In 1988, Simon Bond published that seminal work, 101 Uses for a Dead Cat.   It pissed off cat lovers, became a best seller, and spawned a number of “101 Uses for (fill in the blank)” books and articles.  Today we’re faced with an even more haunting problem.  The streets are crawling with SUVs driven by rap star wannabees and soccer moms afraid they’ll get bogged down in a mall parking lot somewhere.  It won’t be long before the junkyards are overflowing with the rusting hulks of these once-proud symbols of excess and poseurship.  So the question plaguing mankind today is, “What do you do with a dead SUV?”

When the Toyota Prius first came out, I drove one around West Virginia.  When I pulled into a gas station, the owner sauntered out, all curious-like.  “What’s that?” he demanded.  “I never seen one of them before.”  It’s a hybrid, I explained.  You can run it on either the electric motor or the gas engine, or both of them together.  “They ought to have a switch,” he said. “So you can run it only on electricity.”  So much for my Harvard degree.  The guy was way ahead of me.

All cars should have a V8.  For one thing, the modern eight cylinder engine is inherently balanced; it has completely overlapping power impulses.  In other words, one cylinder fires before the previous cylinder has finished contributing, creating a much smoother power delivery with fewer impulses. That’s why a V8 can use the same drivetrain components as a much smaller four cylinder engine with half the displacement.  There is no need for secondary balance shafts, and no unpleasant vibrations to annoy the passengers and reduce the life of the exhaust system and other accessories.  It’s the smoothest engine configuration money can buy.

Forbes has just released another in their never-ending series of ten-best lists– a feature which stretches credulity, interest and patience. To wit: the latest list trumpets the ten best cars for single people.  Being a perennially unattached person, my index finger only managed to hover over delete. Oh man… "Best Car For Eco-minded Singles: Toyota Prius Sedan." No, really. But one item intrigued me: "Best Car For Boosting Your Sex Life"  Aside from looking like an uncircumcised penis, I can't think of anything even remotely sexy about BMW's M6 Coupe.  But there are some drop-dead gorgeous cars on both the new and used market.  What car(s) do you find sexy?  More to the point (so to speak), can a car get you laid?  And if it can, is it really a good idea to share your precious bodily fluids with a sexual partner who's turned-on by your taste in whips?  

“Back to the Future” is Hollywood fluff, but the movie has its moments.  When Marty McFly takes his 1985 vintage nuclear-powered Delorean to Dr. Emmett Brown’s 1955 alter ego for repairs, “Doc” looks at the car’s complicated electronics and snorts “No wonder it broke down.  It was made in Japan.”  “What are you talking about?” McFly corrects.  “That’s where all the best stuff comes from.”  The throwaway line perfectly illustrates the sea change that's swept the American automobile industry during those crucial 30 years. 

When I ordered my first Ferrari, I spent entire nights dreaming of rust, mechanical failures, stratospheric repair bills, cliff face depreciation, uncontrollable oversteer, towering monthly payments and long, expensive separations.  No wait; that was after I bought it.  Before the F355B graced my drive, my obsession had no hard edges– or time limits.  In fact, it got to the point where I considered taking out a no contact order on my imagination. So I understand Dave Plews' plight.  The London-based web designer wants a Veyron so bad he's gone a bit loopy. He's set up a website to try and raise money to buy the big Bug, selling lottery tickets to cars he doesn't have and mechandise I don't think you'd want. I called Dave to try to get a handle on the logistics of this enterprise, and discovered a man possessed is a man prevaricating. Still, TTAC wishes "Supa Dave" luck. If he succeeds, I'll gladly chip in for one of those pine tree air fresheners. 

My favorite car name of all time is the Honda Life Dunk.  But I can fully appreciate pistonheads whose taste in automotive monikers runs more towards the aggressive (Mercury Marauder, Plymouth Fury, Aston Martin Vaquish), animistic (Dodge Viper, Pontiac Firebird, Ford Mustang, Reliant Kitten) or snoberific (Buick Regal, Dodge St. Regis, Buick Park Avenue, Chrysler LeBaron).  As Chris Paukert noted in a previous TTAC editorial, automakers have submerged the [formerly] mission-critical name game into a watery alphanumeric soup.  The inanity of this approach is exemplified by Ford's decision to rename the Lincoln Zephyr the Lincoln MKX, and instruct its dealers (as of today) that the vehicle is not to be called a "Mark X" but an "em kay ex."  Are car names inherently better than simple numerical designations? What's your favorite and least favorite car name? Would a Ferrari F430 or Jaguar XK120 by any other other name be any more or less memorable or desirable?  

Years ago, I found myself killing time in a London wine bar.  An English gentleman and I were busy amusing ourselves with fine wine and, um, English food when a pair of extremely attractive unattached ladies strolled into the bar. Uninhibited by the best Bordeaux, we enticed these French beauties to join us at the bar.  The women eventually escaped our charms to establish base camp at their own table.  I continued to stare longingly at our lost companions– until one of them stretched her arms above her head to reveal unshaven underarms.  The Nissan Versa was like that.  

I’ve looked at this TTAC paid subscription thing seven ways to Sunday.  After more than four months, I still can't make it work.  According to the vast majority of web-savvy TTAC’ers, this is no bad thing.  Your advice has been steadfast: accept advertising.  So when Federated Media Publishing offered to run TTAC’s advertising business for 40% of gross, I looked into it.  My contact, Bill Brazell, assured me that TTAC’s editorial independence would be sacrosanct.  Yeah, right.  And then I read the fine print…

When I got my driving license, I couldn’t vote.  Legal drinking was a distant speck on the horizon.  But I didn’t care.  I was captain of my own ship, master of my own destiny.  Within a few months, the parental units provided regular access to the family hatch.  I treated this gift as a matter of life and death, because, well, it was.  By that time it was clear that my friends’ driving habits were the greatest threat to my continued existence.