Naming a model of vehicle in this day and age is a complicated task. While we used to have lettered and numbered models (Model T or F150), that trend largely gave way to marketing friendly names like Dart, BelAir, Fairlane and the ignominious Nova. Once people grabbed hold of the sexiness of driving a Mustang or a Beetle (sexy? really?), could they ever really go back to an X3 or a 5-Series even if they were better engineered and hotter?

I say that no, they couldn’t, and I’ll tell you what happened next.

We got the Comanche, the Cherokee, the Lancer, the Cavalier, and the Ram -- and we could never ever go back to the sedate days of the suburban barges that merited their pastoral names. Now we wanted speed and aggression. We got the Corvette (a warship), the Barracuda (a fish with a penchant for attacking shiny things), the Cougar (not the tamest of felines), and the Dakota (a not-so-friendly Indian tribe).

While luxury vehicles remained Town Cars or De Villes or even stuck to the trusty number system that told their buyers what series, engine size, and price range they were getting, the more popular and, dare I say it, bourgeois vehicles reached out and grabbed people by the short and curlies and said, “If you drive anything else, you’re a pussy!” We drove, and, baby, we drove the muscle cars. Often, even if the vehicle wasn’t muscley or speedy, we didn’t mind because it sounded cool. The Pinto (a fire-trap but one with a peppy name), the Firebird, the Trans Am, the Thunderbird, and even the Rabbit.

And, well, maybe the Golf wasn’t cool or peppy, but it conjured images of leisure and ease, of having a beer with your buddies at the nineteenth hole. The car you chose told people what sort of person you were so that, even if we don’t know exactly what "Boxster" might mean, it sounds better than a Neon, which makes you think of teenage girls and bubble gum -- a sticky ride if nothing else. The Corsica, the Monte Carlo, and the Malibu made you the type of person who could cruise the strip in some sun-drenched paradise with a hottie on your arm, the top down and the yacht waiting in the harbor.

Then, with the proliferation of SUVs in the 90s and beyond, and with the lack of hot names for them, what have we ended up with but Explorers, Expeditions, Yukons, Tahoes, Broncos, and Durangos? Names that give our over-cubicled and sub-urbanized selves the chance to vent our adventurous sides and believe that we could and would get out there and get muddy and pan for gold and ride horses right in the middle of the suburbs where our kids played soccer -- hell, we could drive across the pitch to rescue them when those mean kids from across town slide-tackled them and they ended up bloody. We felt rugged, by God.

And then things got weird.

The luxury and semi-luxury -- maybe I’m mistaking importedness for luxury -- makes got into that overpopulated and under-muddied SUV market. But there was something wrong, something not quite immediately tangible in what it was they were selling us. We weren’t sure what driving a Cayenne said about us -- peppery? South American? Unused spice in that spinner rack in the kitchen? What exactly was a RAV, and if this was the fourth RAV what did the other three look like? How were we to behave behind the wheel of a Tribute because, well, that seems a bit too dignified, too polite, too civil for something that was ostensibly built to romp through mud puddles and leave you standing on the edge of a precipice, wearing a ten-gallon hat and feeling a sense of accomplishment for conquering the Wild West.

While BMW wisely stuck with the number system even for its SUVs, there were others, hm, VW, which got obviously confused and produced the Touareg. I don’t mean to be didactic here, but how many Americans -- who are the primary SUV market, let’s face it -- know what a Touareg is? I do. Do you? It’s a tribal rebel in Mali, Niger, or Algeria -- the Sahara in other words -- with a penchant for kidnapping from and smuggling contraband to anyone willing to pay. Honda dropped back to the number-letter combo in the CR-V, and Toyota went in for the 4-Runner, but that bastion of samurai business also produced the Highlander (there can be only one, electrical showers, heads being chopped off) while Nissan decided, curiously, upon the Armada, which, if I recall correctly, was the Spanish fleet that got its ass handed to it by the British in 1588.

Now, forgive me for wondering here, but hasn’t our image of the powerful, SUV driving Baby Boomer slipped just a bit from its foundations? We’re now watching our parents drive failed invasions of Britain, B-grade Sci-Fi movies, and rebel groups linked to terrorism? What’s next? The Visigoth, perhaps, or the Mongol. The Hun or, hell, even the Cossack! Yeah! I’ll be romping across the Crimean Peninsula in that puppy! This could go on for a long time if car makers want to take that route, but forgive me if I think our soccer moms and pops are already a bit too aggressive. Besides, can you imagine the gas mileage?

Now, while I go out shopping for my next 4x4 Naxalite, perhaps car makers will begin reviewing what it is their selling us, even if we’re too dumb to look it up ourselves.