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Junkyard Gem: 1980 Pontiac Grand Prix LJ

A couple of years before John DeLorean and his team at the Pontiac Division created the GTO by pasting a big engine and some gingerbread on the LeMans, they created a rakish, powerful coupe based on the staid full-size Catalina. This was the 1962 Pontiac Grand Prix, which sold like crazy and escalated the personal luxury coupe war already brewing in Detroit. Starting with the 1969 model year, the Grand Prix switched to a smaller chassis (shared the following year with the new Chevrolet Monte Carlo), and all subsequent rear-wheel-drive Grand Prix (that is, through 1987) remained siblings of the Monte. Today's Junkyard Gem is a rare 1980 Grand Prix LJ, found in a self-service yard near Reno, Nevada. Sure, a fresh round of Middle East conflict had put a kink in America's fuel hose in 1979, leading to gas lines and a general sense of malaise, but at least the new Grand Prix looked extra sharp for 1980. The LJ package came with all sorts of appearance and comfort goodies, including these "luxury seats with loose-pillow design in New Florentine Cloth." A Pontiac Phoenix LJ was available as well. These seats must have been very comfortable when new. Who needed a Cadillac when Pontiac would sell you this car at a base MSRP of just $7,000 (about $26,704 in 2023 dollars)? That price was what you paid if you were willing to get the base 3.8-liter Buick V6, though. To get a V8 engine with four-barrel carburetor, you had to pay extra. If you did pay the extra for a V8, which one you got depended on which state you lived in; in California, you got this 305-cubic-inch (5.0-liter Chevrolet small-block), and in the other 49 states you got a 301-cubic-inch (4.9-liter) Pontiac. The 305 was rated at 150 horsepower with 230 pound-feet; the 301 made 140hp and 240 lb-ft. This car was originally bought in California (the state line is about ten miles away from its final parking spot), so it has the Chevy engine. The V8 added $195 (plus $250 for the California-only emissions system) to the out-the-door price of the car, or about $1,316 in 2023 dollars. Outside of California, a 4.3-liter Chevy V6 was available for just 80 additional bucks ($305 now). All 1980 Grand Prix got a three-speed automatic transmission as standard equipment, with no manual available from the factory. This car has the optional air conditioning, which cost $601 ($2,293 after inflation). This is the "Custom Sport" steering wheel, which was standard on the LJ. The tilt option cost $81 ($309 today).

Junkyard Gem: 1989 Pontiac 6000 STE AWD

During the middle to late 1980s, General Motors made a big push to grab back some of the sales swiped by makers of European luxury machinery during the previous decade. Around the top of the prestige pyramid, there was the Turin/Hamtramck-built Cadillac Allante taking aim at the Mercedes-Benz 560SEC and the super high-tech Buick Reatta trying to seduce away BMW and Jaguar shoppers; even the Riviera offered a futuristic touchscreen computer sorely lacking in anything out of Stuttgart or Bavaria. The General had a plan to take on the smaller German sporty sedans, too, and Pontiac of the "We Build Excitement" era offered a midsize sedan packed with modern hardware at a great price: the 6000 STE. Here's one of the rarest 6000 STEs of them all, an all-wheel-drive-equipped '89 found in a Denver-area yard last week. Any 6000 STE is extremely hard to find today; when I wrote about a front-wheel-drive 1987 6000 STE back in 2018, desperate owners of these cars filled my inbox with requests — sometimes demands —  for parts that continue to this day. Many of them pleaded with me to help them find an all-wheel-drive version, and now I have managed to find one at Colorado Auto & Parts in Englewood, just south of Denver (in fact, the same yard at which I shot the '87). You may recall CAP as the old-school yard whose owners built the amazing airplane-engined 1939 Plymouth pickup a few years back.  The all-wheel-drive system on the 6000 STE was introduced for the 1988 model year, and it became standard equipment on the 1989 STE. At this time, the automotive industry had taken note of the success of the idiot-proof all-wheel-drive systems offered by AMC and Audi/Volkswagen; Toyota began selling Americans all-wheel-drive Camrys, Celicas, and Corollas, while Ford offered the Tempo and Topaz with optional AWD and Subaru was just beginning to make the switch from manually-selected four-wheel-drive to genuine all-wheel-drive around that time (it took a few more years for everyone to standardize on the 4WD/AWD terminology we use today, though). The 6000 STE AWD was intended to compete with such all-wheel-drive-equipped sedans as the Audi 80 ($23,610), Audi 90 ($28,840), and BMW 325iX ($30,750); its $22,599 price tag (about $50,700 in 2021 dollars) certainly made it seem like a bargain compared to those cars. In addition to the all-wheel-drive system, 1989 6000 STE owners got a digital instrument panel and more switches and buttons than the Space Shuttle.

This junkyard '91 Grand Am is as hooptie as it gets

I spend a lot of time in junkyards. A lot of time. With all this experience, I have learned to recognize a perfect hooptie when I see one, a car whose final owner got every last bit of use out of it when its value was hovering right about at scrap value. This 1991 Pontiac Grand Am that I spotted in a San Francisco Bay Area self-service wrecking yard a few days ago, from the final model year for the third-generation Grand Am, checks all the hooptie boxes just right. First of all, it's a low-option coupe with the wretched and unloved GM Iron Duke engine, a rattly, gnashy, thrashy 2.5-liter four-cylinder kludged together using off-the-shelf parts from the Pontiac 301-cubic-inch V8 during the darkest years of the Malaise Era and used in cars whose buyers just didn't care. Most of the paint has been burned off by 25 years of harsh California sun, but the car spent sufficient time in a damp, shady spot for lichens to build up here and there. There are skeletons-with-sombreros stencils sprayed here and there, plus a big moonshine-guzzling skeleton mural painted on the hood. Goodbye, property values! Still, someone felt some affection for this car, giving it the name "Good Ol' Snakey" and painting that name on the decklid. We can assume that the Iron Duke was a bit loose by this time, probably leaving a serpentine trail of blue smoke behind the car at all times. So, the combination of cheapness, ugliness, menace, and who-gives-a-damn functionality make this Grand Am an excellent example of a pure hooptie. Within a couple of months, it will be crushed, shredded, shipped out of the Port of Oakland, and reborn in China as refrigerators and Geely Emgrands. Somewhere in Northern California, though, a few of Ol' Smokey's friends will remember this car fondly.