This little item appeared in yesterday's New York Post. On Page Six, of course.

November 21, 2006 -- Maybe The Game can get away with insulting other women as slutty "bitches" - but not Melyssa Ford. The beauty told Page Six she is "confused and saddened" by the song, "Never Get Far," in which the rapper lyricizes: "And all these new video bitches tryin' to be Melyssa Ford/But they don't know Melyssa Ford drive a Honda Accord." "I am really confused and saddened that he decided to include my name on a record that disparages the characters of women who have worked hard in the industry to make successful careers for themselves," said Ford (who, in point of fact, does not drive a Honda Accord).

I think The Game is a jerk and a misogynist anyway, but what's the point of dissing Honda Accords? Is that supposed to be an insult? The good people at Honda will certainly not appreciate this latest slur, artistic license be damned (and likely, the only word the dumb ass could think of to rhyme with "Ford"). And shame on Ms. Ford to a degree for not defending her right to drive a Honda, although she clearly made the effort to inform the media that she drove another make of vehicle.

Where's the love for the Honda, people?

I've been a proud owner of two Honda Accords. They're reasonably stylish, great on gas mileage and durable as hell. They ease into the tightest parking space in any direction. The first one we bought back in the early 1990s was a limited edition Accord with butter soft leather seats and a moon roof. That was the first new car I ever owned and I was proud of my dark teal green beauty. We named her Pinky, for reasons I can't quite recall now, but it fit her. She rode like the wind. She survived a few icy New Jersey winters and traveled over nearly every square inch of California. She was a tough old broad.

We added a new sibling to the family in 2003, a sleek, silver new edition of the Accord. It was the next generation of Pinky, with her grey leather heated seats, sexy walnut paneling and Bose sound system. She went 0 to 50 in seconds flat and she was sassy. We named her Laquita.

Both cars had their purpose. Laquita, still in her adolescence, was used for the long hauls: road trips, freeway duty, my commute to work in San Francisco. Pinky, having already logged ten years as the main workhorse and had just passed the 100K mile mark, was now utilized for short bucolic rides to the grocery store or other local visits. Just to get her out and about--it cheered her. I lovingly washed both cars weekly--a small reward for their compliant and faithful service.

Alas, the call to return to New York came and mindful of the impracticality of a car in Manhattan, it was time to part from our loyal vehicles. We sold them both for a pittance to people we knew would maintain them with care, doing so with the caveat that their respective names be maintained by their new owners. Pinky was bought by a friend of Fang's parents who needed a car to get to work. He was the ideal choice--he upgraded some existing elements on the car and babied it with affection and a new shammy. Laquita was given to Fang's sister who usually drove a school bus size mini-van to cart her kids around. She liked having a sedan for herself, so the keys were pressed in her hand. Take it with our blessing, I said, offering the universal new driver's benediction.

Curiously, the next time I saw Laquita was during a recent visit home. I borrowed her to run some errands. While still the sleek badass in spirit, some of her mojo had gone: the leather side pockets were stuffed with school schedules and lunch menus. There was a Lindsay Lohan CD was in the player. Goldfish crackers were scattered in the backseat and pink socks, maps, coffee commuter mugs and a whole array of kidstuff littered the floors. I took her to the carwash, if only to hear her purr like her sassy self again.