So here I am, on the phone to a car dealer to hook-up a test drive in the "new" Ford Focus. As I type, I'm on hold, listening to an ad for Stop and Shop. While I'm sure the message is part of a radio station plug-in, why the Hell should I call a car dealer to be sold groceries? Anyway, Dennis comes on the line forty-nine seconds later to tell me that they've got one, and it's on the showroom floor. Great! I'll come down for a test drive. When are you interested in buying the car? I resist the urge to blurt out "when my penis exceeds 12 inches." Before I can say "soon" he goes off on a rant on how some people want to test drive cars that they're only interested in buying six months hence, and how his manager is not enamored with test drives related to purchases within this time frame. Five minutes later, I get a return call. We're good to go. Do you have a vehicle to trade-in? And that's it, save a sudden desire to take a shower. Still. this process keeps us in touch with what you go through, and I gotta say, it ain't pretty. As Ford doesn't have a whole lot of exciting cars in the showroom or pipeline, perhaps they ought to use this interregnum to sort some things out at the sharp end.

There are plenty of auto industry execs who see car enthusiasts a bunch of Buddy Pines. I'm talking about the sycophantic fan in The Incredibles: a boy whose ambition to be Mr. Incredible's sidekick foundered on his abject lack of superpowers. In fact, Buddy Pine's pathetic devotion put Mr. Incredible in harm's way, and, eventually, turned Pine from a fan into Mr. Incredible's murderous stalker. The truth about car fans is far better represented by a cartoon panel that shows a King looking down on his troops as they head into battle. A man stands next to him holding a machine gun. "I don't have time for salesmen now!" the King shouts. I was reminded of the image when I discovered that Jaguar is finally consigning the X-Type to the scrap heap of history. Enthusiasts had been warning Ford that they were killing Jag from Day One, when it was clear FoMoCo knew about as much about careful parenting as Cronos. The X-Type turned out to be the British brand's ultimate indignity– and that's saying something. If Ford and Jag had listened to Jaguar's most passionate if amateur guardians they could have, well, it breaks your heart to see the XK120 and E-Type's descendants descend into the abyss. Keep this in mind when you comment here and elsewhere, and rest assured that there will come a day when car companies realize they have to let us inside the factory gates. For their own good. 

I remember the afternoon Nancy Reagan sashayed into CNN for an in-studio interview. I was tethered to camera two, panning its unblinking eye left and right six inches– as I had done for eight hours a day for the previous year-and-a-half. To say I was numb with boredom and seething with resentment is like suggesting that Osama Bin Laden would be persona non grata at a U.S. Marines' barracks. Of course, this was a kindler gentler time, when the CIA was busy training Osama and his cronies to terrorise the Russians in Afghanistan. Anyway, Nance was deeply involved in her "Just Say No" anti-drugs campaign. Her interviewers: Don Farmer and Chris Curl (whose long-suffering though minion-squashing producer Katie Couric dreamed of better days). At some point, Don asked The First Lady "So how did your children avoid taking drugs?" I nearly snorked. The previous winter, I'd had the good fortune to ski with Ron Jr. in Aspen Colorado. On the lift up Ajax, Ron and I had partaken of a particularly fine bud of Maui Wowee nestled in the bowl of my erotically shaped meerschaum pipe. I don't remember what Nancy said, or how in the world I kept my mouth shut (a skill that remains undeveloped some twenty-plus years later), but I do remember thinking that truth is the first casualty of minimum wage Hell. (Or something like that.) As TTAC heads towards adding video, you can rest assured that we will continue to pull no punches– and leave those buds unsmoked.

I'm somewhat proud that the first Survivor winner was a fellow Rhode Islander. As is the case with many successful Ocean State natives (e.g. former Providence Mayor and current radio talk show host Vincent "Buddy" Cianci), Mr. Hatch's brilliant career has been temporarily interrupted by criminal proceedings; he's spending a little quality time in federal prison on a tax evasion conviction. Even so, Hatch's success on the CBS' prototype reality game show (talk about an oxymoronic expression) contained an important lesson for students of corporate gamesmanship. As Richard stated during his post-game interviews, "I was the only person actually playing the game. Everyone else was so wrapped-up in themselves they forgot why they were there." Hatch's wisdom returned to me when I was trying to understand why both Nardelli at Chrysler and Mulally at Ford are setting about fixing their employers' broken business at a pace that makes a snail's progress seem supersonic. I reckon the two "outsiders" have fallen victim to the same Imperial fug that's enveloped GM's Wagoner– and every Detroit auto industry CEO for the last fifty plus years. Yes, they're all there, talking the talk. But when you look at their product plans, marketing, dealer relations and, especially, union relations, it's clear someone's still throwing rose petals in their path. What these guys need is a REAL kick in the ass. Chapter 11 ought to do it.

I was hanging-out with Dad yesterday, waiting for Mom to come out of [minor] surgery. When he mistook a passerby's ringing cell for his own, I said it's hard to imagine that he grew up in a time when no one had a phone. (The device had been invented; it just wasn't available to the average Hungarian.) For my generation, being born pre-Internet renders us digital dinosaurs. Well fair enough. How did we grow-up without it? Truth to tell, I'm jealous of today's youth, who don't have to rely on Car & Driver, the library and their local mechanic/nut/dealer to satisfy their curiosity about all things automotive. In some sense, I run this site for that young kid I once was, desperate to learn at the feet of as many masters as possible. To probe their experience, wit and wisdom. To know more. So I'd like to take time out to thank all of TTAC's contributors and commentators and all three listeners for joining me in this endless quest for insight. If you could spread the word, emailing a link to anyone who might benefit from our intellectual inquiries, I'd be much obliged. If not, same thing. 

This morning, Frank Williams blogged the AP's report on OnStar's new "Stolen Vehicle Slowdown" (SVS) option. Tick the appropriate box on your OnStar service agreement and the company can legally shut down your engine via remote– should a scrote steal your car. Big Borther issue aside, fair enough. And then I saw the Detroit Free Press' take: "New GM system should curb police chase deaths and injuries." According to the Freep, "With more than 30,000 police chases each year resulting in 300 fatalities and about 7,500 injuries, this unique use of the OnStar technology is being hailed by a wide variety of law enforcement and emergency response organizations." Needless to say, this "wide variety" was represented by a single law enforcement officer. "Once it becomes widespread, about 600 vehicles trying to elude police will be slowed by the system each year." Oh really? Talk about sloppy, doe-eyed, parrot-beaked journalism. The truth is that stolen vehicle chases account for a small percentage of police chases, police cause the majority of police chase deaths, and that the only way to curtail the carnage is to change police chase policy– as many departments have done. Nice try OnsStar. Must try harder Freep.  

Although Justin wonders how the loss of "lifestyle" buyers may hurt pickup truck sales, I never held much truck with the idea that Urban Cowboy-ism accounted for the lion's share of the market. Maybe that's because I live in southern New England, where anyone who drives a pickup truck uses it to relieve lawn-crazed suburbanites and home makeover addicts of their hard-earned money. The SUVOA defends our right to drive big honking SUV's on the grounds that their owners cherish their occasional "full" utilization (i.e. nipping out for a pint of milk during a blizzard). So it's entirely possible that there are parts of the country where people buy pickups just so's they kin move their lava lamp and mattress to and from college, or schlep a picnic table-sized TV home from their local big box store in time for the game. But I adhere to the theories of psychologist Jean Piaget, who said if you've got a capability, you bloody well use it. That's some scary ass shit when applied to nuclear weapons, but it puts a halo 'round the pickup's head. After all, if it wasn't so easy to haul stuff, people wouldn't buy so much stuff– and that's not good news for an economy based on unbridled consumerism (as opposed to?). Anyway, when pickups fall down, there's scary times ahead. Yes sir. Sure is.   

Prior to the late 80's, Mercedes were known for its "bullet proof" build quality. Of course, they were no such thing. A well-placed slug would stop a Mercedes just as quickly as a Ford Pinto (although the Pinto might cease its forward motion in a far more spectacular fashion). Actual bullet-proof cars began appearing in the US about the same time Al Capone figured it best not to stain his Cadillac 16's upholstery with the contents of his skull. Initially, bullet-proof cars were fairly basic: a normal car with thick metal plates welded onto the chassis. As bad as this was aesthetically, it was worse for handling– which presented a whole 'nother set of lethal possibilities. Eventually, metalworkers fashioned more elegant solutions; you can now buy an up-armored luxobarge or SUV that looks like a normal luxobarge or SUV. Saying that, human nature being what it is, plenty of buyers still make the mistake of assuming that the ability to withstand ballistic or explosive attack is more important than day-to-day safety, or the ability to escape and evade. Modern automakers would do well to learn this lesson: people want what they want, not what they need– even when it's a matter of life or death. And what I need is a couple of days to rest and recharge. See you on the other side.

I like vanilla ice cream. I know: as a guy who chooses "media" from the drop-down menu of professions, I should be into something exotic like swordfish pecan or Quaaludes and cream. But vanilla has a Zen purity that appeals to my inner minimalist (which I can't find from time to time 'cause he's so damn small). In the same way you can discern an ice cream maker's skills by sampling his or her vanilla, you can tell an automaker's prowess by assessing the quality of their plain Jane models. That's one reason TTAC is proud to review cars at the lower trim levels. It also explains my satisfaction upon hearing that Justin's sending me his MINI Cooper [non S] review. And one of the unremarked but remarkable reasons for Toyota's success: the low end models don't make you yearn for the higher end stuff. Contrast this with Detroit, where "strippers" often seem carefully designed to make you spend more money on something significantly better. Which works fine IF you take the financial plunge. I mean, I can imagine there will be a lot of pistonheads sitting in a V6 Pontiac G8 spending every moment of the journey wanting the V8. If that's NOT true, then I'll take it as a sign of genuine progress. 

I know really big cars are deeply unfashionable amongst people who know who Tim Robbins is. And driving fast is about as socially acceptable as smoking a cigar in a maternity ward. But I can't help it: I love driving huge cars really fast. I suppose it goes back to my first experiences in a seriously swift motor: my Dad's 1972 300 SEL 6.3. That car was a handful. Literally. You know how today's sports sedans all have those big fat steering wheels covered with some sort of hi-tech grippy fabric that never, ever gets slimy? Well the 6.3 had a helm as thick as a sparrow's leg made out of the same translucent, amber-like material you find at the end of a meerschaum pipe. With so much power underfoot, you had to grip that slender oval like grim death, ready to yank it one way or the other or both when the torque overwhelmed the tires and the chassis. Which was all the time. At least the way I drove it. In fact, I got my first speeding ticket in the 6.3. I was nailed doing 113 in a 55 on I195. It really wasn't a big deal. Straight road. Perfect day. Fresh pavement. The judge was not kind. But nothing he did put me off the idea of going like Hell in the automotive equivalent of the QE2. Other kids might look at a speedo of a sports car and ask "What'll she do?" Me, I reserve that particular enquiry for luxobarges. (Sports cars are for corners.) Which is why I totally get an AMG-fettled S-Class but can't make head nor tails out of Justin's C350 Sport. As far as I'm concerned, if you can't chill out and enjoy Mahler's Death in Venice at speed, why bother?  

Owning a Ferrari is like having a mistress. When you're with it/her, you understand exactly why you were willing to risk life, limb, your children's happiness and a huge pile of cash to indulge in inherently selfish, fleeting pleasures. And then the Ferrari breaks/crashes and the mistress goes hinky, as is their wont. And you wonder WTF you were thinking when you bought the Ferrari or indulged your libido [presumably] outside the marital bed. You swear on a stack of fifties that you will never, ever be so stupid as to think you could get away with that kind of shit again as long as you live. You will live within your means, within your sensible, proscribed comfort zone. And then the Ferrari's fixed and the mistress gives you "that" look. If the process becomes an endless loop, there's only one thing for it: buy a Porsche and marry your mistress. My gift to you Justin– and our two fine listeners.

Is the name of the coffee table tome resting underneath my left elbow. Michael Furman's photographic study of automobiles built from 1925 to 1948 leads with pictures of American models, and it's enough to make an American car lover cry. From the Bentley Blower-like 1927 Kissel 8-75 Speedster to the perfectly proportioned 1932 Lincoln KB Model 248 Convertible Roadster (I'm ignoring the hideous 1940 Lincoln Continental Convertible), the US section features some of the most beautiful and charismatic cars the world had ever seen. As TTAC continues to chronicle Detroit's dissolution, let it be said that we look forward to the flowering of talent that its conclusion will bring. There will come a time when the US once again return to the pinnacle of automotive design and engineering. Count on it.

Again, for the record, TTAC has never accused Chris Bangle of being a racist. We accused the BMW designer of racial insensitivity. He singularly failed to realize the potential impact of his "axis of white power" remark on a minority audience. Invidious distinction? Well, the fact that Bangle's apology-free reply dealt entirely with the inadvertent origins of his faux pas— rather than its possible effects on sensitive listeners– does nothing to allay our misgivings. The subtext of his defense: it's all about me. Of course, it isn't about Bangle. It's about his desire (or lack thereof) to respect the dignity of those people who may be offended by an unfortunate turn of phrase. And BMW's responsibility to this same audience. TTAC is no stranger to these issues; we've stepped over these same boundaries. When commentators have pointed out our racial, sexual or political insensitivity, we have immediately withdrawn the offensive text and apologized– despite the fact that we meant no offense. That's the right thing to do. It also seems strange that Bangle felt obliged to deal with criticism of his work BEFORE dealing with the "axis of white power" remark. Clearly, that was really got his goat. Which is just as well. There are those of us who believe the aesthetic indignities that Bangle inflicted on otherwise superb automobiles is a longer-lasting and more egregious error. Your thoughts below.   

Samuel Slater started the industrial revolution in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. Slater's 1793 textile mill set-off a manufacturing boom in The Ocean State, which soon spread throughout New England. Nearby Fall River Massachusetts became one of the world's foremost textile manufacturing centers, generating untold riches for its masters. The human cost at the bottom of the social scale was immense. Immigrant labor– including thousands of children– worked in horrific conditions for minimal compensation, with little hope of a better life. No one who's ever fully contemplated the human misery inflicted on these workers would begrudge their right to form a labor union, to protect themselves from heinous exploitation. It's a story that played out across America, in a range of labor-intensive industries; including mining, construction and automaking. And yet, at some point, the balance of power shifted too far the other way. Unions controlled the cost, pace, scale and scope of labor, tying the hands of those who would organize it for commercial survival. As the local labor force became too expensive and unwieldy, the Fall River mill owners abandoned the town. All that's left are dozens of huge, empty mills, now occupied by laser tag, indoor golf and… nothing. It's the same right across America's northern states, the country's former industrial heartland. Could the exodus have been prevented? It's hard to know. Will it now happen to Detroit's once all-conquering automotive industry? It already has. 

An investment banker once told me business isn't risky. People are risky. One guy can take a dumb as toast business plan and make millions. Another guy can take a slam dunk and forget to throw the ball. Divining where risk lives is a lot harder than it seems. The same biz brain said planning for failure is easy. If Cadillac's new sub-CTS doesn't sell, well, the brand has plenty of experience not selling small cars. But what if the mini-Caddy sells like hotcakes? Could the average Caddy dealer deal? What would it do to the Cadillac brand? Or Buick? Or Chevy? For GM execs who mutter "we should be so lucky," be careful what you wish for. Meanwhile, I wish governments would ease-up on the whole risk elimination business. Even global warming's most vociferous adherents will admit that the possibility of rising ocean levels flooding our coastal conurbations is a risk, not a dead cert. How far are we willing to go to eliminate that risk? Do we really need to force people out of their cars to do so? And who's planning for the potential problems that success would bring? No one. Until I see that kind of thinking on the issue, I'm staying out of it. Well, at least until Monday.