Last year, TTAC named the Boxster S Car of the Year. I found the award ludicrous. A decade old, under-endowed Porsche-lite trumping the best and the brightest from the US, Italy, Britain, Japan and the rest of Deutschland? It's like arguing that the "S" in "SUV" stands for "sport." With the possible exception of my misplaced belief in the longevity of love with a certain young, deceitful woman, I have never been more wrong about anything in my life. Last week a "regular" Boxster painted in "take my license, please" red showed up at my house. I have lost my ability to not smile.

Clocking the new Boxster is like checking out the teenage daughter of your old high school crush. Everything that attracted you to the roadster is still there, only fresher, perkier and more… streamlined. From most angles, the Boxster resembles Ye Olde 996 Turbo, chopped and dropped. From the rear though, and especially with the beefier haunches, the Boxster still appears as if someone is bent over and spreading 'em. If you think this is a coincidence, you haven't watched enough German porn.

German uberBimmertuner AC Schnitzer is most famous for their triple-wikkid M6 TENSION concept: a two-toned yellow and grey beast of such pornographic hideousness there's a California court order banning it from driving within 100 feet of a schoolyard or playground. Schnitzer's relative demure ACS6 is a standard BMW 645 Convertible with 21' Dub-and-a-halfs, snarlier exhaust note, carbon-fiber interior, dropped suspension and, uh, ground effects. So how do you test a car that tugs most firmly at the heart strings of those who live in Newport Beach and Qatar? I called Jalopy's Davey G and headed down the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH) to see if all exotics are sexually attracted to telephone poles.

You know the story, right? Swedish videogame mogul and maybe mafia man smuggles $1m Ferrari Enzo into the US, races his wife's equally embezzled $450k McLaren SLR on PCH, hits a telephone pole, cleaves the Fezza in two, wanders drunk around the hillside shouting "Dietrich ate my homework," etc. Obviously, the Schnitzel isn't in the same league as the Enzo— it's rarer. In fact, the ACS6 is the spot-on perfect vehicle to retrace Bo "Stefan" Eriksson's ill-fated joyride. It glides, it's built, the top drops and everyone looks at you. Everyone. I parked mein AC at a public park in San Pedro and a crowd gathered. It was 9:00 in the morning on a Tuesday. In Califrigginfornia.

Fit. That's a good one. At the exact moment that America's obese SUV's are giving the country petrochemical chest pains, Honda invites us to get healthy. Why chug-a-lug gas and stagger around like a big-bellied lummox when you can sip petrol and sashay around town with all the moral superiority of a marathoner? OK, but getting fit involves sacrifices: unpleasant bending, less grunt, no street cred, etc. Or does it? Let's face it: the less we give up, the higher the likelihood we'll do it. Does the Honda Fit let us frugalize without fear?

Toyota is the master of the pastiche. The company's designers never met a Mercedes they couldn't morph, or a Bangled BMW they couldn't bootleg. Granted, capturing the essence of a rival's design without ending up on a hard bench outside the World Intellectual Property Organization is something of an art form. But quite what Toyota had in mind with the FJ Cruiser is hard to fathom. In one sense, they're finally getting 'round to ripping themselves off: riffing on the FJ40 Land Cruiser's riff on the original Jeep. On the other hand, anyone who clocks the FJ Cruiser's brick-like bearing and doesn't think Hummer just isn't trying hard enough– which ain't something you can say about Toyota. Ever.

From the front, the FJ Cruiser is a Lego Transformer. Funky chunky bumpers– complete with molded silver "wings"– combine with a cylindrical light assembly, swooping sides and a gun slit front window to create a mondo-bizarre snap-to-fit aesthetic. The FJ's hood– which looks like a half-submerged bomber hangar– doesn't quite work. But it's Henry Moore to the side profile's Dali-esque dissonance. The FJ's rear windows makes the SUV look like it's sagging in the middle, while the gigantic C-pillars are almost as funny (both humorous and peculiar) as the mini-flares over the rear arches. And the FJ's back end makes the full-size spare hanging on the door look like a child's inflatable pool.

For nearly two decades, the Honda Accord and Toyota Camry have been duking-it-out at the top of America's sales chart. Honda's recipe for mid-size success is as simple as it is effective: it's big inside, it doesn't cost much, it doesn't look like crap, it doesn't break down and it's worth something when you buy a new one. Yes but– to an enthusiast, the startlingly unobjectionable Accord is white bread slathered in non-fat margarine. Well it was. This year, those wild and crazy guys at Honda have decided to offer an Accord with a six-speed manual and a slightly more powerful VTEC V6. The results are pretty damn groovy.

The new Cadillac Escalade is a mission critical machine. It's one of the few remaining General Motors products whose sales don't depend on Mexican-sized kickbacks and/or a Day-Glo "Closing Down, Everything Must Go" sticker on the windshield. What's more, as a badge-engineered Chevrolet Tahoe, it's only slightly more expensive to build than a Chevrolet Tahoe. In other words, the 'Slade's is a cash cow on factory double dubs, trying to keep it real for GM's ten point six billion dollar man, Rabid Rick Wagoner; know what I mean? No? Let me spell it out for you: if the 'Slade ain't da bomb, it's a nail in the General's coffin. Well guess what? RIP.

Clock those side vents. At the precise moment when Caddy's luxury SUV should swagger into town with unabashed American style, the 'Slade arrives with its main design cue "borrowed" from Land Rover's Range Rover Sport. While the cynical amongst you might assert that the Escalade's target market is no more likely to connect the two vehicles than smoke crack and drive (as if), the fact remains: the porthole plagiarism betrays a staggering lack of confidence and originality. Of course, badge engineering a Chevrolet Tahoe betrays a staggering lack of confidence and originality, but, um… where was I? Something about the enormous gap in the SUV's wheel arches making the 'Slade look like a punk ass bitch? No… that wasn't it. Or was it?

Can GM, master of big iron, build a proper sports car? Not simply something that murders straights and grips like grim death– the Corvette's got that covered. Rather, a roadster that takes to the bends with the eager playfulness of an overstimulated puppy and the agility of an all-star point guard. Could the Saturn SKY be such a car? I know it sounds crazy: an honest-to-God sports car from GM's shiny happy plastic panel people. And the specs aren't promising: this parts-bin special out-girths the Mazda MX-5 by four inches and 400 pounds. Still, it sure looks promising…

A certain Mr. E. Ferrari used to refer to Jeep as 'America's only real sports car.' I never fully understood the Italian automaker's claim until I handed the keys to my Cherokee to my SUV-hating girlfriend. As my liver busied itself processing bourbon, she kicked the Jeep's 4.0-liter straight-six into life. Carving through the Silver Lake hills, the Jeep's right-now acceleration, scrappy handling and elevated driving position pleased her almost as much as I did. Enzo was right: Jeeps are a buzz. When DCX lent me the new Jeep Liberty Renegade, I slipped on my steel-toed Wolverines and readied myself for a good 'ole thrash in America's redneck Ferrari.

The model replacing Jeep's venerable Cherokee exchanges the Cherokee's near-perfect two-box design for something that looks like a VW Bug after a visit to Barry Bonds' doctor. Macho dignity is upheld (literally) by the Renegade's seven slot grill and its over-sized, over-compensating wheel arches– attached by marble-sized bolts as garish as diamond teeth. Rock rails and fog lights (disguised to look like KC lamps) reinforce the strong man aesthetic. That said, as I admired the Renegade on my drive, a desperate homemaker walked up and commented, 'That's cute.' Yes, well, the Liberty's UniFrame construction makes it stiffer, lighter and more crashworthy than the body-on-frame construction used by truck-based competitors. So it's still as tough as nails (the metal kind).

Honda launched the CR-V back in '97, when fossil-huffing Suburbans ruled the Earth. Most vehicles this far into their model cycle would be fading faster than red satin sheets on the heavy-duty whites cycle. But not the CR-V; the mini-SUV continues to earn its place on the showroom floor and in its owners' hearts. That said, the '06 CR-V is the last version of the SUV before Honda gives the model a long-overdue makeover. Is this, the current CR-V's last hurrah, worthy of a half-hearted muted cheer, or does the quintessential "cute ute" still possess enough charm to justify one more round of gushing applause?

I don't know about you, but I've been feeling sorry for Volkswagen for a while now. VW didn't so much lose their mojo as strap it to the nose of a Titan IVB and fire it into deep space. No disrespect to the world's fifth most populous country, but was anyone really surprised when a Brazilian Golf turned out like German bobo de camarao? Now that Vee Dub's got THAT out of their system, here comes the new, Wolfsburg-built Golf GTI. It's an Old School hot hatch with a Masters in Engineering. Viva VW!

For reasons best left to The International Museum of Marketing Doublespeak, Volkswagen decided to begin their mission-critical US Golf refresh with a two-door. More's the pity. The fifth-gen four-door is a far more handsome beast than the coupe– if only because the Golf's rear portals soften the enormous disparity between the front windscreen's bottom edge and the side windows' lower boundary. This bizarre asymmetry pisses on the Golf's 32-year history of two-box harmony. The resulting rear end trades brand recognition for something vaguely Japanese– as if the Golf suddenly decided to play the Accordian. And then there's the front end's unresolved echo of Audi's unconscionable house snout…

'You have the car everyone wants right now.' Souls are ice-skating in Hell. Pigs are airborne. The guy handing the Corvette Z06 the ultimate accolade wasn't a sixty-year-old Midwestern mid-life muscle car maniac. It was a BMW M3 owner fresh from the track at the Motorsport Ranch roadcourse in Houston. General Motors may be on Death Watch, but its Chevrolet-branded halo car has, after 53-years, ascended to the top of the honest-to-God sports car category. Of course, even Euro-snobs are susceptible to baseless hype. Well guess what? The Z06 is all that, and more.

Unless you're looking for pretty. In ideal lighting, the Z06' form evokes all the sleek, thrusting glamour of a 550 Maranello. Take off the beer goggles and it's a bit of a mess. Peep the bulging carbon-fiber fenders, hood scoop and brake cooling ducts: items longing for Pininfarina's magical powers of integration. The matte black 'Gurney Lips' (mud flaps) stand out like a fanny-pack'd tourist strolling the Louvre. Tacked-onto on the C6 Vette's clumsy profile, the performance-oriented addenda create an unsightly blend of hard edges and undefined curves, not to mention a posterior straight from the Sir Mix-A-Lot School of Design.

The exterior may be a challenge to skin deep beauty theorists, but the Z06 interior gets it done. Dual-zone climate control, XM radio, in-dash navigation and power everything supplies sufficient indulgence. The cabin's soft-touch petroleum byproducts are another giant step-up from the brand's Avis-grade interiors. (The door panels alone would make some wikkid kicks.) The 'Vette's heads-up display provides useful eye candy, and can be switched off faster than you can say 'i-Drive.' Metal grilles hide seven crackalackin' Bose speakers. Pump up the volume via chrome-ringed knobs that move with Teflon-coated precision. Yes, this is still a road test of a GM product.

Close the Z06' portals and the side windows bury themselves deep inside ample weather stripping (finally ending the dreaded Corvette triple digit howl). A new three-spoke wheel supersedes last year's headless doughboy, though the thin rim can't match a BMW M-series' beefcake hula-hoop. The seats also need to leave Atkins behind and hit the pasta bar. Cushions this flat, short and lacking in lateral support belong in a Monte Carlo, not a car boasting a Nürburgring-fettled pedigree. And just in case you forgot that the Z06 hails from the Land of Lawsuits, the GM parts-bin rearview mirror brightly shines 'PASSENGER AIRBAG ON/OFF.'

Once underway, the Z06' compliant ride and docile demeanor help the uber-'Vette mount a convincing challenge to the 911 for everyday drivability. The 'Vette's peanut butter smooth idle, dual-stage exhaust system (from mild to monster), light but accurate steering (with a welcome improvement in on-center feel) and mid-weight clutch will endear it to unrepentant boulevardiers and brand loyal commuters. Aside from the Goodyear run-flats' tendency to holla back over rough pavement, it's hard to fault the Z06' civility. A real world twenty-nine mpg at 75mph seals the deal.

Pull the trigger on the Z06' 7.0-liter powerplant and it's clear pushrod proletariats needn't take a backseat to OHC elitists: the 'Vette's burbling aluminum/titanium masterpiece provides unadulterated four-cycle fun. Switch to 'Competitive Driving Mode,' put your foot down and unleash the beast. Massive low end grunt belies the 7000rpm redline, pinning your spine to the seat back at any engine speed. Quick? Only in the same sense that a photon is sprightly. Accelerating from zero to sixty takes just 3.7 seconds, while a quarter mile deducts a mere 11.8 seconds from your lifespan.

An aluminum, magnesium and carbon-fiber diet has significantly improved the donor car's turn-in and cornering poise. And why not? The 505hp Z06 weighs three hundred and sixty-four pounds less than the 480hp next gen Porsche Turbo. Missile the Z06 into a turn and its run-flats stick with supernatural tenacity, carving corners with uncanny balance and, most deliciously of all, the option of a predictable power slide exit. [Traction control aversive greenhorns beware: you'll trim the landscape the hard way with even a little extra throttle.] The Z06' brakes are equally astounding, equally reliable. Lap after lap, manhole-cover sized discs serve-up bottomless cups of stopping power java. Much to the dismay of the folks at Hurst, even the short-throw shifter is perfect.

In short, the Z06 is the best vehicle to come out of General Motors in decades. Which begs the question: how can such a fantastic vehicle come from such a horribly flawed organization? The fact that combative Corvette project manager Dave Hill capped his career with this car is one possible explanation– and a stark warning that the Z06 may represent a Pyrrhic victory for a terminally ill automaker. If so, there's no question: the manufacturers of "America's sports car" saved the best for last.

Remember when the words 'luxury' and 'pickup' went together like "reality" and "television?" Well neither does Ford. These days, Ford offers the F150 in three levels of lavishness. There's the understated luxury Lariat, the b-b-b-bad to the bone Harley-Davidson and the steakhouse on wheels known as the King Ranch. So when Lincoln charged its badge engineers with creating a replacement for the ill-conceived, ill-fated Blackwood pickup based on a pre-swanked F150, they figured– sensibly enough– that the road to success was paved with bricks of bling.

To distance the Mark LT from its genetic twin, Lincoln's retrofitters substituted a gigantic version of their "waterfall' grill for the F150's demure nose. The end result is bold– in the same sense that a sledgehammer slamming through a plate glass window is aggressive. Just in case you missed the big Lincoln's spizzarkleprow, the LT also rolls with half-chromed side mirrors and chrome appliqués running from the front bumper along the entire length of the lower body sides. Ditto the oversized badges on the grille, fenders and tailgate. If you're a pickup driving homie who thinks that too much of a good thing is a good start, you can option-up 18' chrome wheels, shiny bed rails and dazzling step bars. It's OEM pimpery, Lincoln style.

Testing a Gallardo SE in Miami is like sipping Chateau Lafite Rothschild in a public urinal. The little Lambo was born to annihilate the twisting mountain roads surrounding Italy's supercar valley, or flirt with V3 on a derestricted German autobahn. Miami's geometric streets and traffic-choked highways offer the Gallardo driver nothing more than a sinuous onramp and an occasional half-mile sprint– which is plenty damn exciting but about as satisfying as red wine slammers. So, whilst fending-off a frantic flackmeister preoccupied with the definition of the words "driving impression," I guided the baby bull towards the nearest race track.

As I quick-quick-slowed through the cars clogging I-95 North, I was taken aback by the lack of stare and attention given the Gallardo. With its strange combination of diminutive footprint, cab forward stance, drop snout, near horizontal windshield and unrelenting angularity, the Gallardo lacks what native S-Class owners call "uberholprestige": that indefinable yet unmistakable car-isma that convinces fellow road users to move the Hell over. Either that or Floridians are fed-up with the automotive tastes of Bolivian drug lords. In any case, we now know what happens when a Belgian designs a supercar for a legendary Italian nameplate under the wary eye of a German conglomerate; and it ain't what I'd call pretty.

When Chrysler unveiled its PT Cruiser in 2001, it was hailed as a fun, versatile retro-mobile. While sales have remained relatively robust, virtually every automaker in the Cruiserweight class has introduced a new or reworked small wagon: the Toyota Matrix/ Pontiac Vibe twins, Mazda 3 and Chevrolet HHR (a.k.a. 'Me-Too Cruiser') among them. Even the Cruiser's parent company has introduced the genre-bending five-door Caliber. Despite the pig pile on PT, Daimler Chrysler has just given the Cruiser its first-ever refresh for 2006. Is this a case of a mortician doing a little touch-up work before closing the casket, or does the PT have longer legs than the fashion police led consumers to believe?

Few would argue that the PT's retrosexual curves haven't held up well– even if fellow Cruisers have long outgrown the whole light-flashing fraternity thing. But up front, DaimlerChrysler's makeover artists have reworked the lower valance to questionable effect. Whereas the original PT's lower reaches looked like an extension of the shield-shaped grille, the new design is at once more conventional and less harmonious; chrome garnishes, scalloped headlamps and new-look fogs creating change for the sake thereof. In our case, the PT's now legendary two-box profile rides on 'chrome clad' nine-spokers (16' alloys with a mirror-finish cap screwed on) and shiny side moldings. Out back, the song remains the same, with new clear-element taillights and a larger chrome (natch) exhaust. The overall effect remains that of a gangster mobile playfully packing cap guns. In the case of our "go for baroque" Electric Blue Limited, chrome ones. (We'll leave the bling-laden '2CK Quick Order Package' unchecked on the order sheet and pocket the $3,200, thanks)

Inside, DCX has given the PT larger, chrome-ringed gauges, round air vents, an 'Oh Shit' towel-bar of a grab-handle and a revamped center stack capped with an analog clock. Our tester's seats were a bit narrower than we recall, though wrapped in upscale cowhide and 'preferred suede' (the best euphemism for "fake leather" we've ever heard). Evidently looking to abandon its cheap n' cheerful reputation, our PT arrived ladled with a bushel's worth of options: power chairs with bun warmers, satellite radio, trip computer, the lot. Some of the Cruiser's middling interior plastics have been retextured, but it's largely the same well-assembled, functional and characterful interior as before. Even if the PT hasn't gotten a Cribs-style makeover, its den is still a fun, funky place to chill, with peerless room, excellent sightlines and a charming, tongue-in-cheek aesthetic unavailable elsewhere at this price point (barring the MINI franchise).

Under its U-shaped clamshell, our PT proffered a 2.4-liter force-fed four-cylinder, yoked to a 4-speed automatic. The PT's 180-horse light-pressure turbo imbues the retromobile with sufficient mid-range power to bob along all day at 80 mph, secreting a little extra in reserve for passing poke. When given Das Boot, the PT's old-skool four-speed slushbox often comes harder and later than a XXX A-lister. As no manual override or DIY option is available with the Limited's powerplant, drivers are encouraged to learn the tranny's tipping point to ensure smooth, swift progress.

We averaged about 22 mpg, an acceptable if uninspiring result given a hooligan's right foot. Either way, there's little wrong here that an up-to-date gearbox couldn't fix. Well, perhaps we'd take a reworked exhaust. As it is, Cruisin' soundtracks are best left to the discs in the six-puck stereo, because the engine's tune isn't nearly as playful as the vehicle it motivates.

Grab the (too thin) pseudo-banjo-spoke wheel, pitch the PT hard into a bend, and the front-driver's Goodyear Eagles wash out with Woolite-like predictability. Given its humble (and elderly) underpinnings — MacPherson strut (front), twist-beam/Watts link (rear) — the Limited acquits itself very well. But like a too-staid 'steady,' our touring-suspended PT proved a companion merely tolerant of questionable behavior. A more aggressive tread pattern than our tester's milquetoast footwear would go a long way towards improving the PT's fun-to-drive quotient, as might a slightly lowered ride height (the Cruiser's stance is a bit 'high-boy' for our tastes). Admittedly, its brakes haul 'er down with repeatable predictability, though we're at a loss as to why anti-lock supervision remains an option box unchecked on a $23k example.

The PT's dynamic pitfall is its epic turning circle. While hardly an issue when lazing along the interstate, it's a remarkably tough sell in tight parking lots. We suspect it's a packaging hurdle brought about by its pointed retro prow. However, given the its small footprint, it bears repeating: turning the PT round about its axis is a little… round about. Let's face it: the Cruiser has always romanced buyers with the curves of its fenders, not those upon which it travels. Yes, the Little Chrysler That Could remains flawed, but improbably enough, well… the kid stays in the picture.

[Chrysler provided the vehicle reviewed, insurance, taxes and a tank of gas]

Brian Wilson is a genius. Back in the day, he'd craft a pop song that etched itself deep into your brain, change a few chords, alter the harmonies and… brainwash you again. Bryan Nesbitt was the chief designer of Chrysler's phenomenally successful P.T. Cruiser. After switching to the Chevrolet label, Nesbitt has picked up his pen once again. He's changed a few lines, altered the platform and given us the HHR. After you've seen his retro-futuristic minivan on the road, you'll never forget it. Yes but… is that a good thing?

This time 'round, Nesbitt drew his inspiration from a 1949 Chevrolet Suburban (…er…uh…okay). Although the "Heritage High Roof" retains the panel van's pulchritudinous proportions, Nesbitt's team added extra cuddliness and a dose of faux belligerence. They replaced the Suburban's gigantic slatted chrome grill with a gently arched rendering of the ill-fated SSR pickup's nose. At the side, they installed windows that ape the Hummer H3's armored car aggression. With a snarky exhaust, rear roof spoiler, running boards and modern-looking aluminum wheels, the overall result is a "me-too" cruiser with an attitude problem.

Slide into the HHR– striking your elbow on the armrest as you shut the door– and the narrowing effect of those big, deep fenders makes itself known. The second thing to hit you (hopefully not literally) is the windshield. It's extremely close, short and vertical. The center stack presents another cliff face, in an old-metal shade of grey. While the cabin's strict horizontality creates a kind of three-dimensional vertigo, at least the architecture maximizes cabin space. The HHR's cargo area– complete with folding and flipping seats, movable shelves and dividers– makes the most of the large, rectangular shape.

Predictably, the HHR's chopped roof constricts sightlines. Unless you carefully adjust the upright seating to place your eyes in the sweet spot, peripheral vision is for naught. The ergonomics of the HHR's handsome three-spoke steering wheel aren't so easily dismissed; the flat perimeter separating the front and rear edges leave harsh edges that hit you in the palm and fingers no matter how you grip it. The cabin plastics are equally deceiving; enticingly grained to the eye but unyielding to the touch. Fortunately, the HHR offers plenty of pleasing details to distract drivers from haptic distress: elegant gauges, underfloor storage, cubbies galore, MP3 compatibility, a chrome-ringed shift knob, fold flat front seat, that sort of thing.

Dynamically, the HHR is a bit too nostalgic for its own good. Remember the days when tiny engines pushed big cars? The HHR 1LT attempts to motivate 3155 lbs. of retro-styled minivan with a 2.2-liter four-cylinder mill good for 143hp and 150 ft.-lbs. of twist. Do the math. We've got time. While you're waiting to get out of your own way, you might want to crank-up the tunes. The HHR's Ecotec powerplant is a hoarse old thing at the top of the rev range, without any kind of compensatory thrust. Sure, the HHR's performance is adequate for ambling schleppers/shoppers. And yes, she'll cruise at "mach-highway" speeds with fuel efficient ease. But pistonheads' adrenal glands will remain dormant, if not comatose.

Unless they thrash the HHR without mercy. Throw the truck into a corner and survival-triggered adrenalin will flow. Let's all recite Cornering Physics Law #1: high roof = low expectations. The HHR's body roll is epic; like turning a bass boat sideways to a howling gale. The truck's slow and numb electric steering system underscores the accuracy of the maritime analogy. Slam on the HHR's anchors, rear drums and all, and the vehicle displays a worrying inability to maintain course. Chevrolet's decision to restrict ABS to HHR's equipped with automatic transmission, and forgo the traction control thing entirely, is bound to place some inexperienced sailor in harm's way…

Over normal street surfaces at relatively lazy speeds, it's easy enough to zone-out. The HHR's Cobalt-based chassis may be about as engaging as a pre-flight safety demonstration, but at least it's quiet and rigid. The HHR's front strut/rear torsion beam suspension effectively masks the worst effects of road-related lumps and bumps. Unfortunately, HHR drivers face the possibility of bumps of a more visceral kind. The truck's massive A-pillars create equally massive blind spots, continuing the blind spot theme on either side of the vehicle and towards the rear three quarter. Eyes on stalks! Eternal vigilance is the price of sensible insurance premiums.

Sales figures say the HHR is a hit. Whether it has the legs of Chrysler's PT Cruiser is another matter. The HHR is a clever device that meets or beats the PT in every major category save driving pleasure– the one area completely beyond Mr. Nesbitt's control. While the Chevrolet HHR has the visuals to gain attention and keep it, it lacks enough dynamic appeal to become a golden oldie.