicon, no matter how big the tires. Although the Compass isn't the first Jeep bereft of the badge– 2WD versions of the Liberty and Grand Cherokee share that dubious distinction– it will be Jeep's first non-Trail Rated AWD vehicle. And proof positive that the brand is ditching its off-road roots in pursuit of soccer moms and style conscious left brainers.

These are the same oxymorons who calmly insist that a passenger vehicle that can mount a 50 degree incline is as useful as a dyslexic accountant. While it's true that current Jeep buyers don't climb every mountain or see a stream and automatically think there's a ford in their future, they find their Jeep's untapped capability endlessly reassuring and secretly thrilling– like a condom in their wallet or America's nuclear arsenal. The Compass reveals a radical change in Jeep's marketing strategy, an attempt to court "non-traditional buyers." Or, if you prefer, they're chasing people willing to trade the actual, honest-to-God possibility of off-roading for the mere foggy idea of it.

Wrong answer. Does Daimler Chrysler really believe that buyers will stroll into their local Jeep dealer, have a look at the Grand Cherokee and ask if they have anything with a little less machismo? Maybe DCX is hoping potential customers will see the Jeep logo and brand design cues, assume off-roading ability, clock the lower price, sign-up and, please God, avoid the rough stuff. If so, it's a cynical marketing ploy that will bite the brand on its ass. A brand's identity flows from its products, not to them. A Jeep that can't survive Death Valley sells off the backs of the ones that can. And dishonors them all.

The Compass shows that Jeep has lost its bearings. Even if it sells well, it's an SUV that seems specifically designed to alienate the Grizzly Petes of this world, who gave the brand its cachet in the first place. In fact, I doubt the Compass will be a sales success. Aforementioned donuts to dollars, the faux Jeep will mimic the appeal of Land Rover's Freelander: unloved, unwanted and, most importantly, unsellable. But the Compass' effect on the Jeep brand will be incalculable. Like Buick, Lincoln, Mercury, Pontiac, Saturn and Saab, it will condemn the company to becoming yet another American automotive nameplate with no clear mission or purpose, slowly heading off-road for all eternity.

I've been formally instructed never to put numbers into a lead paragraph. So let's just say I've been lucky enough to own roughly as many cars as there are basic cable channels. While I've enjoyed every single one of my motors for at least a month, I can state without a moment's hesitation that I didn't enjoy buying any of them. I find the car buying process only slightly more enjoyable than colonoscopy, yet remarkably similar. (No anesthetic, though.) In fact, I'm hoping this car reviewing thing will wean me off my ownership addiction. 'Cause if you haven't figured it out by now, let me tell it to you straight: buying cars is a beeyatch. And I swear it's getting worse.

For starters, there's been a wholesale change in the decision timeline. What once was a late summer/early fall dramatic new-model reveal has become one dazzling, continuous roll-out of new steel. Los Angeles, Detroit, Chicago, Frankfurt, Geneva, New York, Tokyo… it's one damn car show after another, all instantly available on-line. Once upon a time, Harley Earl fans had nearly a year to settle in with their purchase decision. Nowadays enthusiasts experience buyer's remorse before they buy. You just know that whatever you settle on today will be superseded by something better within days. And if you actually buy a car it's gonna be… If only I'd waited just a little longer… I wonder what it would cost to trade…

Remember when "Sneak Previews" were held a month or two before new models came out? Now we're treated to manufacturers' photos of highly desirable new product two or more YEARS from production. The PR pimps describe these dramatic new cars as "in near production-ready form"; dangling scorching hot metal in front of us like a cocaine dealer at a supermodel retreat. Of course, the car mags and websites are all too happy to collude in this eternal foreplay, splashing spy shots and photo-shopped images on their pages without the slightest concern for their readers' mental or financial health.

And when we turn to these selfsame media teases to help us decide which beckoning siren of desire deserves our patronage, the mainstream auto press' loyalties force them to hide their criticisms between the lines. Magazines like Car and Driver and Road and Track used to tell it like it is. Now, teasing out the "real" value of a Cadillac STS-V or an Audi S8 from a buff book car review makes phrenology seem like a scientific pursuit. And then they go and change their minds. The same whip that got great reviews, the machine hailed as "The Best Car of Its Type Ever Made by Hand of Man", gets smoked six month's later in a shootout by some supposed also-ran. Paranoia creeps into the madness.

While all of this [mis]information clamors for proper processing, the car ads add to the emotional turmoil. These days, it's the art of the deal that sells the wheels. Wow! Look at that leasing rate! Hey Honey, we spend more on Chardonnay. We can swing this. Let's go have a look. Hang on, what's that asterisk? There's *rate available only for select customers, **not vehicle shown, which includes extra cost items and ***capitalization cost reduction contribution required (i.e. several grand down stroke). I always get a bit annoyed when the advertised lease payment inflates by double digit percentages at transaction time (in the same sense that Geronimo was irritated by the US Army). Needless to say, the best brands are the worst offenders, attempting to make their product seem more affordable than a mass-market beater.

And then there's political correctness. Years ago, you bought the best car you could afford and waited to see if your neighbor turned green. Now the bastard IS green, and eyes your eight mpg Ford GT or gas-sucking SUV like it's got baby's blood dripping from the front grill. Add safety concerns, insurance costs, resale value, reliability and dealer satisfaction, and your brain feels like it's doing major laps on the torture circuit of a desert proving grounds. But being enthusiasts, we can't just idle. It'a time for a new ride.

To cope with the stress, I've developed a new way to shop for a car. Set a price limit and find photographs of all the cars you like in that range. Cut and paste them on a Styrofoam board. Step off twenty paces, turn, close your eyes and let fly with three darts. Collect the photos pierced by each dart, shuffle them behind your back and visit each dealership in order. (Medicate as needed.) If the first dealer tries anything unseemly, bolt. On to dealer number two. Then three. The cleanest, game-free deal wins. Until next time…

Harley-Davidson has been making obsolete, inefficient and technologically deficient motorcycles since the 60's. Despite an unrelenting onslaught of technically superior Japanese product, the Harley-Davidson brand has stayed true to its roots (however inadvertently). They've never stopped building bikes that maintain the charm and character of old-fashioned American motorcycling. Or, put another way, Harley makes its living convincing otherwise responsible adults to pay premium prices for old technology. This transition– from cutting edge to outdated to nostalgic to a way of life– is a perfect model for the American automobile industry.

It's already happening. Consider America's love of big dumb SUV's, or, better yet, its best-selling vehicle, the F-150. Ford's perennial sales leader is a tried-and-true workhorse built around fundamentally simple (if highly evolved) technology. As personal transportation it's incredibly inefficient. Compared to a Japanese or Korean car, it's laughably basic. And yet the F-150– and American pick-up trucks in general– are thriving. They're style icons that remind drivers of a time when American culture was dominant and cast iron V8's ruled the roads. The modern F-150 is as "authentically American" as any '50's hot rod or '60's muscle car.

American automobiles started going wrong in the '80s and '90s, when Japanese imports changed the rules of the game. Yes, there were still cars wearing the Camaro, Firebird and Mustang nameplates, but even these Stone Age carry-overs were loaded-up with "sophisticated" technology. As for the rest… Modern braking and steering systems, turbocharged engines, front-wheel-drive, aerodynamic design, adaptive suspensions– there's a long list of technology that gradually turned proud American iron into something, well, pathetic. These "improvements" robbed American cars of their character without adding anything to their intrinsic appeal.

The Japanese are very good at building Japanese cars (which are enhanced clones of European sedans). American automakers should stop trying to compete. In fact, they can't compete. While the Big Three have engineering and design talent to spare, their sky-high labor costs and stifling bureaucracy make it virtually impossible to build a passenger car with anything like the quality and technology of their rivals'– never mind the price. As FedEx proved, the key to success isn't doing something a little better than the other guy; the trick is to do something DIFFERENT. Like building American cars.

Building big dumb American cars offers US automobile manufacturers a huge economic advantage. American-style muscle cars can be sold for higher margins than price-sensitive mainstream vanilla sedans (whose manufacturers are engaged in a never-ending battle for value-driven customers). The possibilities are endless. GM, Ford and Chrysler could market an entire range of garish, low-tech, high-profit American nostalgiamobiles. No need for state-of-the-art braking systems, no need for fuel-efficiency (captive imports can be used to keep the CAFE under control), no need to keep up with Toyota or Honda or Nissan or Hyundai. Just build something with all-American allure, satisfy NHTSA safety regs and call it good. No, call it great.

This strategy would be in perfect synch with the heartbeat of America: NASCAR. The quintessentially American race series is a showcase for '60's tech. (Yes the race teams are high-tech, but how many modern cars are equipped with carbureted V8's?) In fact, "NASCAR Nation" is nothing more than a public manifestation of American car culture– which never died nor wavered from its belief that there's no replacement for displacement. Before the Daytona 500, Speed Channel interviewed several NASCAR drivers. To a man they said that their first, favorite and current vehicles were pickup trucks. Just like the majority of Americans.

Building and selling charismatic American vehicles with V8 engines and solid rear axles could result in a rebirth of the "win on Sunday, sell on Monday" philosophy. Cruise nights at local drive-ins would no longer be dominated by cars built during the Johnson and Nixon administrations. In fact, you'd see a new flowering of American car culture. And since the automakers wouldn't be spending money on developing, refining and implementing the latest vehicle technology, they could focus their R&D dollars on accessories. As Harley Davidson will tell you, non-mechanical parts are a licence to print money.

Of course it'll never happen. Detroit still thinks this is 1966, not 2006. Too many people in top management believe their automotive divisions will never become Harley-like 'niche players'– even though it's already happening. They think they're only a spiffy new high-tech car (or fifty) from market dominance and massive profitability. They think they can somehow compete against the new guys' non-unionized labor and technological ingenuity– even if they have to build their cars in China and Korea to do it. We can only hope that the Big Three's bankruptcy and resulting reorganization happen as quickly and painlessly as possible. That way, America's automakers can retrench, regroup and start building genuine American cars again. Cars with style, power and profit.

Mercedes-Benz makes a lot of cars for customers with serious aspirations. Just out of college, looking for bit of respect? C-Class. Mid-level manager aspiring to the next rung on the corporate ladder? Take an E. Mr. Got it All looking for a set of wheels for the woman who isn't his wife? CLK cabriolet. And a car for the woman who is? The SL. The clear link in all this is badge snobbery. In fact, if class consciousness has a symbol, it's a three-pointed star. So what's one of the brand's current campaigns for their $96k CL500? "Mercedes-Benz: For Everyone." Right.

Post-modern irony aside, it's true. Mercedes-Benz wants to sell a car in every automotive niche. (Not to mention the ones they invent.) Mercedes can get away with it too. If Mercedes produced the equivalent of Europe's proletarian Ford Ka and slapped a MB badge on it, the automotive press would slam it and tens of thousands star struck buyers would go straight out and buy one. Oh wait, they did. Mercifully, US buyers were spared the rolling atrocity known as the A-Class. That said, it may be only a matter of time before the entirely inappropriate B-Class finds its way into trendy loft livers' assigned parking spaces. Badge snobbery über alles.

Consider the Gelaendewagen, or, since Mercedes-Benz of North America started importing them directly, the G500 and G55 AMG. The G-Wagen has been guzzling its way over the world's peaks and valleys since the 1970s. The $81,000 truck– and it is a truck in spite of the price– has passed the previous record holder to become the longest running Mercedes-Benz chassis. The G-Wagen beat-out the iconic R107 body SL convertible. Could you imagine Mercedes-Benz peddling the R129 SL of the 90's today? I can. The company only retired the convertible a little over three years ago.

Back track for a moment. Mercedes-Benz is a fantastically successful car company. Like Porsche, they've consistently beaten their previous year's U.S. sales records for more than a decade. On the face of it, attributing Mercedes-Benz's profits to a simple combination of name and emblem is disingenuous. There's a great deal of substance behind the company's name and its star.

Mercedes-Benz rose from the ashes of WWII to build the best cars in the world, for more than five decades. They weren't always pretty– the 1970s were a particularly troubled time in their design department-– but the company achieved a quality standard that no other manufacturer could touch. Cars like the stalwart 300SD stand the test of time. Literally. Today, that bullet-proof German quality is little more than vehicular folklore. Engineered like no other car in the world? That's fine by Lexus, as Toyota's luxury brand builds far better cars than DaimlerChrysler's Benz. MB vs. BMW or Audi? No contest.

It is difficult to identify the exact moment when Mercedes craftsmanship went south. Then again, you could say the moment arrived in 1993, when Daimler-Benz built a plant in Alabama to manufacture the M-Class SUV. Soccer moms took a second mortgage on the house just to roll-up at practice in a new ML320. When the corporate volk back in Stuttgart realized that US buyers were snapping-up the new M-Class despite failed transmissions and electrical problems, the pressure was off. Why use high-cost components or materials that car buyers can't see and don't care about? Brand extension and "de-contenting" kept MB's hugely profitable juggernaut moving forward.

A decade on and the German marque ranks lowest among the luxury brands in reliability. The latest issue of Consumer Reports highlights this fact. Reliability is listed as "below average," "poor," and "below par," for the C, E, and S-Class, respectively. "Poor reliability" and "Mercedes-Benz" in the same sentence? Where is "vault-like" and "dependable"? It's been more than a decade since any of the automotive press used those terms to describe a Benz and I'm hard pressed to see their return anytime in the near future. The chintzy E350, vault-like? I don't think so. The all new ML500 dependable? I'll believe when I see it. There is nothing about the current Mercedes-Benz lineup – save the SL – that warrants that kind of praise from the media.

Like the rest of western society, Mercedes-Benz is living on credit. It's been paying nothing towards the debt to its own name. There comes a point when the line expires and the loan is called. When that happens, the customers walk away and into the ready arms of the competition that has been making reliable, sound, solid automobiles all the while. It is not just General Motors and Ford that the Japanese are keen on passing. If Mercedes-Benz wants to continue its run, it must stop making cars "for everyone" and manufacture only the best. That is, after all, what everyone wants.

[Gunnar Heinrich runs www.automobilesdeluxe.blogspot.com]

With so many superb high-end sedans for sale, I'd be hard-pressed to name the automaker building the world's best luxury car. But I'll tell you which one makes the best chocolate cake: Volkswagen. At VW's 'Glass Factory" in Germany, a PR flackling served-up a Schwarzwaelder Kirschtorte whose cherry-flavored choctasticness established an insurmountable standard for the field. The same could not be said for the car being built below. The Phaeton was doomed from day one, minus the number of days between the moment of conception and the first commercial example. And yet, despite its inevitable withdrawal, the Phaeton may prove to be one of the most important cars of its time.

When the ghetto fabulous Bentley Continental GT made its debut, VW's boutique brand took great pains to distance their erstwhile British sedan from its German roots. But there was no getting around the fact that the Conti's rap sheet included some hard time on the Phaeton's platform. The baby Bentley's mighty mill was a twin-turbo version of the W12 engine powering the big Vee Dub. Should [all] US Phaeton owners pile into a modern Bentley, they'd immediately recognize the swankmobile's climate control and air suspension systems. By the same token, the current Audi A8 owes much of its character to its humble (though pricey) predecessor.

It's also worth noting that the Phaeton marked a return to form for German engineering. The luxobarge's windshield wiper blades rest on alternate sides to create even wear. The sunroof's lip spoiler adjusts at speed to prevent drafts and harmonic distortion. The climate control system opens vents for rapid cooling, then closes them when the desired temperature arrives (switching to indirect air flow). At a time when even Mercedes had lost the plot, the Phaeton's build and materials quality were beyond approach. I mean, reproach. For those of us who wondered if the Germans had lost their manufacturing mojo, the Phaeton kept the faith alive.

Of course, none of that makes the Phaeton particularly important. You might even call the ridiculously-badged, absurdly-priced Phaeton automotive cocaine: a sign from God that VW was making too much money. The model's real contribution to the future of the automotive industry lies elsewhere, well away from the greasy bits. It was the Phaeton's sales and marketing that separated the machine from the dozens of Dodos (Chevrolet SSR anyone?) launched by overly-adventurous automakers.

German Phaeton buyers were invited to the imperious Glass Factory to spec-up their car. In VW's Customer Experience Center, perched high above the former Allied bombsite known as Dresden, café and kuchened customers stroked sumptuous leathers and glassine veneers. They twiddled a digitized table to select an ideal blend of exterior and interior colors and the appropriate rear accommodations (dual thrones or bench). After their chariot was built, these automotive patrons returned to… an empty room. At the push of a button, accompanied by symphonic swelling, their custom built Volkswagen Phaeton rose from under the floor. A specialist guided the appropriately awed owner through the Phaeton's various functions. Then the outside wall rolled back and the customer drove their car into the parking lot and onto the street.

Although VW's Phaetonology shared some of its key characteristics with Japanese dealer techniques (which are driven by a lack of urban real estate), the Germans elevated customer contact to Wagnerian levels, and blazed a trail for US sales. It was, in a word, genius.

First, there were no cars. Why anyone selling an expensive product would want potential customers to contemplate a large number of them is beyond me; "pile 'em high and sell 'em cheap" is programmed into us on the genetic level. Second, Phaeton customers were isolated, indoctrinated and, most importantly of all, relaxed. The average car dealer's showroom is more uncomfortably exposed than a public urinal and less relaxing than a dentist's chair. Third, customers customized their car. Their detailed selections bonded Phaeton owners to both their vehicle and the company providing it. And fourth, the handover process– THE critical moment in the entire sales process– was appropriately dramatic, bonding Phaeton owners to both their vehicle and the company providing it.

The retail end of the American automotive business hasn't changed since the turn of the century– two centuries ago. Clothes, hardware, music, food– there isn't any other retail sector that hasn't been revamped and revolutionized in that time. The Phaeton gave VW a better way to sell cars. MINI has moved in that direction. And now Audi has a chance to make it happen. Audi of America's Executive Vice President Johan de Nysschen recently announced that his company will create regional distribution hubs to store, maintain and distribute cars 'within 48 hours.' Why not keep all but single examples at the hub, change the dealerships to [smaller] 'Experience Centers,' customize customers' cars at the hub, send 'em to the dealer and sex-up the handover procedure? I reckon it'd be a piece of cake.

It's no surprise that the Ford GT garnered a huge amount of publicity for its parent company. It was fast, sexy and charismatic. It showed the world that Ford can build a world-class car at a budget price. It pioneered new building techniques. It refocused attention on Ford's racing heritage. It drew crowds at autoshows. It made dealers feel like serious playas. It sold out. It earned a buyer's premium. It will be worth serious money at auction some day. But Ford was right to kill it.

Like the Bugatti Veyron, the GT was never going to be a mainstay of its parent company's lineup. For one thing, the GT was simply too expensive; the "budget supercar" cost almost five times as much as the starting price of the company's next-most expensive vehicle, the Excursion. For another, Ford's current model range is about as sporty as a pair of woolen socks. Sticking a Lamborghini Gallardo next to a Golf GTI in a VW showroom would be far less incongruous than positioning the GT next to just about anything wearing the Blue Oval badge. Since Ford dropped the Focus SVT, it has only one sports car affordable by mere mortals: the ubiquitous Mustang. Placing a Ford GT next to a Mustang simply makes the Mustang look bad.

As a "halo car," the GT was equally ill-conceived. How does an automobile aimed straight at the idle rich bring glory to a company that sells mass market motors? The original GT40 was a proper race car whose victories ennobled the entire brand. Ford's "homage" is nothing more than a fantastic toy, a collector's piece that will no doubt spend most of its life sheltering in the climate-controlled garages of its well-heeled benefactors. It's a supercar, but an unlikely candidate as the "ultimate Ford."

If there are any cars we should be worried about Ford failing to produce, it's the production versions of the company's most recent concept cars. The Iosis concept from the Frankfurt Auto Show was supposed to signal Ford's new 'kinetic' design language, proving that the company could make even a four-door sedan look dynamic and exciting. The Reflex concept at the Detroit show (and, thankfully, on stage at the Way Forward plan's announcement) was designed to show us that 'fast' and 'green' were not mutually exclusive terms. These are the kinds of cars Ford should build: cars that do one thing better than anyone else. Not different-for-their-own-sake models or remade classics that will lose their luster over time (just ask VW about its New Beetle sales).

Again, the Reflex is the right kind of "gotta have" product. While the concept contained a lot of flights of fancy that would never make production, the idea of a diesel-electric hybrid coupe is both feasible and desirable. Although only relatively fast, the sports car's claimed 65 MPG fuel economy would blow away the competitors (even the Lotus Elise only manages about 40 MPG). The Reflex might even be the hammer blow to the sports car market that the expensive, fuel-guzzling GT could never be. You could drive a Reflex every day without feeling guilty for consuming non-renewable energy or contributing to global warming. Forget touting the Escape Hybrid as Ford's environmental friendly poster child. Show motorists the Reflex and they'll know that even cool cars can be green.

By the same token, the Iosis would be a deeply desirable car. Even if it loses a bit of its appeal in the translation from concept to production, it will still be a mid-size sedan that doesn't look like it was designed by a committee, with all the dulled performance and inoffensiveness that comes with the territory. The Five Hundred, Focus and Fusion aren't cars enthusiasts aspire to own; we begrudgingly rent them at the airport when we're on vacation, or sign them on to corporate fleets. With proper work under the hood, a production Iosis would give Ford a car that at least "feels" like performer to the aspiring enthusiast with 2.2 children. At the moment, Ford dealers can only point to the Mazda dealership down the street.

Face it: average consumers don't need to see a Ford GT in their local Ford showroom. It distracts them from the practical, sensibly-priced cars they've [hopefully] come to buy. Ford needs cars which satisfy the 'gimme' urge in a more direct, brand-faithful way. Cars like the Mustang GT, Reflex and Iosis will ratchet-up the excitement on the Ford forecourt, while remaining true to the company's blue-collar roots. They offer the prospect of everyday, affordable excitement, along with traditional Ford values of value and (dare I say it) reliability. The Ford GT was a bit of fun that was great while it lasted. Now it's time for Ford to put away the toys and get back to business.

I'll never forget driving a red-with-white-striped Ford GT to a photo shoot one misty Manchester morning. By then, I knew car and road well enough to use the former to annihilate the latter. The GT hurtled through the woods like an Imperial speeder, its supercharged V8 sounding like God scrubbing the world clean with a wire brush. The 550-horse GT also did an excellent imitation of pre-Army Elvis: thrusting obscenely in time with the changes, moving in perfect synch with the mechanical melody. After that run, I wanted a Ford GT more than a Porsche Carrera GT, Ferrari Enzo, Pagani Zonda or Lamborghini Murcielago. The GT is that charismatic, that much fun to drive.

On Friday, Ford announced it's idling its Wixom assembly plant in the second quarter of next year. As a result, production of the Ford GT will end this September. Speaking to the Detroit News, Ford spinmeister Jim Cain handed the mid-engined supercar its gold watch with only a slight hint of sentimentality: 'It was our plan all along to wind up production on the 40th anniversary of the 1-2-3 victory at Le Mans… It's not being canceled. It's just run its race.' Yes, well, checkered flag or no, FoMoCo's 'dismissal' of the GT is the automotive equivalent of Buddy Holly's plane crash: a sad day for a special car.

It's unlikely that Ford made a dime on its $151,245 range topper. The Ford GT relied on new construction techniques and materials. And as with many "all-new" cars, the Ford GT program faced substantial production problems and experienced long delays. Even after the GT finally hit the forecourts in late 2004, a defective suspension part (made using a new technique) grounded the entire fleet of 100 sold cars, and halted production for a few months. Even more surprising, Ford dealers have only sold 1603 of the 2603 GT's produced to date. Although many dealers say they plan to keep their GTs indefinitely for promotional purposes or personal use, there's clearly no shortage of Ford GT's sitting in dealer showrooms, waiting for a home.

A great deal of the blame for this sad state of affairs lies with Ford's dealer network. The GT was first released in a very limited supply. "Early adopters" were willing to fork out a large premium above the manufacturer's suggested retail price (MSRP) to buy their own personal piece of automotive heaven. But now that the supply has increased and those few "gotta have it now" buyers have their GT's, the days of the $100k premium are long gone. Even so, dealer greed has kept MANY GT's bolted to the showroom floor. That will change; as the 2006 model year Ford GT has arrived on the scene, reports are filtering through of '05 Ford GT's selling for sticker or, gulp, below. With 1400 more cars to go before production ceases, it's only a matter of time before prices soften further, perhaps dramatically.

Clearly, Ford screwed-up the sales side of their supercar project. They should have produced fewer, better GT's, or more cheaper ones. But that doesn't mean they should kill it. The money spent on the Ford GT bought them a small but wealthy population of Ford GT owners. Surely it makes sense to keep these buyers within the Ford family with new and faster GT's, just as the Viper has a dedicated coterie of owners. If Ford eased-up on the GT supply (without ending it), demand would eventually catch-up and profits would be restored. After all, this is a car whose intrinsic appeal is not likely to diminish over time. Nor has the GT's promotional value run its course.

Time. Ford just doesn't get the whole long-term thing, do they? Their minivan tanks and they cut bait and run. The Lincoln LS looks a bit old in the tooth and they kill it stone dead in an endless pursuit of The Next Big Thing. The Ford GT wins the hearts and minds of millions of enthusiasts but the company's attention span for it is only two years long. In fact, I'm so disappointed about the GT's short run I'm contemplating a Ford Death Watch. So far, I've resisted the urge because I didn't think The Blue Oval Boys were headed for the buffers. Now, I'm not so sure. By failing to capitalize on the long-term benefits available from making a car like the GT, Ford has revealed itself as short-sighted, timid and clueless. If left unchecked, these traits will prove fatal to a company that once aimed for the pinnacle, and, despite the odds, got there in style.

Less than a half century ago, every carmaker offered at least one two-door automobile. Entry level coupes were often a young married couple's first car. Sportier coupes were a suburban staple. Coupes like the Ford Galaxy and Chrysler New Yorker offered ordinary Joes a chance to own a car with an extra touch of class and panache. And no luxury marque could thrive without a fabulous Coupe de Ville, or equivalent thereof. The coupe's lack of rear seat room, window leaks, and interior noise were considered a small price to pay for high style. Then things got serious…

The convertible was the first to go. Perhaps the move away from ragtops reflected the uneasy tenor of the times: inflationary belt-tightening, divisive foreign policy, Cold War jitters, the Arab Oil embargo, presidential scandal. Maybe Ralph Nader's seminal work "Unsafe at Any Speed" and blood and guts high school Driver's Ed programs got US car buyers thinking about decapitation. In any case, the topless car was suddenly seen as a needless, dangerous extravagance, rather than a bold and fun statement of personal prosperity. From Corvairs to Cadillacs, convertibles disappeared from American highways. Coupes followed thereafter.

Marketeers explain the four-door's ongoing supremacy by pointing their fingers at baby boomers. Supposedly, the industry's driving force needs four-door sedans to help feather their full nest: teenage/young adult children and aging parents. But most such families have at least two cars, and not all baby boomers face these transportation responsibilities. Besides, studies show that "practicality" plays little or no role in a car purchase. The real reason for the moribund coupe market lies within shifting consumer perceptions of quality, desirability and mission-appropriate genre.

For years, European automobiles sold in the US have been universally (if not entirely accurately) recognized as the epitome of engineering excellence. BMW, Mercedes, Audi and others initially entered the US market with well-engineered, fun-to-drive sedans, in part to differentiate them from the "typical" American two-door hardtop. Since most of these foreign importers didn't offer coupes to US buyers, the public began to associate upmarket motor cars with four-door sedans. When Toyota and Honda entered the luxury car market, their Lexus and Acura brands reflected and capitalized on this assumption with a lineup of four-door sedans. Lexus' success further cemented the commonly held image of a quality car as a four-door sedan.

But what of today? Even with 911 and Iraq, we live in breezier times. Stability control, pop-up roll bars, crumple zones and a plethora of electronic and structural measures have eliminated much of the convertible and coupe's inherent safety risk. The coupe market has expanded– somewhat. Upmarket brands now offer a range of two-door models. Entry level couple like the Cobalt, Civic and Focus appeal to The Fast and Furious crowd. But grown-up, low to middle income car buyers who want to ditch the back doors are sniffing with the hounds.

GM offers the G6 and Monte Carlo. Ford weighs in with the Mustang and Focus. Dodge has the Stratus, while Chrysler flogs its Crossfire and Sebring. Toyota sells the Yaris, Scion the two-door tC. Honda has the Civic and Accord. BMW brings the MINI and the 3-Series. VW builds a two-door Golf and the Beetle. In today's niche-driven marketplace, that's not a particularly impressive selection of reasonably-priced, reasonably commodious coupes. Ah, but there's a twist in the tale. The great American coupe hasn't disappeared from the US automotive scene; it just morphed into a pickup truck.

The Ford F150 is America's best selling two-door. Chevrolet, Dodge and GMC two-door pickups aren't far behind. If a newlywed couple wants a cheap pickup, there are plenty of affordable choices. Suburbia is lousy with bling and bad-ass pickups. Luxury "car buyers" can opt for the Ford F150 Lariat, or upmarket Dodges, Chevy's or GMC's. They all offer the same leather-lined, power-everything wretched excess that US consumers snapped up in 70s coupes.

The current movement away from light trucks, back to cars, will eventually stimulate the rebirth of the coupe genre, and the return of the great American [auto-based] coupe. The luxury marques are leading the way towards this renaissance. They're in full coupe mode– from the new BMW 6-Series to the Bentley GT. The success of upmarket hardtop drop-tops will also help the movement, tendering the tempting prospect of lower-priced versions. With designers like Ralph Gilles (300C) looking for ways to inject excitement into what's become a standardized product, it's only a matter of time before the coupe once again becomes an automotive mainstay. The Detroit debut of the new Camaro and Dodge Charger coupes will signal the coming coupe d'etat. As for the kids and the old folks, they'll have to squeeze in the back, drive their own damn car or… buy a coupe.

Anyone remember the AC Ace? It was a nicely balanced British sports car with a space-frame chassis, four-wheel independent suspension, aluminum body panels, a high-revving straight six powerplant and perfect weight distribution. Car magazines of the day raved about the machine's ideal blend of performance and handling. And yet the delightful little Ace has disappeared into that special memory space reserved for die-hard Anglophile automobilists. Blame the snake.

When GM started cleaning Ford's clock in the early '60's, a Blue Oval man named Carroll Shelby went and stuffed a big old V8 under the hood of the AC Ace and re-badged it a Cobra. The resulting sports car brought fame and fortune to both man and machine, on track and off. Forty-years later, Shelby is still trading on the reputation generated by his modified two-seater. Forty years later, companies are still fabricating Cobra replicas in their thousands. Forty years later, the Cobra is still burnishing Ford's image. Needless to say, nobody worships the well-balanced little sports car that gave birth to a legend.

Fast forward some 40 years and check out the new Pontiac Solstice roadster. Like the original Ace, or the current Mazda MX5 (nee Miata), the Solstice is a small, attractive, well-balanced sports car. The consensus among the buff books is that the four-cylinder Solstice can compete on most levels with the equally-cylindered MX5– which is quite an achievement for a box-fresh challenger. But it's not good enough. The Solstice needs a V8.

Peppy as it is, the Pontiac Solstice can still be shut down by an old guy in a Lincoln. And the old guy won't even have to know how to shift gears. While some enthusiasts will undoubtedly guard and revere the Solstice as a perfectly-balanced purists' pleasure, when it comes to weekend automobiles, the majority of the great American motoring community prefers muscle. Always has. Always will.

A Solstice V8 is perfectly doable. GM produces the world's best, most powerful and compact range of V8 engines. Their pushrod design ensures that the powerplant would fit into the Solstice's petite nose. Equally important, in aluminum-block form, GM's small-block V8 weighs less than a hundred pounds more than the Solstice's four. Because of the smoother power delivery from the V8, very little extra stress would be placed on the Solstice's driveline. If any components couldn't handle the extra power, GM could source the appropriate parts from a Corvette, light truck or SUV.

With a simple engine transplant, the Solstice would be transformed from a capable plaything to a legendary road rocket. Instead of a 2860lbs. roadster with 177hp, the Solstice V8 would be a 3000lbs. roadster with 400hp. That's enough horsepower per pound to place the Solstice smack dab in the middle of supercar territory. Leave off the AC (so to speak) and power windows, and the power-to-weight ratio would be even more stunning. As a 'club sport' model, the Solstice could go head to head with Porsche in SCCA racing. Has anyone imagined a Pontiac that could compete with a Porsche? Ever?

The media buzz generated by a V8 Solstice would be tremendous. The buff books would go crazy. The comparison tests would write themselves. If the exterior changes were kept to a minimum, the sales of the four-cylinder Solstices would be benefit. A V8 Solstice would also provide a proper halo for GM in general, at a fraction of the Ford GT's cost. And that old geezer in the Lincoln could no longer be certain he could out-drag the Solstice next to him at the light.

It's worth noting that Ford, inheritor of the Cobra mystique, almost made the Miata into a latter day Shelby Cobra several times. In the mid to late '90s, several product developers were inspired by the Miata's aftermarket installations to investigate the possibities of shoe-horning a V8 into the Japanese roadster. There are credible rumors of a secret prototype. But Ford management discontinued the 5.0-liter V8 in favor of the underperforming, overweight 4.6-liter V8, and demoted some of the managers who persisted in pursuing the project.

Ford missed their chance to make a modern Cobra. Will GM seize their chance? Not according to GM's car czar, Bob Lutz: "No question, somebody, somewhere will fit a small-block V-8 in here, but we won't be doing it. This car was designed to have a four-cylinder engine.' Our spies report that a turbo-charged Solstice GXP is on its way, which will certainly be significantly hotter than the feeble EcoTec 4 version, but… The GXP won't even be in the same league as the charismatic Ford Cobra. Anyone who's heard the burble, snarl and pop of a V8 Cobra, watched it roar into the distance, and smelled the burned rubber will tell you: there ain't nothing like the real thing.