There I was, stuck in traffic on the 710, just north of Compton.  The 95-degree California sun bearing down on the Ford Focus had completely overwhelmed the chiller.  I phoned TTAC HQ. “I’m ready to start a Ford Death Watch.  This car is a disgrace!  It’s… un-American!”  Calm down, RF told me.  Never mind the heat, feel the handling.  Thrash it a bit and see what you think.  Think?  How can you think when there’s a brain-splitting noise coming from the engine bay that sounds like a small washer inside a metal band-aid tin wrapped in paper bags shaken by a cruel, malicious gremlin?  At that point, even F1 handling wouldn’t have saved the Focus’ bacon.   

I’m a not-so-well-known writer for a not-so-well-known car mag and an equally obscure website.  I’m standing, jet-lagged and a little smelly, in the courtyard of a hotel I can't afford in front of a new SUV that costs more than my state college education.  I’m here on Audi's dime.  Come, Constant Reader, and join me for the auto writer's Holy of Holies: the press launch. A gaggle of my fellow egomaniacs and I are here to drive the brand new Audi Q7 SUV. 

Walking up to the Aston Martin DB9, I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to drive it or sleep with it.   If running your hand over the DB’s sculptured haunches and taut lines doesn’t give you a warm feeling in your nether regions, you should surrender your pistonhead privileges at the door.  Very few inanimate objects attain this level of beauty; those that do either rock your world or break your heart, or, as in this case, both.    

When you realize the Walther P22 in your hand is no match for your opponent’s Colt Python .357 Magnum… that's a bad thing. By the same token, one look at the sick power of a force-fed AMG cruise missile or a glance at the latest big-cube ‘Vette can ruin the fashion-conscious Porschephile’s entire day– no matter what they say about pedigree, finesse and handling. Yes, today's horsepower wars hit zer dicht to Zuffenhausen's 300-ish horsepower heartland. Luckily, Porsche lovers have a secret weapon: the RUF Auto Centre.

After taking delivery of a Toyota Camry Hybrid (TCH), I toyed with the idea of de-badging it. I quickly realized my inverse snobbery might boomerang in my elitist face; reducing me to total automotive anonymity. Perhaps that's why Toyota's marketing department equipped the TCH with three "Hybrid" badges to the one discreet Camry badge tucked under the lip of the trunk line. And I suppose I should be proud to drive a clean-burning gas – electric automobile; protecting the environment, reducing oil imports and all that PC sort of stuff. Still, I can't stop the nagging feeling that I'm getting away with something…

As I fired up the GL450, I noticed that the big Merc's trip computer had begun calculating my mpg. I watched in startled fascination as the idling SUV's fuel economy began to drop from the previous night's calculation. Although Mercedes deserves props (or brickbats) for releasing such a glorious gas hog at the tail end of America's SUV craze, the dropping digits left me wondering how the GL450 could possibly rationalize this lampshade-on-the-head consumptive behavior. Even if the target market's interest in fuel economy is more political than wallet-driven, the GL still needs to stump-up some serious self-justification.

Excessive Horsepower Disorder is a terrible thing. A sufferer can own a 505hp Corvette Z06 and still feel a nagging urge for more. Luckily, there are plenty of tuners ready to relieve 'Vette owners of their money– I mean symptoms. Despite their noble intentions, few garages can be trusted to monkey around with the complex workings of the Z06's heavily-breathed-upon small-block V8. Lingenfelter Performance Engineering (LPE) is one. For over two decades, the Indiana-based Corvette concern has been transforming America's Sports Car into American psychos. Their new engine package is gloriously, predictably, wonderfully nuts.

Our Z06 LPE test car was prepared by Twenty First Century Muscle Cars of Dallas, Texas. It's a monotone monster: black paint, black wheels, presidential window-tint and blacked-out hoops. In case you missed the point (Lord Vader), the new tires add an extra 20mm of rubber up front and back, intensifying the Z06' already aggressive stance. And that's it– aside from fender-mounted Lingenfelter badges. Even pistonheads unfamiliar with the Lingenfelter name instinctively appreciate the transformation: from middle-aged crisis-mobile to the automotive equivalent of a Halliburton Zero packed with unmarked bills.

The tester's thrones are the only interior indication that the LPE isn't stock. Their blend of rocket ship sheik, race car purpose and aromatic sybaritism are a welcome change from the Z06s' cheap chairs. The OEM-style embroidery and five-point racing harnesses almost make the 'Vette's pedestrian interior as wicked bad as the exterior. But not quite. The LPE's chairs straddle an unconvincing hunk of fake aluminum on the console; the purity of form is far from the magic number of Porsche's 911. Anyway, obviously, touchy-feely tomfoolery is not LPE's main concern…

The Chevrolet Corvette Z06 emerges from GM's Bowling Green factory an extremely competent package; in the same sense that an F22 Raptor ain't half bad when Lockheed Martin finishes their end of the deal. In both cases, there are few obvious areas for measurable improvement. For the Z06, Lingenfelter's crew whipped-up a short-and-sweet to-do list. The LPE conversion kit consists of a hotter camshaft and lightweight headers, for massive muscle-car hustle and flow.

The details devil lies in the tuning. Unlike less scrupulous tuners, Lingenfelter's reps don't simply bolt-on some Holy shit bits, hide behind forgiving knock sensors and tell their customers that reduced drivability is the normal price of extra pushrod power. Like Watson and Crick unlocking the secrets of DNA, Lingenfelter's well-funded research and development department has cracked the code of Chevy's 7.0-liter LS7. The Twenty First Century Muscle Cars' install reflects, nurtures and preserves the parts makers' fanaticism; dyno-testing the LPE to high-performance perfection. The result: stunning clout, respectable fuel economy, a two-year/24k mile warranty and clean air for everyone. Safe!

Lingenfelter's mechanical magic massages 111 extra horses from the Z06's already bonkers engine. (Trash-talkin' forum junkies may point to Hondas that produce that much grunt, but this 616hp whip's powerband is fat enough to qualify for gastric bypass surgery.) Aside from the cam's medium-hot 'thump-ah-thump' idle, the LPE Z06 cruises without complaint, just like its "mild-mannered" OEM donor car. The modest clutch effort and deliciously precise shifter bestowed by Dave Hill and crew make the Z06 LPE a grandma-friendly stunter and flosser– until you drop the hammer.

Bad day at work? Light-up the Z06 LPE from a standstill and the ensuing black hole consumes your job, your family, your name. By 5000 revs, Lingenfelter's black beauty dusts everything this side of a Ferrari Enzo. By 7000 rpm, the vicious pull starts to suck-up daylight and blur your peripheral vision. Empirically speaking, the Z06 LPE eliminates the quarter mile in 10.6 seconds, ending at a glorious 134mph. What's more, downshifting before a corner is an entirely pointless exercise; the LPE's powerband is larger than the national debt and more usable than throw-beads at Mardi Gras.

A stock Z06 vacuums its way around even the most severe corner, but oh no, that's not good enough for LPE. On go up-rated Brembo brake calipers, ultra-light CCW rims and Michelin Pilot Sport Cup rubber. The stoppers wipe away triple digit speeds like Oxi-clean disappearing grass stains. The amount of twist available mid-corner is so enormous that foot flexing through the twisties left me questioning LPE's omission of a Diaper Genie from the options list. The test course runs near a small Dallas airport; I'll bet the Cessnas remember who was REALLY flying that afternoon.

The automotive performance world endured a terrible loss when tuner/racer/author John Lingenfelter died from injuries sustained in a racing accident. Sadly, Lingenfelter didn't live to see the current Z06, a vehicle that flummoxes Ferraris and sends Porsches packing. But John's spirit lives on in the LPE-tuned Z06 bearing his name. Sure, a stock Chevrolet Corvette Z06 is a terrible thing to waste. But someone's got to do it.

Chris Bangle will be remembered as the most influential automobile designer of the early 21st century. All of the hip cars of our times have Bangled butts and complicated interfaces. The BMW 650i convertible is arguably the finest expression of Mr. Bangle's "flame surfacing." Viewed from the front, the vehicle resembles a shark. In grey or dark blue colors, the 650i has a distinctly ominous presence. If you did nothing more than stare at the front end of this car, you'd feel it was $80k well spent. Unfortunately, eventually, you will walk around to the back …

The 650i's back end is the Bimmer's most badly Bangled bit. The chopped roofline of the soft-top narrows to a slit for the rear window, with dorsal fins protruding back from the rear edges. I'm not sure quite what visual impact Bangle's boyz intended, but the design sure makes backing-up or checking for cars on your flanks an exercise in trust in your fellow man. If you raise the 650i's trunk, step back and imagine what the vehicle might have looked like with a more conservative tail line, you get the feeling Chris snatched pretension from the jaws of greatness.

Before these days of endless, shameless bling, V8 sedans of a sporting nature took their job seriously. Flat black trim outsold chrome and wood by a hefty margin. Intrusive electronic nannies, TV screens, time-wasting joysticks and promiscuous style were notable by their absence. Q-ships owners reveled in their car's ability to speak softly and carry a big stick. Fast forward a decade and the sporting sedan's standard bearers have been desecrated; tainted by electronic frippery and morphed into cartoon caricatures of their dignified selves. Even more improbably, the genre's sole survivor was made by the hand of Lincoln.

To see it is to know it. The Lincoln LS Sport's purposeful creases, beefy haunches, short over hangs, and wikkid fast C-pillars seem carefully crafted to win the hearts and minds of Bangle-aversive buyers. The car's hunky proportions and aggressive stance also make a strong case against chop-top chic, and for the design firm of Longer, Lower and Wider. Mind you, the LS' generic taillights and frumpy deck lid are reverse Viagra for anyone under 65. Luckily, squinting HID projectors, 17' chrome wheels and a timeless monotone paint treatment keep the Mitsubishi Diamante references at bay. A new front bumper with a drop-jaw intake, fog lights, and chrome accents lightly spices the plain Jane front fascia.

Ever have an extremely likeable acquaintance who drives you nuts with their constant need to flaunt their knowledge of arcane or technical matters? That's the new Mercedes S550. In many ways, on many levels, the big Merc is the world's best sedan: a sublime expression of German automotive engineering excellence. And then the luxobarge starts showing off, convinced that it's smarter than you are when it comes to comfort, information, communication and yes, driving. At that point, a fully-equipped S550 could well be world's most annoying automobile.

Again, let's get this straight: the Mercedes S550 is the best riding and handling four-door sedan money can buy. At the front: a four-link air suspension with antilift control, gas shock absorbers, stabilizer and anti-dive system. At the rear: multilink independent air suspension and antisquat system. On the road: the German luxobarge smothers road imperfections with extreme prejudice, out-Jaguaring Jaguar by a wide margin. Even better, hurling Mercedes' 4376-pound behemoth into a corner is like riding a Maglev train; the S550 leans slightly and then glides through all but the tightest turns. The car's dynamics are virtually indefatigable.

The Upper Middle Fork road into Washington State’s Snoqualmie National Forest is the kind of road a SUV buyer sees all the time– in glossy ads. It’s a roller-coaster ride of immense potholes, fist-sized rocks and ankle-deep snow that carves through an ancient, awe-inspiring landscape. As such, it’s the perfect testing ground for the Mercedes-Benz ML500: a vehicle appealing to well-heeled suburbanites who want to know they could drive their $63k SUV down treacherous roads like this, at speed, even though they never will.

In the waning years of the twenty first century, when the world's petroleum reserves finally near exhaustion, hydrogen fuel cells will most likely propel our personal transportation. These cars of the future will be practical, safe, fuel efficient, clean-running and dull. The gas – electric Honda Civic Hybrid (HCH) could well be the prototype for this new breed of automobile; where all the car's harmful social and environmental byproducts have been minimized, and all the fun of driving has been designed out of existence.

My automotive odyssey began in a Ford Pinto. I didn't need Ralph Nader to tell me that The Blue Oval's first sub-compact was a death trap. The Pinto was so nasty on so many levels I'm surprised it didn't spontaneously combust in shame. Then again, why would it? Ford had no shame. Like the rest of the Big Three, their greed, arrogance and incompetence handed the small car market to the Japanese. As far as I can tell, nothing much has changed in the last 35 years. Once again, gas prices are squeezing cash-strapped motorists. Once again, domestics don't have a compelling answer. And once again, Toyota does: the Toyota Yaris.

Do without any optional frills (power windows, remote keyless, a radio) and an autobox Yaris Liftback will set you back about twelve large. If the repo man has never darkened your drive and you have a grand to put down (or are willing to also do your own shifting), payments are within spitting distance of $200. That's to own the car, not a lease with a phone book's worth of fine print. And not just any car, but a brand spankin' new, made-in-Japan, everyone's-sister-knows-it'll-never-break Toyota. A Hummer driver spends twice as much just to keep the tank topped off. Speaking of which, you get over 35 mpg in a Yaris, with a three-year bumper-to-bumper hakuna mutata.

Procreating pistonheads must give up many things: impromptu sex, driving nowhere in particular, sleep. Unfortunately, twisty tackling and stick shifting are also on the parental hit list. Even Dads or Mums with a sports car tucked away in the garage end up spending virtually all their driving time schlepping their brood in a slushbox-equipped family hauler. Yet all is not lost. A three-rowed three-pedaled bespoilered people-mover survives in clutchophobic America: the Mazda5. This vanlet offers pistonheads hope they can meet their needs and satisfy their desires with a single set of wheels. Or not.

Way forward. Bold Moves. Screw that. If America wants a bold, innovative car, they'll buy a Toyota. If they want something honest, inexpensive and comfortable, they'll buy a Ford. If they want an honest car with added spizzarkle, they'll spend a little more for a Mercury. Well, that's how it used to be, until Ford started building sub-par Japanese wanna-be's. Thankfully, the Blue Oval offers at least one rear-wheel drive automobile that stays true to the company's roots: the Mercury Grand Marquis.

Park the Grand Marquis next to its foreign counterparts and it's clear that the American luxobarge ain't livin' large no mo'. Snout-to-tail comparisons with a Camry require measurements smaller than a foot; millimeters differentiate their relative heights. Fortunately, the Marquis' ping-pong table hood and aircraft-carrier rear deck survive into the new millennium, while its broad shoulders continue to evoke memories of Officer Badass. Although the Marquis' police-a-like shape sends shivers down the spines of Boy Racers, the car's basic design is wildly inoffensive. This despite a new-for-'06 schnoz that blends-in about as well as a Speedo-wearing fat guy in Sports Illustrated's swimsuit issue.