When Maserati PR offered TTAC a Georgia junket to thrash some of its models on road and track, we checked our policy (full disclosure and we're good to go) and sent the freshly-trained Jonny Lieberman to do the honors. Our man was suitably impressed by the Masers' improved ride and handling. But he saved his ultimate kudos for the Audemars Piguet Millenary MC12 Tourbillon. As well he might, considering the price…

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.

I once read that a person with experience caring for horses knows more about what it meant to be a human in the last thousand years than anyone without. Similarly, anyone who's driven a Model T knows more about what it felt like to be an American in the first half of the 20th Century than anyone who hasn't. History records the Model T as a two-fold blessing: it created the American working class and it put them behind the wheel. Again, the map is not the territory. To fully appreciate the Model T's impact on American psychology, you have to get behind the wheel.

Easier said than done. It takes a slim person to squeeze between the Model T's steering wheel and driver's seat. Most modern operators have to enter from the passenger side and slide over. Once there, only the Model T's helm works like a contemporary car's controls. The Flivver's throttle is on the column. Forward speeds are moderated by an unfamiliar lever and pedal combination. Another foot pedal shifts the car into reverse and doubles as a second brake. Before any of this, drivers of Model T's built before 1926 face the daunting prospect of using the 'Armstrong Starter' or hand crank. A second lever on the column retards the spark timing; which makes the starting procedure a bit easier and safer. (Broken wrists and arms eventually led to the development of the electric starter, and many older cars were retrofitted with the device as soon as they became available.)

TTAC writer Terry Parkhurst suggested I give Mitch Silver of Silver Collector Car Auctions a call. Mitch's mob aren't the biggest of the big, but they've developed a sterling reputation for friendliness, honesty and expertise. Silver's signature event: the Reno-based Hot August Nights. With over 800 pre-'72 cars up for grabs, Mitch counsels buyers to think of car collecting as a hobby (not an investment) and do NOT get in a pissing match.

When Ford unleashed their new Fusion late last year, the American automotive press raved. Car & Driver's Csabe Csere predicted that the front-wheel drive sedan will "truly put Ford back in the car game." Road & Track's Matt DeLorenzo declared the Fusion was "Just the recipe for shaking up the midsize car market." Automobile said "Ford is serious about kicking its way back into the mid-size-car business." No wonder The Blue Oval is pleased with the Fusion and continues to advertise the car heavily. Strange, then, that the Mexican-built sedan was not the product that wore the mantle of the first financial quarter's "best selling Ford passenger car." That honor belongs to the Taurus.

Blasting down the autocross track at the Las Vegas Motor Speedway in a BMW M3, wringing that mad motor to the max, I still couldn't catch the rat bastard in the car ahead. My Teutonic ride had more than enough juice to gain ground during the straights. But the second a twist appeared my target slipped away like a thief with a knife. At some point, courage got the better part of valor; I switched off the DSC and drove well beyond what any rational human would call "safe." Wrong answer. Without Bimmer's Nanny riding shotgun, my car control disintegrated. The Dodge Neon SRT-4 pulled away, leaving me in the dust.

Before spending two-days at the Skip Barber High Performance Driving School, I was convinced I was a reasonably skilled driver. I had no idea how bad I sucked. Lucky for my ego, I wasn't the only one to make this realization. Wealthy sports car owners from all walks of life swaggered into the Vegas heat full of piss, shit and corruption; convinced they could pilot Bimmers, Porkers and a Viper with confidence and élan. One-by-one, Skip Barber's Neon-driving instructors disabused them of the notion. As we struggled through a tire-smoking orgy of spinning, understeering, knocking over cones, missing turn-in points, choosing the wrong gear, braking at the exact wrong time and place, we all came to the same conclusion: none of us could drive for shit.

Rabid Rick Wagoner lacks self-esteem. Why else would GM's CEO submit himself to triple presidential humiliation? First, Bush tells GM to take a hike– even before Rick shows-up with his begging bowl. Then, despite the slight, the head of the world's largest automaker sets-up a meet with the Commander-in-Chief (presumably to engage in a vigorous debate about the definition of a "relevant" vehicle). Then Bush cancels the meeting. George heads for the border; Rick detours to Congress to promote corn juice– and reschedules the presidential pow-wow for June. To do what? How long does it take RR to take a hint?

The funny (peculiar) thing is that every time I run out of ways to make the case that GM's [lack of] leadership assures its oblivion, the company throws me a bone. On Wednesday, GM shit-canned– sorry, accepted the resignations of– Controller Paul Schmidt and Chief Accounting Officer Peter Bible. Given GM's recent decision to restate its earnings for the last FIVE YEARS; given the on-going Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC) investigation into GM's payments to its suppliers, its purchases of precious metals (of all things) and a New York Grand Jury alone knows what else; you'd think the double golden parachute exhibition was enough craven media manipulation for one day. But no, GM went and hired Jay Alix.

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.

openairtours.com has a second-by-second counter marking down the moments until the next time 200 convertibles hit the road in Wisconsin. TTAC respects that kind of auto-oriented OCD. We also wish Gary Knowles' posse a speedy passage through the dairy farming portion of their travels.