2000 Pontiac Sunfire Se Sedan 4-door 2.2l on 2040-cars

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This massive 'Knight Rider' KITT model costs over $1,400

A new model of the famed Pontiac Firebird from the 1980s TV show Knight Rider is here, and it's massive. The shadowy flight into the dangerous world of this subscription-based kit by DeAgostini will result in a car that measures nearly two feet long, cost more than $1,400, and take you over two years to complete. For years, subscription-based model kits have been a tradition for hobbyists in Europe and Asia. Should you sign on, each week you'll receive a package in the mail that includes a few parts for the model and some literature on the subject. Usually there are additional collectibles and accessories, like a display case. The DeAgostini KITT kit, for example, begins with the hood for the first issue. The asymmetric bulged and scooped body panel comes with a several smaller body pieces and a small screwdriver. Issue two comes with the front fascia, KITT's red scanner light, and three of the six driving lights. Issue three gives you a tire, wheel and brake components for one of the four corners. And so it goes. When all is said and done, you'll receive 110 such packages over a span of so many weeks. In other words it'll take two years and one-and-a-half months to complete the black, 1:8 scale Pontiac. There are some discounted prices for the first few issues to get you hooked, but once you get settled in the regular price for each issue is ˆ10.99 ($13.36 USD). Here's a preview the 16-page pamphlet that accompanies the first issue. By the end, you should have a pretty comprehensive compendium of the Knight Rider series as well. The issues are available on newsstands, but subscribers get additional gifts — two 1:43 scale models, one of KITT and one of his nemesis KARR. And for an additional ˆ1.00 per issue, you'll receive an acrylic display case. As for the Knight Industries Two Thousand itself, the car appears to be incredibly detailed. As depicted on the DeAgostini website, the hood, doors, trunk and T-top roof panels all open. The red scanner lights up, the rear license plate rotates for three options, and there even seems to be a watch that commands the model to speak some of KITT's catch phrases. Knight Rider — or Supercar as it was called in Italy — told the episodic story of a former police officer, Michael Knight, who fought crime with his A.I.-powered car. As such, the TV car and the the model have a heavily computerized (by 1980s standards) dashboard and yoke steering wheel.

This or That: 2005 Chrysler Crossfire SRT6 vs. 1984 Pontiac Fiero

Welcome to another round of This or That, where two Autoblog editors pick a topic, pick a side and pull no punches. Last round pitted yours truly against Associate Editor Brandon Turkus, and my chosen VW Vanagon Syncro narrowly defeated Brandon's 1987 Land Rover. In fact, it was, by far, the closest round we've seen, with 1,907 voters seeing things my way (for 50.8 percent of the vote) versus 1,848 votes for Brandon's Rover (49.2 percent). Sweet, sweet victory! For this latest round of This or That, I've roped Editor Greg Migliore into what I think is a rather fun debate. We've each chosen our favorite terrible cars, setting a price limit of $10,000 to make sure neither of us went too crazy with our automotive atrocities. I think we've both chosen terribly... and I mean that in the best way possible. 2005 Chrysler Crossfire SRT6 Jeremy Korzeniewski: Why It's Terrible: Taken in isolation, the Chrysler Crossfire isn't necessarily a terrible car. In fact, it drives pretty darn well, and there's a lot of solid engineering under its slinky shape. Problem is, that engineering was already rather long in the tooth well before Chrysler ever got its hands on it, having come from Mercedes-Benz, which used the basic chassis and drivetrain in a previous version of its SLK coupe and roadster. Granted, the SLK was an okay car, too, but even when new, it hardly set the world on fire with sporty driving dynamics. Chrysler took these decent-but-no-more bits and pieces from the Mercedes parts bin – remember, this car was conceived in the disastrous Merger Of Equals days – and covered them with a rather attractive hard-candy shell. Unfortunately, the super sporty shape wrote checks in the minds of buyers that its well-worn mechanicals were simply unable to cash, though an injection of power courtesy of a supercharged V6 engine in the SRT6 model, as seen here, certainly helped ease some of those woes. In the end, Chrysler was left with a so-called halo car that looked the part but never quite performed the part. It was almost universally panned by critics as an overpriced parts-bin special, which, I must add, was damningly accurate. As a result, sales were very slow, and within the first few months, dealers were clearancing the car at cut-rate prices, just to keep them from taking up too much of the showroom floor. Why It's Not That Terrible, After All: I can speak from personal experience when discussing the Chrysler Crossfire. You see, I owned one. Well, sort of...

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.