What's wrong with Ford and GM? In the face of shrinking demand for their core vehicles, The Blue Oval and The General are disgorging an endless stream of new products without rhyme or reason. This is the American market. It's supposed to be an American game. Yet time and again, Detroit's giants have misread the temper of the times, unleashing all-new products that flop, forcing them to scrap expensive models and start again. It's time for all the stopping and starting to stop.

Examples of Detroit's endless game of one-two-three red light are both bountiful and pitiful. For example, whatever happened to the bulbous Taurus? Where is America's favorite family sedan these days? It's been replaced by the Ford 500, a bland, underpowered vehicle whose customers are lined-up none deep. By the same token, the Ford Focus is a terrific little family car that could compete with the new Honda Fit, Toyota Yaris and Nissan Sentra. There's even an improved version in Europe, ready for federalization. But no, Dearborn has hung the Ford Focus out to dry, presumably in anticipation of its eventual unrelated replacement.

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.

You've got to wonder about the mood at RenCen these days. Watching the price of gas crest $3 a gallon must make GM CEO Rabid Rick Wagoner feel like the Captain of the Poseidon as he trains his binoculars on the dark horizon and spies a mountain of water heading his way. It's not just the horror of knowing what's coming that makes the moment so terrifying; it's the crew's utter powerlessness to alter events. Only the Poseidon just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Wagoner and his mates have spent their entire time on the bridge steering GM into harm's way. And there's not a damn thing Rabid Rick can do about the gathering tsunami. To review…

For more than a decade, the Tahoe, Suburban, Yukon, Yukon Denali and Escalade have been the cash cows keeping The General in cream. As readers of this series know, when the winds of change gathered force, Rabid Rick called out "Steady as she goes!" Instead of developing new hybrids to capitalize on the growing anti-SUV gestalt, instead of spending money on refining and marketing the fuel efficient vehicles already in GM's vast fleet, Rick bet the company on a quick refresh of GM's gas-guzzlers. Last September, Maximum Bob Lutz launched the resulting GMT900-based Chevrolet Tahoe– between the two hurricanes that decimated America's gasoline production facilities. GM's "new" vehicles were born under a bad sign: $3 a gallon gas.

My name is Katherine, and I've got an ultra high performance summer tire monkey on my back. I can't live without grippy tread compounds attached to the bottom of my hopped-up Volkswagen Passat. By the time I've got 15K miles on last summer's set of Kumhos, the tread compound starts mingling with the carcass, traction begins to suffer and my Amex automatically reheats. Needless to say, most drivers don't share my expensive affliction; their Wal-Mart-honed sensibilities keep high-priced rubber donuts off their automotive repair radar. In fact, the treadwear ratings on my automotive shoes of choice would make a value-driven consumer cry– should they live that long. Given the way they think about tires, there's a reasonable chance they won't.

Stop. It's not so easy if you've got "long lasting" tires. While tire and auto manufacturers don't like to talk about tires' critical impact on stopping distances, when it comes to not hitting things, the behavior of the rubber beneath your car is one of the single most important variables. If your tires aren't soft enough to stick to the road surface, all the ABS and computerized AWD trickery in the world won't put an end to your slip-n-slide nightmare; you'll go skidding off into the sunset on your rubber rocks. The best thing about driving on two sets of sticky tires is the stopping. You always can. Unless it's snowing.

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.

Anyone who's shopped for a Toyota Prius knows that the gas – electric sedan comes complete with a 'hybrid premium': a theoretical surcharge included in the manufacturer's suggested retail price. Although there's considerable debate on this point, it is possible for a mileage-conscious Prius driver to save enough money at the pumps to recover the extra cost of purchasing a hybrid– eventually. But no matter how the customer makes out, Toyota still comes out on top. This despite the fact that the cost of developing and manufacturing hybrid technology– batteries, drivetrain, controls, brakes, etc.– means that Toyota makes a loss on every single Prius sold. But by losing the battle, they win the war.

It's no secret that hybrids get a lot more media attention than actual sales. Gas may be cresting $3 a gallon, but Americans still love their big cars, pickup trucks and SUV's. And while manufacturers love the profits on these large vehicles, they've all got to meet federal Corporate Average Fuel Economy (CAFE) standards. Otherwise, the automaker must pay large fines. [Since 1983, the EPA has collected $650,831,288.50 in CAFE fines from BMW, Jaguar, Mercedes, Porsche, VW and others.] The US Energy Policy and Conservation Act of 1975 currently dictates that an automaker's US passenger cars must achieve a combined fuel economy average of 27.5 mpg. The combined average for their 'light trucks' (that's SUV's and pickups) must be 21.6 mpg.

Word up young and financially fortunate pistonheads: don't be dissing minivan man. I know it's easy. It's easy to glance over from your hot hatch, company Bimmer or precious Porsche, see Mr. Mom sitting-up at the wheel of his minivan stuffed with car seats and kids, and snigger. Poor bastard, you think, he doesn't have a clue about cool. I'd rather drive a white Ford Fairline than that bread van. But you're mistaken. A) There's nothing lower than a Ford Fairline, and B) Minivan Man doesn't deserve your cardescension. In fact, there with the grace of God go you.

Morphing from pistonhead into Minivan Man (MVM) is a process, like grieving. At first, when the kids arrive, proto-MVM goes into denial. He hangs-on to his/his partner's two-door, or trades the sports car for a hot two-plus-two. He assures his partner that everything will be OK; the baby will fit in the back, no sweat. (Silently thinking, it's a baby, it'll never remember.) When the new father feels the brunt of his hormone-crazed wife's rage as she tries to maneuver a squealing child into the back, when he sees his precious litte angel in that dark, windowless space; he knows he's been beaten. He gets angry. Then he gets over it.

In the mid-fifties, Carroll Shelby started tearing-up his local racing circuits. Within a few years, the young driver dominated every major road race in the United States: Sebring, Daytona and more. When Sir David Brown caught wind of Shelby's prowess, he figured that the good-looking Texan's charisma would help sell Brown's hand-made British supercars stateside. Brown whisked Shelby off to Europe to drive for his fledgling Aston Martin racing team. In 1959, Shelby drove a DBR1/300 to victory at Le Mans. More importantly, Aston beat Ferrari and Shelby met Enzo. A rivalry was born.

After his Le Mans win, Shelby revealed that he had a hereditary heart condition and shockingly retired from racing. Back in the States, he tried his hand selling tires and establishing a performance racing school. But in his heart of hearts, Carroll wanted to return to Europe with an American car and beat the Hell out of Enzo Ferrari's mob. He even had a plan: stuff a muscular American V8 into a nimble British roadster. The long tall Texan envisioned a hairy-chested mule clobbering Enzo's prancing thoroughbreds.

The ancient Greeks knew the truth: character is fate. If Oedipus hadn't been such an asshole he wouldn't have killed his father, married his mother and kept psychiatrists busy for centuries. By the same token, if Rick Wagoner wasn't a corporate narcissist, he would've completed the Herculean tasks left by his predecessors. GM's CEO would have cleansed The General's stable of excremental vehicles, severed its eight-headed brand portfolio, subdued the UAW's cretinous bulls and sent Cerberus packing. Instead, we get to watch Rabid Rick's company sink into the mire, bribing a financial journalist and engineering a sports car whose roof flies off at 60mph. To wit:

Robert B. Reich is a journalist and commentator who once worked for President Clinton in the Labor Department. He currently enjoys a regular slot on NPR's nationally-syndicated "Marketplace" program. On Wednesday, Reich announced that he'd been approached by a "public relations firm working for General Motors." Reich said the flack asked him to praise GM's buyback deal for its workers. He then offered to pay Reich "remuneration" for a positive story "out of respect" for his reputation. Reich declined the unspecified offer.