So Jonny tells me that he's returned from a first class junket to The City by the Bay and by the way his new best bud ace auto scribe Dan Neil's coming over to his for a poker night. Suddenly I'm feeling like I'm on the outside of the carniverse looking in. Then Andrew Dederer submits a rant condemning The Big Two Point Five for insularity that makes Rhode Island seem like it won the genetic sweepstakes– instead of earning itself the ancient and not-so-venerable nickname "Toad Island." I suppose commentator Humourless is more than a little right: the internet subordinates physical geography to psychological geography. But that does not make me feel 100% clued-in, nor does it excuse The Big Two Point Five for their bunkering. Ever, since I began the GM Death Watch, I've tried to get The General to write a rebuttal. To say my requests have fallen on deaf ears is like saying that TTAC's scribes won't get access to the GM press fleet until cold fusion (the nuclear event, not the Nebraska-based Ford sedan) becomes a practicable proposition. Surely by now there's someone with power within The Big Two Point Five who reads our stuff, who wants to "set the record straight" (a.k.a. spin the company line like an F5 tornado). Yes but– if a domestic mover and shaker took on his or her critics in this e-venue, they would face The Wrath of Khan: the humorless bastards within their organizations who brook no breach of corporate omerta. Well guess what? The new media will win. The truth will out. And when it does, I'll be the first to say I told you so. of course, none of my neighbors will give a damn. Which is exactly how it should be. 

I'm of two minds on this whole hoonage business. One one hand, it's entirely possible to hoon about in a high speed car at significant velocities without endangering anyone save yourself and/or your insurance premiums. I'm thinking here of hormone-crazed kids burning rubber in parking lots, or more mature pistonheads practicing a little tail out action on a familiar and appropriately deserted stretch of road. But there are limits, even if they're not posted. As someone who's been fortunate enough to mash the gas on an Enzo, Zonda and Carrera GT, I can tell you there's a moment in the accelerative process when anyone other than a professional race driver is just hanging on. It's a kick-ass Zen sort of thing, and it accounts for the war whoop issued by the pilot of Heffner's twin-turbo Lamborghini Gallardo . But it's not what I would call safe. In short bursts, maybe. Through traffic, no. While I'm reasonably sure the Heffner folk know the limits of car and driver, common sense suggests no one in their right mind would capture 100mph++ balls-out sprints down a public road on videotape– especially if it shows the driver's face. That's what we call evidence. In fact, the tape pretty much proves that the hoons involved forfeit the benefit of the doubt. I rest my case. Now, where are my Boxster S keys? 

For many years, US President Abraham Lincoln thought that deporting slaves was the only workable solution to an intractable political issue. In 1861, a “colony” was established off the coast of Haiti for this purpose. Black families with no common language suddenly found themselves living together. The former slaves created their own language, complete with unwritten (but rigid) rules of grammar, tense, appellation, the lot. Semanticists have used this example to suggest that our brains are hard-wired to create shared linguistic constructs. I would suggest that the same genetic predisposition applies to tuner cars. Something new and wacky appears on the automotive scene, like low-riders, donks or VIP style. The next thing you know, a growing number of participants exert their collective unconscious on the movement, creating unwritten (but rigid) rules for what’s acceptable, what unacceptable and what’s da bomb. Strangely enough, the same process applies to vehicles that haven’t been tuned. After all, who decided what makes a Merc a Merc? Maybe that’s why I like my cars bone stock: I figure it’s the purest expression of the manufacturer’s aesthetic. Either that or I’m boring. But then I have owned Ferraris. As discerning rappers will agree, why would you want to mess with that?  

A four wheel-drive Ferrari? On one hand, it sounds like a bald-faced betrayal of Ferrari's brand proposition: extreme rear wheel-drive performance cars prone to lurid oversteer slides into solid objects and/or mid-engined marvels that snap into gyroscopic spins that scrub off a bit of speed before sliding into a solid object. Ferrari claims their new system won't detract from their products' traditional balls-out driving dynamics. But one wonders if Ferrari buyers will soon be talking about "the good old days," when you had to be a "real man" to drive a Ferrari at speed. Remember: it took Porschehiles years to get over the fact that their ass-engined 911's were no longer magnetically attracted to the scenery. Still, as I pointed out to Mr. Spinelli in today's talkfest, it's in Ferrari's best interest to keep their customers alive. Besides, Vee Dub's Bugatti Veyron proved that putting power to all four wheels is an excellent way to make a 1000hp car go in the direction its driver intends. Does this mean the new four wheel-drive system will help Fezza make an even more monstrous car than the Enzo or, maybe, the big Bug? Count on it.  

My first car was a golf cart, courtesy of The Ocean Reef Club. Actually, props to the parental units. They handed me the key to the open-sided electric conveyance, slipped me a charge-worthy room card and gave me the run of the joint. The cart was surprisingly peppy and the freedom it imparted almost got me laid by a startlingly attractive college girl– an astounding piece of happenstance given that the average Club member was older than cuneiform. And as I returned to our bungalow after this almost getting laid experience, Homone-Crazed Endorphin Boy over-cooked it in a corner and crashed. Neither cart nor driver were damaged, but the accident taught me a valuable lesson: avoid vehicles with three wheels. Of course, the new Mitsubishi electric car is likely to have four wheels, reasonable acceleration, respectable range and some airbags. How great is that? Maybe not as great as a gas-sucking AMG monster, but in certain circles, well, you'd be in like Flynn. Life's funny that way.

My first ever dream car was the Batmobile, and yes, I'm talking about George Barris' Lincoln Futura riff. Looking back, it's funny how I totally missed the TV show's camp humor. Like the cut from the flames jetting out the back of the Batmobile to a Dynamic Duo crotch shot (celebrated by safety campaigners for showing Batman and Robin buckling-up their bulges). Well, not totally. I remember an episode where Catwoman (Julie Newmar? Eartha Kitt? Dianna Rigg? Tera Patrick?) trapped The Caped Crusader in the proverbial room with the concertina-ing walls. Via a video link, Catwoman asks Batman if he'd like to rule Gotham City or, um, die. His response? "What about Robin?" WTF? Even a pre-pubescent boy knew that Robin was OK, but Catwoman was rrrrrrr. Anyway, I like movie cars. They sound better and go faster than their real world counterparts. I look forward to seeing what Quentin Tarantino can do with the killer car thing, but a new Viper would've been a more logical choice than an old Camaro for his new flick. If ever there was a death car– from either the driver or pedestrian's POV– the Viper is it. It's hotter 'n Hell too. Yeah, the Viper deserves a super violent movie. How about Snakes on a High Plains Drifter?

It’s been a while since my description of the Subaru B9 Tribeca’s front end as a “flying vagina” got TTAC banned from… BMW’s press fleet. At the time, the German company’s PR flack promised/threatened to monitor the site and “get back in touch;” you know, when he’d decided that we’d been good little boys. Yeah right. There’s a higher likelihood that Godot will hang with Vladimir and Estragon than a Bimmer flackling calling TTAC to welcome us back into the fold. Still, we’ve managed to end run the embargo. And we’ve shown no animus or (Godot forbid) favoritism in our reviews of their products (e.g. Jay Shoemaker recently declared the 335i one of the millennia’s best motors). So I can once again state without fear or favor that BMW’s SMG gearbox is the worst gearbox on planet earth, by a large margin. Now, thanks to a generous reader, we’ve learned that BMW has bought Borg Warner’s dual clutch transmission (DCT) technology. The world’s best gearbox (known as DSG in Volkswagen/Audi world) will appear in BMW products as early as next year. So who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks? Speak, Rover BMW, speak!  

When I moved back to the US from the UK, I was delighted to discover right wing media commentators. After living in a country with a media dominated by anti-American, government intervention in all things left wingers, it was a relief to see that another perspective still existed. Fifteen minutes later, I realized that Bill, Rush, Savage and Sean are such egomaniacal asses that their politics don't really matter. GM's decision to hire Sean Hannity to host a flag-waving national radio promotion doesn't really matter either– except to the people for whom it does. Surfing the left-leaning blogs, it's clear they are one whole Hell of a lot less than happy about GM's choice. Hiring such a contentious commentator certainly seems like a bone-headed idea. The General needs all the friends it can get– from either side of the political divide. Still, it's bound to please the red state "heartland," who could well be GM's last redoubt. Has it really come to this, then, or am I just being overly politically sensitive? Listen and discuss. 

Jaguar is one heck of a brand. The company took the automotive world by storm, not once, but twice. The first revelation arrived just after WWII. England entered the conflict with an Empire and emerged an impoverished island nation in the North Sea with a few colonies and an Indian subcontinent to its name. Straight into Britannia's shell-shocked and austere enconomy came the Jaguar XK120. Jag's suprisingly inexpensive supercar looked like sin (and a German BMW) and went like Hell (out-performing Aston). The company's– and the nation's– future suddenly had a spring in its step. And then, eh. Until the sixties swung, and out popped another gestalt-capturing blockbuster: the E-type. Yeah baby! For those of us looking for a four-wheeled Hail Mary pass to save Ford's damaged brand, it's worth noting that both of these machines were sexier-than-Jill-Wagner-in-lingerie sports cars powered by superb six cylinder engines. And they were both reasonably affordable. What I'm trying to say is that a new Jaguar sedan ain't gonna cut it, no matter how beautiful, fast or keenly priced it may be. The forthcoming S-Type sedan sure ain't no oil spill– I mean, oil painting. Jag might've made most of its money in "saloons," but it's heart has always been in honest-to-God sports cars. 

You may have noticed that I haven't posted a precast in a couple of days. Truth to tell, TTAC contributor and former Car and Driver editor Stephan Wilkinson knocked the wind out of my sails with an email that asked why in God's name anyone would want to listen to a couple of "car dorks." As someone who's never had trouble getting laid (current status: happily married), I've never really thought of myself as a dork. Strange, sure. Over-educated, definitely. But dorky? I don't think so. At least I didn't think so until Wilkinson sent his email. Now I'm left wondering if my single-minded dedication to all things automotive, and the thousands of hours spent tapping the plastic in my e-garret about same, has rendered me a car nerd. (Webster's on-line dictionary makes no distinction between dork and nerd.) For sure, I know too much about some pretty obscure car-related things. But I console myself that you gentle reader know equally as much, and, in most cases, far more than I in this field. And I celebrate your knowledge. I respect it, admire it and defer to it. So, if I love your passion, I guess I should love mine– no matter how juvenile or "dorky" it sounds. In that spirit, I resume this audio feature. If it grates, so be it. But if you're dorky and you know it, click right here.  

Limos blow. They're unsightly, often comical beasts that exchange comfort for size (well, length) and offer all the tactile pleasure of a mid-market motel (pleather chairs, paper napkins, five pound champagne glasses, etc.). I've yet to ride in a limo that didn't assault my olfactory organ with a whiff of amonia. Yeah, you know what I'm talking about. In fact, I reckon more than a few of you took my opening sentence at face value (so to speak) and pornoed the second. That's limos for you. In fact, if rock stars had never snorted coke and screwed groupies in the back of their limo, you wouldn't have high school boys crowding into them on prom night wishing, hoping, dreaming of doing the same. Nor would observers crane their necks to see what's going on inside these bizarre vehicles or whether or not the person emerging will fall down. I'd rather ride in the back of a comfortable sedan with a fresh newspaper and an old cigar. Home James.  

The American automotive media is just as obsessed with the thrill of the new as the industry itself. Even though websites like this one (OK, not exactly like this one) have transformed two month lead times into two minute lead times, all the buff books still tout the latest hot machine. The industry colludes in this effort, withholding new vehicles from their US press fleets until the car mags hit the stands. Perhaps because we started at the bottom of the press car food chain (and worked our way downwards from there), TTAC isn't fixated on getting ahold of the latest and greatest. In fact, we consider the dearth of established models in the carmakers' press fleets (e.g. Nissan 350Z) a major disappointment that reflects the automakers' limited attention spans. There is a lot to be learned from well-established bread-and-butter vehicles. To wit: Jonny Lieberman is reviewing a Mazda B-Series pickup and Sajeev Mehta's Lincoln Town Car review just crossed the transom. These reviews will tell us more about why Ford is in such dire straits– missed opportunities– than any financial statement or ride in the new Em Kay Ex Lincoln. Of course, as the Brits put it, we wouldn't say no…   

Yes, yes, the next installment of the Ford Death Watch is coming. Who'd a thunk I'd write 90 episodes of the GM Death Watch only to watch Billy's Blue Oval Boys hit the buffers first, and in such spectacular fashion? Maybe I should combine the two DW's and call it Death Race 2006. But then if The General and FoMoCo manage to limp through the year I'd have to change the name, which would fan the flames of the flamers who believe that just because something hasn't happened yet means it won't happen at all. In fact, I have a message for those stalwart loyalists who snigger at my ongoing insistence that The Big Two Point Five's sky is falling. Their sky is falling. And just be grateful I didn't start blogging in 1973, when Detroit's fate was sealed. I'll be here chronicling this story to the bitter end, and beyond. And I won't say I told you so once. On a more positive note, this is a fine Rioja, with tremendous body and a clean finish. Which is what I wish for both GM and Ford. May they rise Phoenix-like from the ashes to make gotta have cars that TTAC can review with our usual candor, passion and sarcastic flippancy; without having to borrow one from a dealer.  

As the son of a Holocaust survivor, the Maybach brand gives me the heebie-jeebies. Which is kind of strange. I've got no beef with Mercedes, a brand whose products provided Herr Hitler with his most photogenic platforms. Nor do I get any bad vibes from VW, a company that used Jewish slave labor during WWII. And my favorite brand is Porsche, whose namesake helped run VW when those slave laborers were busy starving to death on VW's behalf. Perhaps that's because so many Jewish people in my community adored Mercedes, BMW's and Volkswagens. If they were willing to let bygone begone… But there's a certain, I dunno, soullessness to Maybach products that creeps me out. While their cars are faultless in design, construction and materials, and the performance is just plain crazy, the Maybach's exterior and cabin possess all the charisma of a nuclear powerplant's containment dome. Which is why I LOVE the fully functional Maybach Exellero concept car. That bad boy is bonkers. And evil. If I owned one I'd have WWSD (What Would Satan Drive) tatooed on my shoulder. I reckon it's best to stay true to your roots, even if they're slightly poisonous. 

Whatever you can (or cannot) say about BMW, the company makes some damn fine engines. Jay Shoemaker's review of the 335i hailed their direct injected twin turbo six pot as one of the finest powerplants ever to grace an engine bay, while Bimmer's Euro diesels eliminate any and all possible objections to the technology (smoke, vibration, cold start-up, etc.). No wonder low volume manufacturers of low weight sports cars hanker after powerplants made by the propeller people. The Ascari KZ1 rips through the time – space continuum with the previous gen M5's 4.0-liter BMW V8, Morgan's Aero 8 blurs your vision the X5's 4.4-liter V8, and Wiesmann's products get along rather nicely with either a 3.0-liter inline six or 4.8-liter BMW V8 (fitted to the GT pictured here). But the thing that really makes these cars fly is… design. You could call the Weismann's pastiche of Jaguar C-Type, Austin Healey and God Knows What slightly ungainly, but then I'd have to kill you. Besides, what would you rather have: a Go Like Hell But Look Like Everyone Else CL63 AMG Mercedes tank for $160k-ish or a WTF is That BMW-powered German thingie for the same wedge? The Mercedes obviously, but there are enough patrons of quirk to justify  bringing the German roadster stateside. God bless capitalism.