USED & NEW CARS AUTO PARTS INFORMATION 2007 2008 ONLINE - FIND CHEAP AUTO PARTS

The last generation Audi TT had more show than go. The German roadster’s dynamics were tarnished by massive turbo lag, an over-eager paddle shift gearbox and an entirely flappable suspension. In fact, the TT’s iconic exterior design and interior quality were its only saving graces. Now that TT 2.0 has arrived, and a decent enough amount of time has passed since Hugh Grant’s loathsome character drove a TT in “About a Boy," is Audi finally ready for a little Boxster bashing? Yes and no.

The original TT was a rolling realization of Bauhausian anti-bling– to the point where the tiny tail spoiler (added to correct high speed stability “issues”) stuck out like a Black Sabbath T-shirt on Michaelangelo's David. Audi's designers folded and crimped the old TT’s sheetmetal and flame surfaced the sides. They ended-up with a more modern and less distinctive car. At the risk of offending the TT's core supporters, Audi’s ministrations delivered unto them a mucho macho model, flared wheel arches and all.

The aesthetic discord hasn’t disappeared; it’s simply moved to the front. Audi’s trademark “Billy the Big Mouth Bass” grille gives the TT a distinctly lopsided appearance. While the oversized schnoz and the new fastback eliminate the polarizing push-me, pull-you proportions (a.k.a. the bathtub-on-wheels effect), the features add gun slit aggression to the TT’s profile and destroy the original’s “oval uber alles” purity of form. Thankfully, when it comes to Audis, beauty is more than skin deep.

When I sat in the new TT in Paris, the interior was a let down. Now that I’ve driven the R8, I feel better about the TT’s strikingly similar cabin– and less impressed with the R8. Thanks to the TT’s added length, width and price, the new model’s cockpit is significantly more spacious and luxurious than its predecessor. The TT’s squashed crown symbolizes its sporting aspirations, while the ergonomics, build and materials quality are damn near perfect.

But not quite. The TT coupe’s rear three quarter blind spots are as dangerous as ever. The exposed phone cradle at the rearmost part of the center console (behind the driver’s elbow) is a turd in a rock garden. And the standard sound system lacks depth, clarity and power. Still, there's no question that the new TT is a much more pleasant place in which to do business.

The business in question: driving. As you’d expect, the TT’s dynamics are roughly akin to the hip, hot and harmonious VW GTI upon which it’s based. My front-wheel drive tester holstered the same 2.0-liter turbocharged four as the GTI, complete with VW’s latest direct injection technology. Thanks in part to an aluminum diet, the 200hp TT blasts to 60mph in a tick less than six seconds. There’s a little lag off the mark, a sweet exhaust note and encouraging popping noises between shifts.

In fact, the new TT drives like an enthusiastic puppy. Turn-in is immediate and aggressive. The S-Tronic’s (nee DSG) paddle shift cog swapper isn't as slam bam as the previous model’s, but it ain't slow neither; given the new TTs more mature demeanor, seamless shifts were the right choice. Switch off the ESP handling nanny, and the standard 17” wheels still offer enough grip to keep all but the lunatic fringe from cutting themselves on the edge of the TT’s envelope.

Even the short wheelbase and [optional] 18” run flat tires can’t kill the coupe’s wonderfully compliant ride– aside from the occasional abrupt response to broken pavement. The TT’s incredibly light electromechanical steering is the only major blot on its dynamic copy book. At low speeds, you're golden. At highway velocities, the helm's lack of road feel tests your mettle, and turns turns into an intellectual exercise.

Compared with the competition – Porsche Boxster/Cayman, Mercedes SLK and BMW Z4– absolute handling prowess goes to the mid-engined Porsches. Stunting and flossing rights belong to the SLK, with its three-pointed star and retractable hardtop. And the much-improved Z4 wins pistonhead props for its BMWness. But the Audi has the most compliant ride, the quietest and most beautiful interior, the coolest transmission and the best visibility (although that’s not saying much). Trump card: the TT is significantly cheaper than these natural born thrillers.

But then the VW GTI is significantly less expensive than the TT, far more practical, cheaper to run and no less fun to drive. Is it worth paying an extra $10k+ for an high-class image and a more luxurious cockpit? Believe it or not, there are plenty of buyers who wouldn’t be caught dead in a GTI. And there are plenty of drivers who crave a four-wheeled, four-ringed designer object, regardless of its handling chops. For both of these groups, Audi’s expensive creases are a necessary price of admission. Once inside, they will not be disappointed.

At the tail end of the last century, the European built, Eurozone-only Volkswagen Polo was the "Mercedes of small cars.” While the Golf/Rabbits MKIII and MKIV suffered from iffy quality, the smaller, staid Polo was known for being reliably unbreakable. Then, something happened. Just as Mercedes' quality nosedived, the VW Polo lost its rep for bullet-proof build. Since 2005 quality has (reportedly) markedly improved, which has put the car back on the list of frugal consumers looking to buy something “classically VW." But is it ready for a U.S. debut?

If stunning or cheeky or chic looks are a prerequisite to purchase, then no. VW gave the Polo a face lift in 2005. Unfortunately, the car didn't need plastic facial surgery; it needed a tummy tuck, a six-month subscription to a gym, two years at a charm school and some self-help books on self-esteem. While its competitors all aspire to be tautly-drawn mini fashion icons, the Polo is the last of the slab-sided econo-boxes. At best you could say it has a khaki slacks-like classicism. The worst: been there, done that, bought the Golf, already.

On the upside, the Polo’s paint and the quality of detailing are Japanese-excellent. Venture model inside and you’d swear you’d stepped into a Mercedes; albeit a Mercedes taxi. The VeeDub’s cabin is perfectly fashioned in the old-fashioned way, built from the kind of solid (not to say stolid) materials that embody and personify the German national stereotype of a generally humorless nation– but in a good way. The Polo feels like it could last forever.

So, my girlfriend asked, is this all they could think of? Excellent point. The Polo is clearly a car that believes in S&O (simple and obvious) instead of S&D (surprise and delight). Or, if you prefer, it arrives woefully under-equipped. At night, the mood lightens, with a weird and dysfunctional display of red and blue lights. The Polo’s iPod aversive death-by-treble CD-radio has 24 separate illuminations. Verrrrry interesting– but shtuppid!

Otherwise, the seats are supportive and comfortable, visibility is ideal (none of that blind spot Sciontology here), the glasshouse is Guido-compatible (left elbow out of window), the ergonomics are good to go, and there’s ample legroom and headroom for four. In fact, the Polo provides more usable space than a 1990’s Golf.

So: the exterior is frumpy and the interior dull but boring. If the driving experience is so-so, we can call this car a high-quality joke and get a beer. But it isn't: the Polo is a mighty fine drive. In a nutshell (literally), it offers unparalleled small car dynamic refinement. Rough-road roar-‘n-rumble is well-suppressed, there’s little wind noise up to 80mph, and the drive is stable at 100mph. More impressively, VW provides this refinement without deadening the driving experience.

The Polo’s steering is wonderfully linear, with more road feel than a crawling baby (closed course, professional baby). The suspension is comfortable yet well-damped in that Mercedes kinda way, enabling a fluid progression through a series of bumpy curves. The shifter and clutch are both precise and shmoove. Unlike some of its more highly strung or loosely suspended competitors, the Polo is an ideal everyday, every way steed. It's easy to drive fast, pleasant to drive slow. The Polo is as at home in tear-assing through narrow city streets as it is watching luxobarges blast past on the Autobahn.

European Polo playas can buy their ride with some damn interesting, class-leading engines. The 180hp GTI sprints from zero to 60 in a not entirely slothlike 7.5 seconds. There’s a ball-busting 130hp TDI Diesel, and a new "Bluemotion" Diesel that does 110mph, yet clocks in at 62mpg and belches-out low enough emissions to single-handedly save a Siamese rainforest (102g CO2/km). So what did I have the "pleasure" of driving? A 1.2-liter three-cylinder counterbalanced low-friction poke-mill. But the mini mill brought to mind that old description of Richard Wagner's music: it's better than it sounds.

My Polo only holstered 64 measly horses, but it revved in the advertised quiet, low-vibration fashion to 7000 rpm, allowing full access to whatever acceleration it could muster. It was also in its happy place at 100mph; the most refined three-pot I’ve ever driven. Albeit not the most economical. Although this Polo is officially rated at 41mpg, I averaged just 38. That’s pretty lame for a car that requires the better part of half a minute (16 seconds) to “accelerate” from rest to 60mph. Still, even this slowest and cheapest of Polos is fun to drive.

Did I say cheapest? My bare-bones tester (which didn't even have remote entry) lists at over €11K (but discounts much lower). That’s around $8k large before the dollar got bushwhacked; now it’s closer to $13k. So much for California-compliant dreamin’. When the new next gen Polo makes the scene in late 2008, let's hope it drives as well, looks better and comes from China.

Life, Liberty and the Pursuit… of Acura? Infiniti? BMW? The Cadillac brand’s been sliding downmarket for so long it’s hard to know whose tailpipes they’re chasing. Back in ’02, the CTS offered genuine hope that Caddy could recapture some long lost ground. Although the Sigma-platformed mid-sizer was too small for the brand’s aging aficionados, it was a credible throw down to Japanese and German sports sedans. In a few short years, Caddy’s competition caught up– and left CTS sales in the dust. Now, a refreshed CTS returns to the fray. Is it good enough to put the deeply damaged Cadillac brand back in the running?

The CTS’ reworked exterior is certainly up to the challenge. The new model’s combination of refinement and muscularity kicks the competition in their collective crotch. While plagued with the same sky-high hemline and buffalo butt of the previous iteration, the new CTS benefits from two inches extra length at both ends. The cutlines– complete with muscular edges, fat flares and hot-rod pipes– harmonize more tunefully than a motorcoach of drunken Divas.

There are some jarring notes. The CTS’ headlights emulate the rear’s subtle tail-finning– unknowingly echoing the uneven panel gaps of Regan-era Fleetwoods. Though the CTS’ grille and deck lid trimmings look suitably Lexian, their childishly incorrect proportions mar otherwise admirable restraint. The CTS looks even more nose-heavy than before; an effect that’s somewhat hidden by the affectation du jour (side portals) and the grill’s XXL orthodontia.

GM Car Czar Bob Lutz has been trash-talking non-trashy interiors since he assumed the throne in ’02. Word! From the CTS’ perfectly executed dashtop stitching to its quality polymers, soft touch buttonage and rich leather hides, Caddy-inhabiting sybarites can finally relax. Combined with intuitive ergonomics and minimal electronic interference, the CTS cabin tells its technocratic competition to take a hike– unless their denizens are looking for Bluetooth connectivity. (Oops.)

Optional woodgrain, white accent lighting (cough, Lexus) and a panoramic roof with a mesh-textured shade kick it up a notch. The BOSE upgrade gets the party started with a 40-gig hard drive, while the navigationally challenged get Pimp C’d with an eight-inch TV screen jumpin’ out the dash. Put it all together and you know why Cadillac is the artist formerly known as the “Standard of The World,” and why Hip-Hop heroes never lost faith in the first place.

Crisply-tailored sheetmetal. An automotive interior that makes a mockery of sterile Japanese and dour German cabins. All the CTS needs is a set of driving dynamics as relaxing as a weekend at a Scottsdale spa and it'd be mission accomplished. And we’d pronounce the CTS ready to lope to the head of the pack. Sigh.

Obviously, hardcore corner-carvers need not apply. Even when equipped with the Nürburgring-fettled “Summer Tire Performance Package,” the CTS doesn’t have the goods to entice performance-minded drivers out of Bavaria’s finest. Not that the sportiest of CTS handles poorly; its meatier gumballs and firmer underpinnings make for quick and controllable transitions. The steering provides reasonable progress reports. And the posi-traction axle enables fast exits.

That’s fine as far as it goes– which isn’t as far or as fast as BMW's 335i. But it’s exactly what the doctor didn’t order. Realtors and such will opt for the CTS sitting on all-season 17’s, a relatively mellow suspension and no LSD (don’t know, don’t ask). Here the CTS lacks confidence-inspiring responses and overlooks the stress-killing ride normally associated with the brand. The base CTS isn’t skittish but the aluminum-intensive suspension’s bump absorption feels… cheap.

In terms of forward progress, the CTS’ direct-injected 3.6-liter powertrain offers one forward gear for every combustion chamber. It sounds plenty poke-intensive on paper: 304hp and zero to 60mph in under six seconds can’t be all wrong. But it feels wrong. What’s required: effortless wafting. What's presented: endless frustration. The CTS struggles to build steam under its 3900 lbs. frame.

Combined with a lazy cog swapper and slow tip-in, the V6 feels soft on the bottom, mushy in the middle and timid up top. Factor in a power peak above 6000rpm and the CTS is a disappointment for a brand internationally known for massive torque and turbine-like acceleration. While this $47k whip hits all the other buttons for a proper American luxury car, it’s begging for a destroked and detuned LS3 V8 to round out the package– and the fuel economy wouldn't be significantly worse.

The Cadillac CTS is a beautiful, well-appointed machine with its heart in the wrong place. Once again, the brand’s guardians decided to chase highly-tuned European sports sedans instead of returning to the simple values that made Cadillacs– including the Escalade – American icons. Still, no question: the CTS represents genuine progress for the Cadillac brand. Minus the engine and suspension mistakes, they're right where they should have been 15 years ago.

If you time-traveled back to 1964 and told a muscle car buyer that his ride would be a respected classic 40 years hence, he’d call you crazier than Kruschev. Muscle car model were fun on the cheap. You got what you didn’t pay for: nonexistent handling, pathetic drum brakes, two and three speed automatic transmissions and efficiency measured in gallons per mile (which was no biggie at the time). Thirty years later, Chrysler and Dodge are leading the charge down muscle car memory lane. Until the Chevrolet Camaro appears, the Dodge Charger SRT8 Super Bee could well be the post-modern muscle car mascot. Which is what, exactly?

No question: brash is a big part of the definition. Even from a hundred yards, no one will ever mistake the Super Bee for a Honda Accord. If the base Charger’s styling is “in your face,” the nuclear yellow Super Bee is down your throat. The headlights are nasty-looking, the hood scoop sucks souls, and the twenty inch wheels are Hummer compatible. While a great many enthusiasts will hail the Bee’s extra-extroversion as welcome break from today’s automotive appliances, most people will hate the look of this car.

Then again, most of these knee-jerk detractors drive brownish-silverish-greyish Camrys. If you’re not one of them, the odds are excellent that you really like the Super Bee's stance, style and detailing. The matte-finish decals on the hood and rear side fenders are a resolutely retro touch. But retro what? They looked cheap on the original, and they look cheap here. I like them for their nod to history; but by that same reasoning the Renault Dauphine is “cool.”

Sitting in the Super Bee is like partying at a Rubbermaid factory– in China. The entirety of the car’s dash and door panels are made from some kind of nasty ass black polymer that wouldn’t look out of place in a hospital waiting room, or any other space where bodily fluids must be regularly removed. Everything on view looks OK in an entirely yeomanly built-to-a-price kinda way– which is a throwback too far for this retro-rocker.

Good news: people buying the Dodge Super Bee probably won’t care any more about the car’s low-grade interior than they do about CO2 emissions warming/cooling the planet. The seats say it all: they’re leather and suede, extremely wide and very supportive. WYSIWYG: the chairs are perfectly built for generously proportioned empty nesters who like to drive like their hair’s on fire.

So fire-up the Super Bee’s honking 6.1-liter Hemi and a baby seal dies somewhere. Milliseconds later even the dimmest driver realizes that the Bee– like the other SRT8 iterations– is nothing but an engine and a paint job. And a hell of an engine it is. Four hundred and twenty five horses are enough to propel this brick shithouse to 60mph in five seconds. As momentum equals mass times velocity, accelerating that quickly in a 4200 lb car is an astonishing experience. The engine is suitably loud, and every slam on the gas (gently depressing the go-pedal is like using the rhythm method with Marissa Miller) yields ferocious thrust.

In terms of changing direction (a silly concept but there it is), the Super Bee’s steering is better weighted than the helm in the lesser R/T Charger. But the combination of double-wide tires and massive torque means that driving the Super Bee requires less finesse than throwing a water balloon at the side of a barn. In fact, Dodge couldn’t left off the steering wheel entirely; directional change is just as easily accomplished with your right foot as with the decapitated turtle that passes for a tiller.

It’s a stupid way to negotiate a turn, but it’s a gen-u-ine Dukes of Hazard-style hoot– provided you drive with the aforementioned pate conflagration in mind. At slower speeds, burbling through the ‘burbs, driving the Super Bee is such a pedestrian endeavor you might as well walk. You know; providing you could still get laid by women who call you by a shortened version of your first and middle names combined.

Returning to our original question, the Super Bee is a modern car only to the extent that it’s presently being built. It follows the old formula of sticking a huge and powerful engine into a hum-drum big car. Of course, we’ve got better safety these days. Only Super Bee side curtain airbags are optional and most of those ones already built don’t got 'em, leaving drivers with two– count ‘em two– airbags.

Impact protection or no, Dodge won’t have too much trouble selling Super Bees; collectors and muscle car fans with firsthand knowledge of the era will snap them up as a second chance to buy what they couldn’t afford back in the day. In that sense, we who followed should be glad cars like the Super Bee exist. But unless tail out powerslides are your staple diet, at $46k, its best admired from afar.

News flash! The 2007 MINI cars looks like the 2006 MINI. As there wasn’t anything particularly wrong with the “old” model, BMW’s decision to leave things well enough alone shows welcome restraint. Well, almost. BMW’s added two extra inches to the new MINI– and we all know how meaningful two extra inches can be for guys (legroom!). But you’d be hard pressed to see any exterior effects– good or bad. So is it still all systems go for MINI’s V2 rocket, or does the new model (codenamed R56) prove that more is less?

Truth to tell, I was feeling a bit blah about my MINI road test. But the moment The Man handed me the key to a 2007 MINI Cooper S, I perked up. The ignition device is now a circular pad with a stubby base; my first inclination was to open a channel to Starfleet and ask Scotty to beam me up. Once inside, I was instructed to stash the pad and press the button. Keyless ignition in a car the size of a 7-Series escape pod? Who’d a thunk it?

And who knew the Bavarians had a sense of humor? More charitably, the MINI’s interior looks like it was created by a grove of unsupervised Apple Computer designers. (It’s only a matter of time before the MINI’s key includes an I-Pod.) The fuel gauge is now a circular ring of digital lights on the speedometer pod, with a “range to empty” display on the information section of the tachometer pod, in script familiar to BMW owners (if not MS Word users).

Drivers are confronted by a wide range of organic looking toggles and indentures, operating all manner of controls. Who cares how it all works? And who cares that not all the materials are above average? Most are, and when you encounter the odd flimsy piece, the clever design more than compensates. Even the casual visitor instantly appreciates that fact that the BMW’s British box is a no-holds-barred style statement, not an Audi.

To that end, buyers can personalize their MINI Cooper S in a trillion ways, right down to checkered flag side mirror caps ($130) and a “Let’s Motor” license plate holder ($35). What’s more, the MINI is the only car you can customize without completely destroying its resale value. My favorite new interior color is the Tuscan beige; I love the look but could live without the pretentious name.

The biggest change from old MINI to new: a Peugeot-sourced, BMW-fettled, 1.6-liter turbo four. The new engine’s a more powerful lump than the old supercharged Brazilian mill (172 horsepower and 177 pound feet of torque vs. 168/162). As a result, the zero to 60 time is slightly quicker (6.7 versus 7.2 seconds) with better fuel economy (29/36).

While the new MINI has a wider (i.e. more useful) power band and will now cruise at triple digits without threatening to rattle itself to pieces, it doesn’t feel quite as eager out of the blocks as the old car. There’s a nasty lag between depressing the go pedal and the onset of acceleration. It feels… dumbed down. Until, that is, you press the Sport button.

In many sports cars, even some of the more expensive models, activating the Sport button creates little more than a psychological effect. In the new MINI, it’s undeniably transformative. In an instant, both the MINI Cooper’s electric steering system and its fly-by-wire throttle tighten up. Like a dull pencil thrust into an electric sharpener, the MINI is suddenly ready to draw the finest of racing lines.

Compared to the corner carving capabilities of the previous version, the new MINI Cooper S in Sport mode feels about 20% more wonderfully, joyously flickable. It still stays flat and level through vicious corners. It still turns in with all the eagerness of a toddler’s mother. But the added layer of maturity and refinement in the drivetrain and the additional feel through the helm build significantly more confidence into the system.

Enough confidence, in fact, to imperil the sporting driver’s license– and embolden him or her to switch off the MINI Cooper S’ DSC stability control. And yet, even without considering the necessity of the optional limited slip differential, there’s something important missing from the re-mix: an aggressive exhaust note.

For reasons most probably related to Europe’s drive-by noise regulations, the MINI Cooper S’ aural burble, zizz and growl are gone. On one hand, the relative silence (and proper autobox option) make the MINI Cooper S a more refined and therefore viable daily driver. On the other, the muted motor removes much of the reason for driving the thing as it wants to be driven. It's a major miscalculation mandating post-purchase mechanical surgery.

As far as I’m concerned, Jaguar died the day the suits killed the F-Type. Jag’s prototype Boxster beater had it all: sexy looks, the promise of phenomenal performance and a decent chance of hitting the right price point. But oh no, the American owned company decided to spend its time and money building… diesels. And a badge engineered Ford Mondeo called the X-Type. And estates— sorry, “sportwagons.” So, seven years later, I found myself behind the wheel of Jaguar’s perfect storm: a diesel X-Type Sportwagon. Or, as the Brits say, the dog’s breakfast.

To its credit (however inadvertent), the Sportwagon loses most of the inherent silliness of the X-Type sedan’s XJ mini-me design. While the Sportwagon offers precisely nothing in the way of aesthetic originality, the larger pallet makes it a more convincing faux XJ, a model whose sheetmetal offered virtually nothing in the way of originality over the previous XJ, whose design was a giant leap backwards from its squared-off predecessor. In other words, grandfather clock carrying Jaguar badge snobs need apply.

Despite an elegant tail design (stolen from the previous gen BMW 5-Series wagon) and enormous rear taillights (pilfered from a school bus), the Sportwagon wants the world to think it’s a, um, sport wagon. Our UK-spec tester made a bit more of an effort to project performance than its American counterpart. And I do mean a bit: blacked-out window chrome and [optional] mucho macho Proteus 18” wheels flaunting gold brake calipers. Compared to the gold standard in this niche, Audi’s S and RS Avants, the XTSW looks like a small station wagon wearing oversized running shoes.

At least it’s a small station wagon. With the rear seats folded down, antique dealers and their empty nest clients will be well pleased with the Jag’s class-leading cargo hole, complete with large, properly positioned tie-down rings. With the rear seats in place, schleppers must pack their gear to the rafters. Unfortunately, without a cargo net, passengers risk death by Tumi. In compensation, Jaguar provides a Styrofoam-lined underfloor hole with a 12-volt power point– perfect for hiding your recharging laptop from nosey Narcs.

Forget utility. Our tester’s Sport Premium interior just wasn’t going to let the performance theme die a dignified death. The dash was afflicted with a carbon fiber veneer, a material that belongs in a Jaguar station wagon like Spandex shorts belong on an English footman. The Sportwagon’s thick, leather wrapped steering wheel, highly bolstered seats and six-speed gearbox underlined the model’s accelerative intent. The silver-rimmed white-on-black gauges are elegant in a Darth Vader kinda way, but they lack the large print legibility Jaguar’s target demographic requires.

Before we evaluate the Sportwagon’s sportiness, it’s important to note that Jaguar fits the US version with ye olde 3.0-liter Duratec V6, four wheel-drive and a price tag knocking on 40 large. Our English sacrilege special came with a 2.2-liter diesel, front wheel-drive and a $50k sticker.

OK, fire-up the oil burning Sportwagon. The ensuing clatter sounds like a Manhattan deli dishwasher heard through airplane earplugs. Never mind the noise, feel the G’s! Actually, the first G is “Gee, when is this thing going to get going?” The second is “Gee, why would anyone put this much torque into a front wheel-drive car?” But the third G stands for genuine grunt. Don’t be fooled by the Sportwagon’s distinctly unsportsmanlike 9.3 second zero to sixty sprint. At 2000rpm, the Sportwagon surges with genuine conviction. You’re all done at 4000rpm, but it’s a hoot while it lasts.

In terms of handling, the Sportwagon suffers from a bad case of luxosport bi-polar disorder. The power-assisted steering works wonderfully around town, but makes at speed positioning and mid-course corrections a distinctly dodgy business. The brakes feel pliable in the ‘burbs, seriously squidgy anywhere else. If you somehow master the art of speeding and nothingness, you face yet another dynamic challenge: the Sportwagon’s six speed box is as rubbery as Jim Carrey’s malleable mug.

But abyssmal ride quality is this car’s greatest sin. If the Sportwagon displayed sufficient grace over rough surfaces, you could simply dismiss its sporting pretensions as a bit of harmless, largely theoretical fun, kick back, savor the mileage and cruise. But the Sportwagon’s engineers were determined to make this beast stay flat and level in the corners—which it bloody well does— no matter how poor the resulting ride. Wrong answer.

Yes, well, God knows there’ve been a lot of those over at Jaguar since Ford assumed control of the storied English automaker. The diesel Jaguar Sportwagon embodies all the brand’s failed attempts at snatching some of BMW’s success (even the name sounds like a German translation). Hello? Jaguar didn't make its bones building ultimate driving machines. They [poorly] crafted saloons and sports cars with pace and grace. Unless Jaguar returns to their founding formula, laughable distractions like the Sportwagon will be their undoing.

Riding in a golf cart to the nether regions of a dealership lot, an aging salesman explained his selling strategy. “Chryslers appeal to either male or female buyers,” he declared through nicotine-stained teeth. “Take the Compass. That’s for the ladies. The Wrangler? Boys’ toy.” As our EV reaches the 2008 Avenger, it's clear that the latest entry in The Dodge Boys' lineup is no purple Barbie Sport Convertible. But does The Avenger deliver the goods, or is “he” an impotent superhero look alike?

First, let’s be clear about from whence cometh this car: the Dodge Avenger is a reskinned Chrysler Sebring, just as the Dodge Charger is a reskinned Chrysler 300. It’s a cheap and cheerful way to give Dodge dealers something to sell that isn’t the late, unlamented Stratus, or the slow-selling Dakota, or Ye Olde Durango. Something that’ll keep the UAW’s factories humming– at least until someone else takes over.

Compared to the Sebring’s disjointed styling– afflicted as it is by a clash of Art Deco motif and Analytic Cubism — the Avenger is, um, handsome. Dodge’s crosshair grille looks far more rugged than the Sebring’s muzzle, and more elegant than the stubby, pug-faced Dodge Caliber. The Avenger’s chin spoiler and front bumper form a Charlie Sheen-like square jaw. Quad LDH optics offer the intensity and sensitivity of Leonardo DiCaprio’s eyes, while the angular windshield and clean roofline project the nobility of Johnny Depp’s brow.

While we’re beating the celebrity metaphor to a bloody pulp, the Avenger’s rear quarter panels broaden around the wheels like Fabio’s muscular shoulders and five-spoke “Ultra Bright” aluminum wheels flash like Matthew McConaughey’s pearly whites.

Two flaws mar this otherwise stunning example of automotive manhood: cheap looking triangular black inserts that fill the aft corners of the rear windows and a useless wing adorning the rear deck, an aesthetic faux pas that suits The Avenger like an ill fitted toupee on a fifty-something athlete.

Actually, I’m just being picky. The Avenger offers a distinctive design– especially compared to the boring (e.g. Honda Accord) and outright ugly (e.g. Toyota Camry) sedans that dominate the class.

A quick survey of the interior confirms the Avenger’s true identity: an automotive Himbo. It’s attractive on the outside, vacuous on the inside. The Avenger’s interior designers attempted tasteful sophistication, refraining from button overload and utilizing classic shapes. But, once again, the quality of The Chrysler’s Group’s rock hard plastics is both inexplicable and inexcusable. Even Kia uses finer materials.

The “chrome” piece that frames the gear selector is easily removed from its track. It’s a brittle piece of plastic with a chrome finish laminated to the top. This is the exact same kind of short-lived chromed plastic that GM used for the door locks in my mother’s 1969 Buick Skylark. I’d expect similar longevity from this and the rest of the dreadful Mopar parts blighting the Avenger.

On the positive side, you get a Chillzone Beverage Cooler, heated and cooled cupholders and (for the hopelessly flatulent) “odor-resistant fabric upholstery.”

My SXT tester sheltered a 2.7-liter 24-valve V6 mated to a four-speed automatic cogswapper. This so-called “powerplant” slots between the rental grade 2.4-liter 4-cylinder World Engine and the RT’s torque steer special: a 235hp 3.5-liter V6. Dodge (and my new chain smoking best friend) expects this drivetrain will be US customers’ mill of choice. The 2.7 produces 189hp and delivers 19/27 mpg (as per updated EPA standards). How great is that?

Not very. The V6 Avenger delivers neither driving excitement nor outstanding fuel economy. At pedestrian speeds, the Avenger's ride is market compliant. At anything above a parking lot pace, the Avenger lacks the chassis poise and steering feel to reward anything remotely resembling a spirited maneuver. As indicated above, the Avenger channels all its meager power through the front wheels. (Optional AWD sends some torque to the rear wheels when needed.)

Push this dreary driving street rod towards the extremes and the 17” wheels (an upgrade from the SE’s 16’s) and chassis loses its composure like a paranoid schizophrenic at a UFO convention. If you love tire-squealing understeer slides– and what ignorant enthusiast doesn’t– the Avenger is a dream come true. Unfortunately, the drum and disk binders are a bit of a nightmare. They’re initially resistant to the idea of serious stopping, and lack feel once they get with the program.

At the 2007 Dallas Auto Show, Dodge’s PR shills stood by an Avenger painted in Inferno Red Crystal Pearl and extolled the model’s many virtues. They compared it to all its rivals– except the Camry and Accord. At the risk of seeming sexist, the Avenger’s inability to compete with the class leaders must leave Chrysler hoping (against hope) there are some male buyers who believe beauty is only skin deep.

According to psychologists, the middle child fights an endless, depressing battle for parental attention. So pity the poor Legacy 2.5i Special Edition, sitting between the WRX and Outback. The WRX is the pistonheads' golden child. Older brother Outback is largely credited with the family's success– despite the fact that the Legacy was Subaru's sales leader in May. The shrinks say lavishing praise on the neglected sib is the best way to cure middle child syndrome. Ah, but is the Legacy 2.5i Special Edition (SE) special enough to deserve it?

The SE looks handsome, in a black turtle and khakis kind of way. Enthusiasts won't slow down to get a better look; but nor will status-conscious suburbanites rush to park the lower-end Legacy behind a garage door. The SE has the kind of solid, understated charm– derived from its crisp lines and aesthetic restraint– that once typified BMW and Mercedes, right down to the blacked-out window chrome.

That said, Subaru's due on a Montel Williams' "Who's the Father of My Baby?" episode any day. Look! It's got Chrysler's nose! The hood scoop is the only remaining link between models, and the Legacy Special Edition isn't special enough (i.e. turbocharged) to have one. Who'd a thunk we'd be arguing for a fake hood-mounted air inlet? But there it isn't.

The restraint continues inside, almost to a fault. The switchgear and buttonology have been arranged with reachable righteousness, but it's all lost in a sea of sameness. Our test car "featured" charcoals and silver, silver and charcoal. The hazard light button sticks out nicely, as it should, and that's it. The gauges are so restrained they look delicate. What's up with that?

Nobody wants their sports sedan associated with "frail." Thankfully, the steering wheel is thick and shapely enough to allay such fears. Luckily, any remaining concerns disappear entirely when you use the SE as the gods of speed intended.

Subaru has been refining this 2.5-liter SOHC aluminum-alloy 16-valve horizontally opposed (boxer) four-cylinder engine for more than a decade, adding an i-Active Valve Lift System, platinum-tipped spark plugs and other similar goodies continuously, year after year, with continuous consistency that would make W. Edwards Deming proud. The envelope please: 175 hp and 169 pound-feet of torque.

The power is smooth and plentiful. As with everything Legacy, forward acceleration lives somewhere between snapping your neck and leaving you embarrassed; say, just under eight seconds from rest to 60mph. To the base model's motive capabilities, the Legacy Special Edition adds a moonroof and power seat.

All of Subaru's cars come equipped with a stick shift, s'il vous plait. Get one, skip to the end of the review and smile. That's because all of Subie's automotive "specials" get a four-speed adaptive electronic direct-control automatic gearbox with SPORTSHIFT® manual control. Translation: you can change gears with the stick shift or not; if not, the system adapts to your driving style.

The first part is highly entertaining… for about a minute-and-a-half. For the second bit, the autobox' electronic brain supposedly adjusts the shift points and speed thereof accordingly to your driving style. Unfortunately, even after its finished studying an enthusiast's habits, it still acts like the kid in the back of the class who didn't read last night's chapter. Stomp on the gas and the tranny goes "Huh? What?" And then plays catch up.

That's fine for people who don't drive like there's a T-Rex in their rearview mirror (metaphors may be closer than they appear). But anyone who really likes to get a move on, or even thinks about running with the big dogs, will find their hand wandering back to the SPORTSHIFT. And longing for a stick.

Still, mileage you know. And it's only because the SE's so damn personable that the autobox' slushiness stands out. And slush is really where this car really shines, er, excels. Nice weather didn't permit an appropriately gooey test drive, but the Subie's symmetrical all-wheel drive system hasn't changed. So we can expect the same grippy properties from the Legacy SE that made the brand a staple in the Northeast.

On dry pavement, the system is as noticeable as an Izod shirt at a Daughters of the American Revolution ("I want your DAR!") golf tournament. Aside from the lack of bracing forward thrust, the Legacy lacks the heavy feeling one expects from a car with four wheel-drive. It's nimble enough for government work.

No question: the Legacy SE won't thrill you like its siblings. It does, however, offer excellent utility and phenomenal bad weather stability at a family-friendly price. It does nothing truly exceptional, nor does it completely fail in any specific area. On just about every scale, the Subaru Legacy 2.5i Special Edition is a happy medium. All the little Subie needs is a better autobox and a bit more love.

Lazy automotive writers love assignments on Korean vehicles. The review practically writes itself: just recap a few Letterman-esque Hyundai jokes, feign shock at how much the brand has come along, issue some heavily-qualified praise ("it's endearingly almost Toyota-like!") and Bob's your uncle. We here at TTAC reckon it's time to stop treating the Korean brands like they're special-needs children. It's time to judge these vehicles against their own self-proclaimed brand values. The Kia Spectra: "Simply put, it's a blast to drive." Simply put, we'll see about that.

Lest we forget, Kia fancies itself the "sporty" arm of the unflatteringly acronymed Hyundai Automotive Group; the econo-minded Spectra is the company's best-selling model. Hang on. Might we expect a sort of value-leader Mazda 3 (Spectra pricing starts at $12,985), combining sporty reflexes, features galore and a low, low sticker? At the risk of giving the game away: no, we mightn't. What, then, is the Spectra?

Let's start with this: it ain't a looker. The Spectra offers disinterested onlookers styling cues cribbed [weakly] from Honda and Toyota. In fact, the Spectra's sheet-metal is so deeply, profoundly generic it makes Liz Lang for Target seem like haute couture. The Spectra's strongest feature is its oddly-shaped profile. Call it a "character line"– provided the character in question is Quasimodo. Tight panel gaps and liberal daubs of chrome keep the Spectra from shouting "cheap," but the car's proportions are fundamentally awkward.

Those proportions feel better from inside, where the Spectra's tall roof and big windows create a bright, airy ambiance. Japanese cars used to have interiors like this: simple, mood-enhancing, with low cowls and easy sight-lines. While they've gotten somber and techy, Kia serves up the old cheery, pretense-free flavor.

Good stuff, but isn't Kia's trying to send a sporting message? The Spectra's cabin garbles the company line. The interior's soothing gray plastics and velvety-soft seat fabric would flatter an entry-level Buick. The steering-wheel rim is wimpy thin, and there's no lateral support in the driver's seat. But hey, check the velour-lined coin tray!

The Spectra shares its major mechanicals with the previous-generation Hyundai Elantra- a vehicle that, at last count, hadn't taken home many Solo II trophies. If you're thinking that the Kia Spectra is more of a Sam's Club Corolla than a marked-down Mazda 3, you're right. At least that's how it drives.

The sporty Spectra holsters a 2.0-liter, 138-horsepower four cylinder engine. Although this hand-me-down Hyundai mill is relatively mannerly and generates a decent whack of torque right off idle, it groans asthmatically when asked to climb a steep incline. Wanna try running it up to redline? Fine; see you next week. As with most Korean metal, fuel economy trails the class average. Drive the five-speed Spectra without deploying the advertised sporting intent and she'll suck down the gas at a rate of 25/33 mpg.

On the scale of stick-shift sensuality from one to ten, the Spectra lacks numeracy skills. The five-speed's gear-lever moves with light, wafty motions, but there's a clunky remoteness to its gear selections. Worse, the Spectra's prow rises and falls buoyantly with each dip into the long-throw clutch. Pistonheads who drive a manual for mechanical companionship, rather than fuel savings, will be left wanting.

After buzzing and clunking our way through the straights, what reward awaits in the twisties? A romp in a bouncy castle! Although the Spectra's ride is really quite comfy, Kia achieved this isolation the old-fashioned way: with Jell-O springs and Stay-Puft damping. As a result, sinuous roads call forth billowy heaves and sloshy body roll from the Spectra's suspension. And when you nail the brakes, the nose dives like WorldCom stock.

Nor does the Spectra's thin-rimmed tiller inspire much confidence. There's a nonlinear, squirmy spot right around the straight-ahead that makes the Spectra feel a bit distracted, particularly on the Interstate. At town speeds, the Spectra delivers the easy maneuverability typical of this class. Don't ask it to dance, and it won't ask you to take your Dramamine.

It's easy to see why most reviews of Korean cars are clouded with fluff. It's tempting to cheer on the underdog. But the truth is that Toyondissan has nothing to fear from Kia's sales leader. The Spectra is still the sort of uninspired car you buy because you can afford to, not because you want to. To change that, Kia needs to formulate a compelling brand image and stick to it like glue.

In the meantime, Kia still has The Big 2.8 shaking in their cement shoes. The Spectra nails the small car formula they've been bungling for decades: low entry price, lots of standard-features and cut corners hidden in places where Joe Motorist won't ever find them (i.e. corners). So the "sport" thing didn't work out so well. Never mind. There's always Chevy's lunch to steal.

As I drove to my neighborhood Kia dealer, the window signage caught my eye. Actually, make that grabbed both eyeballs and ripped them out, Oedipus-style. DRIVE TODAY! NO CREDIT! BAD CREDIT! I wondered how long before the words “What price are you looking to pay?” would effect the same injury to my ears. While dealerships like this make Kia’s 100,000 mile warranty look like a mixed blessing, let’s face it: they know their market. As does the Kia Optima LX.

If you ever want to knock off a bank and leave witnesses unable to identify your getaway car, drive an Optima. Alternatively, you could say the sedan’s design is appealingly subtle. The front may have a touch too much Ford Taurus to it, but the Kia’s common sense proportions and unadorned sheetmetal evokes the style-less styling of 70’s-era Bimmers. From its sparing use of chrome to its plain Jane wheels, the Optima is deeply, wildly inoffensive.

A recent review made a big deal of the Optima’s interior “soft-touch home run.” You have to weigh that praise in the context of modern mass-market carmaking; the American public expects more horsepower, speakers and airbags which each successive iteration of an existing model– for the same price. Something has to give. Generally, that something is interior materials. Bottom line: the Optima has gradually improved while others (read: Camry) have cratered. So now there’s a smaller gap (pun intended).

That said, your eyes will have no problem telling the difference between the LX and higher-priced merchandise. Yes, the pieces are low-gloss and fit well, but there are so many bits and pigments you’ll think the designers were paid by the color. Score one for the leather-lined, neon-gauged Appearance Package, which comes in any color as long as it’s black. This cockpit not only looks swanky with its perforated leather and brushed accents, it conceals all that busyness.

To its credit, Kia has positioned the Optima’s soft-touch bits from your elbows up, where you confront them the most. Everything below is as hard and cheap as a forty-five- year-old sex industry worker. The Kia’s steering wheel tilts and telescopes, but the mechanism’s crudity will deter you from recreational telescoping. And while overall leg and headroom room is class-compliant and more than sufficient for the average human form, front-seat thigh support is, er, sub-optimal.

The Optima’s 2.4-liter four cylinder engine is the fruit of a joint venture between Mitsubishi, Chrysler and Hyundai. The quality of the weed involved couldn’t have been that high. Although the 162hp mill's fairly punchy off the line and tolerably responsive at highway speeds, it’s dog-dead in rolling acceleration around 40mph. The Optima ambles from rest to 60mph in around 10 seconds. I didn’t try the Sportmatic® slap-shifter, but I doubt it would help; the electronic five-speed lacked proper ratios.

The step-up to the 185hp 2.7-liter V6 is a questionable improvement on paper. A $2k premium buys you a one second improvement to 60 with a debilitating effect on gas mileage. But it’s a no-brainer for those who have more than the environment or their wallet in mind, offering superior midrange punch and much more refined noises. One word of warning, though: like all modern Hyundai/Kia V6’s, its solid lifters must be adjusted near the 90k mile mark. The work isn’t covered under that famous warranty and carries a four-figure sting.

Once underway, the Optima’s pillowy standard suspension is a weaker sedative than a fistful of barbiturates washed down with Southern Comfort, but stronger than two Ambien. If you don’t like to drive and you buy a four-pot Camry instead of an Optima, you either live near a Toyota dealer or you simply don’t care about money. The Kia’s ride quality is at least as good– or as bad– as the Toyota’s.

If you’re not insensitive to the joys of driving, the Optima’s Appearance Package (AP) is a must. While the spec sheet doesn’t say the AP’s suspension is firmer, the fatter Michelin shoes sure make it feel like it is. Perched high atop the Optima’s springs (the price of a civilized ride), you’re still subject to enough body movement to stay your right foot. But roll angles and cornering become perfectly respectable for a family sedan; something to be endured rather than avoided.

Add in stability control, leather, a killer stereo– the full zoot– and we’re talking around $20k. Measured against the ’07 Accord EX V6, the Optima LX comes up short in acceleration, mileage and toys. But measured against comparably priced family iron, it’s just as comfortable (unless you’re long-legged) and vastly more satisfying to look at and sit in. The top Optima will never win any (real) awards, but if there was a Subtly Nice Sedan For Not Much Money, Now or Down the Road trophy, the Optima would be a shoo-in.